Out of a heavy sky, swollen with unspent rain that sagged toward the earth on a windy November morning, came a lean, sinewy man with deep-set eyes, the same dark brown as his hair. His face is narrow, with a patrician nose, high cheekbones, and a slightly pointed chin.
Dressed in sturdy hiking boots, jeans, and a short-sleeved, blue-plaid cotton shirt. Rick Jordan jogs out of a picturesque neighborhood,
along west saint-Barbara’s street, known to be seedy, grimy,
litter-strewn and mean. He passes California canteen, crossing sixth
avenue before taking a right turn to grace-field on his twenty-ninth
birthday, November 18.
He appreciatively glanced at familiar houses as he passed it, and occasionally, he glanced down at his pacing shadow, but the the stormy clouds overwhelmed the sun and his dark companion vanished as if it had seeped into the earth returning to the underworld...

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