Книга - The Burnt House

The Burnt House
Faye Kellerman


The sixteenth book in the hugely popular Peter Decker and Rina Lazarus series from New York Times bestselling author Faye KellermanAt 8.15am, a small green suburb of Los Angeles is turned into a fiery inferno by a commuter plane crash, plunging the city's emergency services into a major crisis.A month later, one mystery from the wreckage still remains unsolved. A woman's body - initially thought to be a stewardess - is instead revealed to be an undiscovered homicide, decades old. Who is this nameless victim? And why is the stewardess still missing?As they begin to unravel years of deception, Lieutenant Peter Decker and his team come closer and closer to the shocking truth – and a confrontation with a vicious killer.









THE BURNT HOUSE







FAYE KELLERMAN
















Copyright (#u4ed9c3e9-232c-5df1-b5ae-30f1b3495387)


HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk/)

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2007

Faye Kellerman asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks

HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content or written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication

Source ISBN: 9780007243204

Ebook edition: September 2008 ISBN: 9780007283583

Version: 2017-10-24


To Jonathan, my on-the-spot editor and shrink

And a very special thanks to Bill Kurtis for all his help




Contents


Title Page (#ua35b43f3-6451-5c19-88a8-0a13d5a06743)Copyright (#u1a4b9eb0-6b69-52e4-a23e-56886f8873b0)Dedication (#uc3ae3390-4605-5c9d-bc5b-5b5cfa80f1e0)The Burnt House (#u3ca2b623-5e0f-5322-9ea3-fa758dd8751e)Prologue (#u81f8e41c-a3cb-50a6-9d41-8df9a6294421)Chapter One (#u207b7397-9516-54f5-a94e-c85c8a1acfa4)Chapter Two (#uf1bbd672-c84a-59e3-a7f1-3264adad4cd1)Chapter Three (#u20313efd-c812-58e9-8d33-d986ddb2d87b)Chapter Four (#ucc3596d1-9f0b-54da-b9e4-296247ce6aa9)Chapter Five (#u364f1a85-eebd-5d7a-8b75-269cb80c6706)Chapter Six (#u970e31f8-788c-5e48-b46c-2a644811ca28)Chapter Seven (#u80476ed3-5ecd-5afc-aa7f-c2acd71ca966)Chapter Eight (#uae69de8f-038e-5dda-8816-dc5627bf2cda)Chapter Nine (#ubb1f1274-abcb-554f-8c2f-2817090d9ca1)Chapter Ten (#u6e5dae2d-879a-5e19-9bac-9a25efa4dd36)Chapter Eleven (#ua9e8eeed-ec08-5137-8f2b-37c26802c19e)Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty One (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty Two (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty Three (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty Four (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty Five (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty Six (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty Seven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty Eight (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty Nine (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirty (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirty One (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirty Two (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirty Three (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirty Four (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirty Five (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirty Six (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirty Seven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirty Eight (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirty Nine (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Forty (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Forty One (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Forty Two (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Forty Three (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Forty Four (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Forty Five (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Forty Six (#litres_trial_promo)Keep Reading (#litres_trial_promo)About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)Also By Faye Kellerman (#litres_trial_promo)About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)



THE BURNT HOUSE (#u4ed9c3e9-232c-5df1-b5ae-30f1b3495387)




PROLOGUE (#u4ed9c3e9-232c-5df1-b5ae-30f1b3495387)


AT EIGHT-FIFTEEN IN the morning on a balmy Los Angeles winter’s day, a 282 Lucent Industry Aircraft, better known as WestAir flight 1324, took off from Burbank Airport holding forty-seven commuters. The ETA to its final destination, San Jose, California, was one hour and six minutes and the ride was expected to be smooth and uneventful. The skies were blue, the wind gentle, and the heavens’ visibility was unobstructed in all directions. Sixty-seven seconds later, with its nose still headed skyward, it inexplicably yawed to the left, did a 360 rotation on its axis, and began to plunge down until it clipped a power line, thundered its last hurrah, and burst into flames, the explosion so great that it was heard five miles away.

