A sleek black car pulls up in front of the old apartment building in downtown Los Angeles. The car is one of those indistinguishable models that you can't really pick out from any other car on the road. A man steps out, medium height, wearing dark clothes, he is just as indistinguishable as his vehicle.

He walks up to the building and looks at the apartment numbers on the side.

C. Shaw apartment #11.

He doesn't bother ringing the number. He knows she isn't home. Instead he methodically pushes the button for every other apartment until someone buzzes him in without even looking to see who's there.

The man walks up to the second floor and stops outside of number 11. It only takes him moments to pick the lock and slip inside like he belongs there.

The apartment is decorated in bright solids and bold shapes, everything has a little bit of a retro vibe to it, like the owner has an affinity for the 1950s. No one is home and the place looks a little unkempt. Clothes on the floor, drawers open. Either someone got here before him or the resident left in a hurry.

The man walks around the small apartment, trailing his fingers over furniture, and items left behind. He reaches the closet, brushes finger tips over abandoned clothes, before he turns to the bed, sweeping a hand over it. He then stops and looks around thinking.

The man is silent as he takes in the space that use to be someone's home. Something catches his eyes and he moves to the corner.

A metal wastebasket sits there. Inside is empty except for the ashes left behind from something someone must have burnt there. He kneels down, poking around in the ash, until he finds a bit of paper not completely burnt through. He holds the paper up to the light and tries to make out part of a name.

A 'K' maybe?

The last name is clear. Hummel.

The man stands and smiles. This going to be easier than he thought.