<div style="text-align: justify;">Los Angeles, California, October 10, 1933 - 9:00 a.m.<br/><br/>It was a bright morning, and all the city seemed to be in motion already. Those who had jobs were either already in their offices or making their ways to them. Those who didn't have jobs and were looking for them were already in their "best" outfits looking around to be hired. Those who didn't <span style="font-style: italic">need</span> jobs were enjoying their sunny morning.<br/><br/>And there was... <span style="font-weight: bold">her</span>. That girl who didn't seem to fit in with any of the other groups. She was apparently treading somewhere between last night and the current morning. Her feet were bare - <span style="font-style: italic">where the heck are my shoes?</span> - and she wore a white party dress. The make-up was long gone, but the hair was still more or less done. A very, very odd sight indeed.<br/><br/>But then again, this was Los Angeles. Nobody seemed to pay much mind to the girl.<br/><br/>And so, she reached that door undisturbed. "J. Anderson, Private Detective", the girl muttered to herself. "Well, I guess he's as good as any other".<br/><br/>After some hesitation, and trying the door, the girl in white took a deep breath and knocked. Was the detective in? Or should her go to the police? No, not the police. It had to be someone else. Anyone but the cops.</div>