The main bulk of the fiery fuselage landed on a three-story apartment house in the Granada Hills section of the West Valley, transferring its inferno to the residential structure. Windows shattered, gas pipes detonated, and electrical wires arced blue lightning through the skies. The eighteen-unit building crafted from stucco and wood was swallowed by flames that spanned every color of the rainbow. The noise was so deafening that it drowned out the human screams. The stench of fire, smoke, and fuel oil that infused the air was toxic and suffocating. Oxygen was choked out of the atmosphere. Flesh burned alongside metal and leather. Debris were scattered and windblown for hundreds of feet. Within a heartbeat of time, a green suburban landscape had been transformed into an unimaginable holocaust of hell.


1 (#u4ed9c3e9-232c-5df1-b5ae-30f1b3495387)






THE CEREAL SPOON stopped midair. Rina turned to her husband. “What was that?”

“I don’t know.” The lights flickered and died along with the TV, the refrigerator, and probably everything in the house electrical. Decker reached over and picked up the portable phone. He punched in one of the landlines but got no response.

Rina lowered the spoon into the cereal bowl. “Dead?”

“Yep.” Decker flicked the light switch on and off, a futile gesture of hope. It was eight in the morning and the kitchen was bathed in eastern light that didn’t require electrical augmentation. “Something blew. Probably a major transformer.” He frowned. “That shouldn’t affect the phone lines, though.” He pulled out his cell and tried to contact someone on a landline at work. With no response coming from the other end, Decker knew that the damage was widespread.

The Los Angeles Police Department’s West Valley substation—Devonshire Division in another age—was a few miles away from where Decker lived. When this kind of thing happened, the place was a madhouse, a switchboard of panicked people with emergency lines ringing off the hook. “I should go to work.”

“You didn’t eat,” Rina said.

“I’ll grab something from the machines.”

“Peter, if it’s just a transformer, there isn’t anything you can do about it. You’ll probably have a long day. I think you should fuel up.”

There was logic to that. Decker sat back down and poured some skim milk into his cereal bowl, already laden with strawberries and bananas. “I suppose the squad room can wait another five minutes.” They ate in silence for two bites. He noticed the wrinkle in Rina’s brow. “You’re concerned about Hannah.”

“A little.”

“I’ll stop by the school on my way to work.”

“I’d appreciate it.” Rina tried to think of something to say to distract both of them. The default conversation was the kids. “Cindy called yesterday. She and Koby are coming over Friday night for dinner.”

“Great.” A pause as Decker finished his cereal. “How are the boys?”

“I talked to Sammy yesterday. He’s fine. Jacob only calls before Shabbos or if he’s upset. Since he hasn’t called, I’m assuming everything’s okay.”

Decker nodded, although his mind was racing through emergency procedure. He stood and tried the land phone again. The machine was still lifeless. “Is the den computer still plugged into a battery pack?”

“I think so.”

“Let me try something.” Decker unplugged the small, portable, kitchen TV and lugged it into the back den. Rina followed and watched her husband drop to the floor and insert the electrical cord into one of the empty sockets. The seven-inch screen sprang to life. Decker tried one of the local stations. The TV was color but showed only images in shades of black and gray.

“What are we looking at?” Rina asked.

“A fire.” As if to underscore Decker’s pronouncement, a billowing cloud of orange flames materialized. His cell jumped to life. “Decker.”

“Strapp here. Where are you?”

For the captain to be calling him on his cell, something was really wrong. “At home. I’m just about to leave—”

“Don’t come into the station. We’ve got a dire situation. Plane crash on Seacrest Drive between Hobart and Macon—”

“Good Lord—”

“What?” Rina asked.

Frantically, Decker waved her off.

“Is it Hannah?”

Decker shook his head while trying to digest the captain’s words. “… took down an apartment building. A few firefighters are already at the scene, but the local units are going to need reinforcements ASAP. All units are being directed to Seacrest and Belarose. We’re planning tactical.”

“I’m ten minutes away.”

“You got a roof light in your vehicle?”

“Yes.”

“Use it!” The captain hung up.

“What?” Rina was pale.

“Plane crash—”

“Oh my God!” Rina gasped.

“It landed on an apartment—” Decker stopped talking, his ears picking up the wail of the background sirens. He glanced back at the TV screen.

“Where?”

“Seacrest—”

“Where on Seacrest?”

