“This is fascinating stuff,” Livingston interrupted him. “I mean it. But I don’t want to take up too much of your time. Can we get to Lester Jackson?”
Meadows winced at the use of the victim’s birth name. “Afrodite? Sure....”
The two women sitting side by side on the ratty sofa in the cramped living room of the third-floor apartment could almost have passed for sisters — they had the same olive complexion, the same cornrowed brown hair — but Livingston saw in the dim light cast by the one working bulb of the three-bulb overhead fixture that the one on the left was somewhere in her thirties, while the one on the right was maybe fifteen, sixteen years older.
The two women sitting side by side on the ratty sofa in the cramped living room of the third-floor apartment could almost have passe
