A rebuttal was on the tip of her tongue, and then she remembered her promise. “Sure.”

Her hand lowered to her waistband, and automatically it slid to where she holstered her service weapon. Of course, it was not there, and its absence left her feeling naked and exposed. The indignity was magnified by the fact she was standing outside the apartment with the manager, waiting on Spencer’s search results. A month ago, she would have been the one in that apartment, searching for a threat.

“What’s going on with Emma?” the manager asked.

“We received a tip that she might be in distress. We’re following up,” Jordan said.

“She’s a good kid.”

“Is she dating anyone? Does she have any close friends?” Jordan asked.

“Emma has brought a few guys to her place but never the same one twice.”

“You keep a close eye on your tenants?” Jordan asked.

He cleared his throat, shifted his stance. “I make it my business to see who’s coming and going. No one wants trouble.”

“And Emma Powers had no trouble?”

“None.”

“When she applied for the apartment, did she put down any references?”

“Her parole officer and drug counselor vouched for her. Taking her on was a risk, but that’s the way it is in places like this. We don’t get the folks who fly the straight and narrow.”

“What are the names of her references?” Jordan asked.

“I’d have to look them up.”

“Do that.”

Heavy footsteps approached seconds before Spencer announced, “Clear. There’s no one here.”

“Thank you for your help,” Jordan said to the manager. “Ranger Spencer and I will lock up when we leave.”

“I should stay.”

“Not necessary,” she insisted.

Steps approached, and the creak of Ruiz’s gun belt gave him away. “Ranger Spencer asked me to stand outside. He said you’d call if you needed anything.”

“Perfect.” Jordan hesitated, oriented her body toward the smoky scent of Emma’s apartment. She slowly stepped inside, noting the shag carpet under her feet.

Spencer moved beside her. “It’s basic. Couch, chair, television, and kitchenette. Fairly neat.”

“There has to be a full ashtray here somewhere.”

“On the coffee table.”

“Any signs of struggle?”

“No.” They moved several steps forward, and the carpet changed to linoleum. She kept moving until she bumped into a refrigerator. She skimmed her fingers over the front, felt different textures of paper. Judging by the size and weight, she guessed, “Take-out menu, business card, and several photographs.”

“Mexican takeout, the business card of her parole officer, and the pictures are of Emma with a group of other young girls.”

“Key in on the females. Anyone familiar?”

“Interesting.”

“What?”

“One could be Tammy Fox. The hair is different, but it looks like her.”

“How many females in the picture?”

“Four. Emma on the end and beside her the Tammy look-alike, and two other unidentified females.”

“Any notes on the back?”