“Between Hobart and Macon.”

“Peter, that’s about five minutes from Hannah’s school!”

“Go get the Volvo. I’ll convoy you over with the siren in the unmarked and then go out to the scene.”

Rina’s eyes were still glued to the TV screen. Unceremoniously, Decker turned it off. “You can listen on the radio. Let’s go!”

Rina snapped out of her stupor, realizing the extent of what was to follow. A very long day followed by a very, very long night. She wasn’t going to see him for the next twenty-four hours. But unlike the people on the plane, she would see him again. Her heart started racing, her throat clogged up with emotions, but words escaped her.

Once they were outside, she found her voice. “Be careful, Peter.”

He nodded, but he wasn’t paying attention. He opened the car door for her and she slipped inside. “I love you.”

“Love you, too. And yes, I will be careful.”

“Thank you. I didn’t think you heard me.”

“Normally, I probably wouldn’t have, but right now I could hear a butterfly. That’s what happens when overdrive kicks in. All senses suddenly warp speed to hyperalert.”

LIKE MOST PRIVATE schools, Beth Jacob Hebrew Academy High School—grades nine through twelve—had recently flexed its flaccid muscles against its overindulged adolescent inhabitants. Teachers, tired of beeps, whistles, and ring tones interrupting lessons, complained to the administration that in turn passed a draconian law—according to fourteen-year-old Hannah Decker—that prohibited the possession of any electronic gadgets, the sole exception being calculators for advanced math. The ordinance had gone into effect three weeks prior—a case of poor timing because with the land phones out, the school was frantically trying to reach parents on the limited cell phones that it had.

Most of the parents had an inkling that something was wrong, so by the time Decker and Rina pulled up, there was already a line of SUVs waiting to haul away the children.

Decker got out of the unmarked and walked over to Rina’s Volvo. His nostrils flared at the acrid smell of smoke, his eyes watering from floating ash. He put his hand over his mouth and motioned for her to roll down the window. “How’s our food and water supply in the house?”

“You know me. We have enough for the entire neighborhood.”

“Good. Go home and don’t go out. The air’s horrible and is only going to get worse in the afternoon when the winds pick up. Are you going to be okay?”

“Absolutely,” Rina said. “Go, Peter. And thanks for getting me here so quickly.”

“She’s my daughter, too. Give her a kiss and tell her I love her.”

“I will.”

Decker returned to the unmarked, now sandwiched between Rina’s Volvo and a Lincoln Navigator. He turned on the siren, it squawked, and the car behind him gave him an inch of backup room. A minute later, he was on the boulevard, using his wipers to clear white ash from his windshield. Even with the siren, the normally five-minute drive took much longer. All the traffic signals were out and the roadways were clogged with vehicles. Weaving in and out of the tiny spaces allotted to him by his siren, Decker managed to reach ten blocks from the appointed spot before he espied the yellow police barricade tape. Miraculously, he found a parking space that didn’t block the street or any driveway. The scorched atmosphere was thick with ash falling like rain. Even with the door closed and the windows up, there was a sickening, permeating stink of jet fuel and molten metal and wood that burned his throat.

As a detective lieutenant, Decker was choosy about his field visits when a crime was called in. But he was always prepared, and that meant he had latex gloves and face masks in the console of his car. He slipped on the mask, wishing he had goggles as he opened the door.

Immediately his face was hit by a heavy slap of hot air. The sky billowed with black smoke and the occasional leap of an orange flame. He showed his badge to a uniform, also wearing a face mask, whose assignment was to patrol the borders of the yellow tape. The kid’s eyes were jumpy as Decker stepped over the tape.

God, they made them young these days.

As he edged closer to the disaster, visibility was reduced to soup, the fire’s roar pounding in his ears like crashing waves. He could make out a plethora of fire trucks: departments of every stripe had been called down to the scene. There were ambulances of all colors and makes. Sirens wailed and strobe lights flashed through the misty darkness. Human figures skittered about like gnats.

When he got within a half block of the rendezvous location, he spotted a trio that could have been anyone, but by their height and shape, Decker surmised that they were Marge Dunn, Scott Oliver, and Wanda Bontemps. With every forward step, the stench grew stronger—fuel oil, charred wood, boiling metal. He could barely hear himself think because of the screech of lapping flames, sirens, and human screams. Trained as a medic in Vietnam, Decker had seen destruction and chaos, but none of his war experiences could have prepared him for this.

When he was within striking distance, Decker saw that his identity assumptions had been correct. Marge Dunn, Scott Oliver, and Wanda Bontemps were sweating under protective gear—slicker coats, mouth masks, and goggles. Marge waved Decker over and handed him a slicker and a pair of goggles. She shouted, “Strapp told me to bring these for you.”

“Smart thinking,” Decker shouted back. “How long have you been here?”

“About three minutes and that’s too long,” Marge hollered. She was a tall woman but seemed bent over and consumptive under the weight of smoke and a heavy protective coat. Her forehead was soaked and dirty.

Decker said, “Does anyone know what crashed?”

“WestAir out of Burbank,” Wanda Bontemps screamed. “A commuter airlines. I heard there were around forty-five aboard?”

“God, that’s awful,” Decker said. “Terrorism or mechanical failure?”

Shrugs all around. Stupid question. How the hell should they know? His mouth was speaking before the brain kicked in. Decker felt a vibration on his chest. His cell was ringing. He shouted into the receiver. “Scream or I won’t be able to hear you.”

It was Strapp, and even though the captain was shouting, Decker could barely make out his words. He plugged up his other ear with his finger. “Okay … will do … I’ve got it.” He returned the cell to his pocket. “He’s stuck in traffic from a tactical meeting. First thing we need to do is evacuate the residential area in an orderly fashion. Let’s work within a ten-block radius outside the yellow tape line. The fire marshals are clearing the area within the barricades.”

Decker managed to extract a notepad from his suit jacket.

“First, let’s get the ghouls and the lookie-loos out of here. Wanda, if you take care of that, we get some clear lanes for emergency vehicles. Anyone who doesn’t leave immediately is subject to arrest. Marge, you coordinate with traffic. Take a bunch of uniforms, station them at every other intersection, and set up some kind of traffic escape route. Oliver, let’s work out an orderly grid of the area. I’ll start grabbing as many detectives and officers as I can so we can start knocking on doors.”

As expected in the ensuing pandemonium, the biggest problem was cars jamming up the streets. Panicked folk were packing cherished belongings, stuffing their valuables into cars, trucks, and vans. This particular vicinity was a neighborhood of solid homes with dens, big TVs, and lots of electronics. Some of the houses had pools, and decks and barbecues. All of that could be replaced. It was all the silly items abandoned inside that made people weep: the photo albums, vacation souvenirs, the knickknacks, and the curios.

As soon as Oliver got a decent grid map, Decker made his assignments to his waiting detectives, saving the evacuation of the area nearest to the crash for himself. There was a bullhorn on each block telling people that they had to leave their homes now. That was fine for people with cars, but what about those who were without transportation? What about the sick and the elderly?

Decker began to knock on doors.

The first house in his area belonged to a woman with two small children. She was very thin, her dark hair covered with ash, turning it gray. She coughed as she cried, hauling out a brown box filled with items that were obviously important to her. Her two small children were already strapped into car seats.

Decker said, “You must evacuate now. It’s not safe for your children and you to breathe in this air.”

“I have to lock the door.”

“Give the keys to me and get in the car.”

The woman complied, slipping into the driver’s seat. Decker returned with her keys and helped her back out of her driveway and into a lane of cars.

Banging on the door to the second house, Decker got no response, but he could hear frantic barking. Looking through the cyclone fence that delineated a backyard, he spotted a small ivory-colored toy poodle, forlorn and incarcerated. He opened the gate and picked up the pooch, carrying it to the next house.

That house was occupied by a young Hispanic woman in a maid’s uniform and small Caucasian preschoolers. He told her she must leave with the children. “Do you have a car?” Decker asked her in English.

“I try calling Missy. The phone no work.”

Decker switched to Spanish. “You have to leave the house. You carry the little girl; I’ll get the big one.” He hoisted a boy of around four into his arm while holding the crying poodle. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

“What about Missy?” the housekeeper asked frantically.

“Tell your boss that the police made you leave.” Decker spied the neighbor across the street loading his family into his van. He darted across the street with the kid and the dog in his arms. He spoke to a man who appeared to be in his forties. “Take the woman and children with you. They’re stuck without transportation out of here.”

“There’s no room,” the neighbor said, folding his arms across his chest.

“Then take out the boxes and make room!” Decker shouted.

The man backed down and found room in the car. “Not the dog,” the man insisted. “I’m allergic.”

Decker didn’t press the dog. As he crossed back, he knocked on the hood of a sedan driven by a young mother. Her baby was in the back. She rolled down the window. Decker said, “Can you take the dog? The owners aren’t home.”

“Is it friendly? I have a baby.”

Decker knew the dog was scared and sometimes fearful animals bite. He told the woman he’d try someone else and finally managed to palm off the mutt on a mother with a teenage boy who was home, sick with the flu.

The door-banging on the next three houses went unanswered, but he did rescue another small dog and two cats. He was forced to leave behind several big dogs, trapped inside the houses or behind fences. His main concerns were humans, not animals, but it made him feel sick to leave these poor, pathetic pets. But he—like everyone else—would deal with that later.

His throat was scorched with dry heat, his eyes burning behind the goggles.

The next residence on Decker’s list was occupied by a woman carrying suitcases to her car. After giving her orders to leave immediately, he asked her if she could transport the pets he was holding. She agreed without hesitation and left her house, sobbing as she started up her car.

Smoke clouded any remnants of sunshine. The sky was dark charcoal and all Decker could make out were the pinpoint beams of headlights as cars filed out of the neighborhood. Mechanically, he jogged from one house to another, picking up any stray pet he could tote and giving them to the fleeing residents in the area, checking off address after address to make sure that no one was left behind.

An hour into his searching, he knocked on the door of a wood-sided one-story shingle. At first, it appeared that no one was home. But when he knocked again, Decker thought that he might have heard something, a muffled scream or yelp. It could have been animal, it could have been his imagination, but it could have been human. Something in his gut told him to go inside.

Lowering his shoulder, he rammed the door several times until the lock splintered and the door swung open.

The interior of the house was dark clouds of smoke.

“Anyone home here?” he shouted.

The response was a strangled cry: it seemed to be coming from the back. He made his way through the acrid hallway and found an elderly, bedridden, sweat-soaked woman who must have been in her nineties. It was nothing short of a miracle that she was still breathing. The woman’s wheelchair was folded and tucked into the corner. She was trapped and as scared as a treed squirrel.

“Thank God!” the woman mouthed, tears pouring from her eyes.

Decker unfolded the chair, lifted the sticks-and-bones woman from the bed, and eased her into the chair. Her nightgown was wet with sweat, urine, and runny feces. She was shivering even though it was close to a hundred degrees inside. He found a clean blanket and draped it over her skeletal frame. Then he noticed a pharmacy’s worth of medication resting on her nightstand and stuffed the vials into his pockets. “Don’t worry. I’ll get you out of here.”

“Thank God!” the woman said again.

As he wheeled her through the smoke-laden living room, he said, “You’re all alone here, ma’am?”

“My nurse.”

“What about your nurse?”

“We heard a terrible crash …” The woman was trembling as if she had palsy. “She said she’d be back for me.”

“How long ago was that?”

“A long time …”

“Does she have a car?”

“Yes … in the driveway.”

There wasn’t any car in the driveway. The nurse had probably fled as soon as she saw the flames. Decker wheeled the old lady outside, pushed her in her chair for half a block until he found a van stuck in traffic on the road. He knocked on the driver’s window and a startled woman looked at him and then quickly away. He knocked again and presented his badge. She rolled down the glass.

“I need you to take this woman out of here. She was abandoned in her house.” Decker pulled out the medication from his pockets. “Take these with you.”

The woman didn’t respond, dulled by panic and fright. Eventually, as Decker kept talking, she comprehended what he was asking her to do. She depressed the unlock button and Decker opened the back door. He belted the old lady inside next to the woman’s five-year-old boy. The child gave the old woman a shy smile and then, in an act of altruism, offered her his lollipop.

The old woman cried. She grabbed on to Decker’s hand. “God bless you.”

“You, too.” He hefted the woman’s wheelchair into the back of the van and thanked the driver, who was still too scared and too stunned to respond verbally.

After he had finished his initial list, he moved on to residences that were farther down the road but still very much in the sweep of the firestorm. With all that jet fuel to burn and broken gas lines to feed the inferno, it would be a long, long time before things were under control.

The fire marshals wanted to clear a two-mile radius. A residential area like this one included not only private homes but condos and apartment buildings. That amounted to a lot of people and a lot of cars. Decker regrouped with his detectives and made new assignments.

Hundreds of remaining doors to knock on: the terrified eyes, soot-streaked arms holding boxes, fingers gripping suitcases. Forms flitted from house to house, vehicle to vehicle. Loose animals roamed the streets, crying out with choked and desperate barks, visibility close to nil.

It wasn’t hell but it was a good facsimile.

He worked without interruption as the fire burned deep into the night.


2 (#u4ed9c3e9-232c-5df1-b5ae-30f1b3495387)






THE POLICE TOOK eighteen-hour shifts. Somewhere Decker got down enough food to calm his stomach, although he had no memory of eating. The crash information that filtered through to the emergency crews was incomplete and contradictory. With the passing of the first twenty-four hours, no radical terrorist group came forward to take responsibility and that seemed to soothe frazzled nerves. Decker thought it was quite a world when everyone was rooting for mechanical failure. From the eyewitness accounts, it appeared that the plane had been in trouble from takeoff. Ascent was never fully realized, and a few moments later, it nose-dived. No one remembered seeing a midair explosion, and so far, no videos of the crash had surfaced.

Thirty-seven hours after WestAir flight 1324 plummeted into 7624 Seacrest Drive, the fire department declared that the inferno had been contained, although it was far from out. Jet fuel was still stoking the flames, and even in the areas where active fire had died out, there were still flare-ups. It would take days before residents could come home. The Gov had come down, declaring the site a disaster area, making it easier for the surviving residents to get federal aid and loans.

From the snippets of data that went in and out of Decker’s ears, he surmised that the casualties numbered around sixty to seventy, of which forty-seven came from the hapless travelers on the plane. Ground casualties were still being assessed.

Decker was dismissed from duty after forty-two straight hours of work. If he drove home, he didn’t openly remember operating a vehicle. Nor did he recall seeing his wife and his teenage daughter, or taking a shower. Exhaustion had robbed any recollection of his falling asleep. His first conscious memory was Rina waking him up at nine in the morning. He was confused but not ungrateful. His dreams had been disturbing. He wiped his sweat-soaked face with the sleeve of his pajamas, leaving behind a gray streak of soot.

Rina handed him the phone. “It’s Captain Strapp.”

Decker took the phone and depressed the hold button. Electricity and phone service had been restored sometime between when he had left and when he had come home.

“We’re getting calls, Pete. Family of loved ones that lived in the burnt house or in the area: relatives wanting to know if their kin is alive or dead. I want you to set up a task force and collect as many names as possible. Also, get the dental X-rays so that when the coroner’s investigators go in for recovery, we can provide them a list of names and the X-rays for identification. We’ll be one step ahead.”

Decker understood the words as English, but it took him a few moments to grab the meaning. “Uh … do we have a list of the ground deaths?”

Strapp’s voice was strained. “Did you just wake up?”

“My wife just woke me up. I’ve only been home for”—he looked at the clock— “a little under eight hours.”

“How long did you work?”

“About forty-two hours.”

“Good grief! That’s a lot of overtime.”

“I suppose it is.” Decker hoped he had kept the sarcasm out of his voice.

“In answer to your question, we don’t have a list of ground deaths. That’s what I want you to work on. I want your task force to contact the families of the suspected ground deaths and gather names. You can act as a liaison between the bereaved families and the NTSB and the coroner’s office. I’m calling for a town-hall meeting to assess what the community needs. The first thing we need to do is to set up a system so that worried families can access information.”

Decker’s brain was beginning to work. Strapp was spot on target. The charred bodies of the crash belonged to the coroner’s office, the wreckage of the plane belonged to the National Transportation and Safety Board, but the community belonged to the police. Working with bereaved families was bound to be a gut-wrenching assignment, meaning it would be a job that he’d do personally.

Another long day.

Strapp was talking. “… less immediate note, there have been reports of graffiti and looting in the affected areas. I want those investigated as well.”

Decker sat up. “Who’s reporting the looting? The residents haven’t been allowed back in.”

“That’s what I want you to find out.”

Decker exhaled. “All right. I’ll try to make it down in about thirty to forty minutes.”

“See you then.”

The receiver clicked off. Decker gave his wife the phone. “I’ve got to take a shower and go to work.”

She didn’t even bother to protest. “I’ll make you breakfast.”

“Food … that sounds real good.” Decker swung his legs over the bed, stood up, and stretched his six-foot-four frame. Over the years he had gained a few pounds, topping out around 225, but for a guy in his fifties, he carried his weight well. “Is Hannah in school?”

“School is in the hot zone. It’s been temporarily canceled until the board can find facilities where the kids can inhale without clogging their bronchioles with ash. We’re going to my parents for Shabbat, by the way. The air isn’t pristine over there, but it’s a lot better in Beverly Hills than it is here.”

“That could apply to a lot of things. That sounds fine. I’d love to see your parents.”

“You would?”

Decker smiled. “After witnessing such harrowing events, I look forward to a night with the in-laws and their mundane problems. Besides, your mother is a phenomenal cook.”

“That she is.”

“What about Cindy and Koby? Weren’t they supposed to come over on Saturday?”

“Friday night, actually, and Mama was gracious enough to invite them as well. Hannah, by the way, is thrilled. Not so much because she’s going to see her grandparents, but because she gets to see her friends that live in the city for a change.”

“It’s the age.”

“That’s true. Hannah lives for her friends. She’s either IMing someone or on the phone or doing both at the same time.”

“I hope I can make dinner this weekend.” Decker kissed his wife on the forehead. “This public servant may be doing overtime for a while. At least it’ll mean more cash in the till.”

“I’d rather have you.” Rina stroked his face and Decker realized how lovely she looked. His hormones shot through his lower body, but it was all for naught. He didn’t have the time.

After he showered and dressed, he sat down to pancakes and a cheese omelet. He drank four cups of coffee and two glasses of juice. He could have eaten more but the clock was ticking. When he announced that he had to go, Rina didn’t try to hold him back.

“Are you safe behind a wheel?”

“Safe and completely fueled.”

“I packed you a lunch while you were showering—four sandwiches and various side dishes. What you can’t eat, you can share with your brethren in blue.”

“I’m sure they will be grateful for any morsel I throw to them.” He kissed his wife chastely on the lips, deciding that this wasn’t at all satisfactory. The next kiss was long and deep. “I really do need to retire from my job.”

“You keep threatening, but for me it’s not a threat. First of all, I love you. Second of all, I’ve been collecting a list of projects that we’ve jawed about over the last four years. I’m ready when you’re ready.”

He knew what she was referring to. They’d conversed endlessly about adding more space to their eighteen-hundred-square-foot home, although the house had been losing occupants rather than gaining them. For the last few months, they’d been cutting out articles in design magazines. Rina’s pet project was a sumptuous master bathroom. Decker had been saving articles that dealt with media rooms and home theaters. Everything was still in the dream stage, but it made for interesting reading over the weekend.

Fantasy was the stuff of life.

AT HIS DESK, Decker sorted through the list of names and numbers. “This should keep me busy for a while.”

“Why not call a conference for all of them to come in?” Marge asked him.

“Because I think initial contact should be personal. These people lost loved ones in a horrible way. Besides, it shouldn’t take me all that long to make the phone calls. As the families start dropping off the dental X-rays, we’ll set up a schedule. There needs to be someone manning the desk all the time to deal with the bereaved until we’ve got all the bodies accounted for.”

“I can do that.”

“We should also contact several professionals who can offer support.”

“I’ll call social services and see what they can do for us.”

“Great.” Decker regarded his favorite detective—over forty and young at heart. They had worked together for over twenty years. As bedraggled as he felt, she looked fresh and alert. “How many hours of sleep did you get?”

“About five. Why? Do I look that bad?”

“On the contrary, you look chipper.”

“It’s the coral blouse,” Marge told him. “All women look good in coral.”

“What about men?”

“Men should wear black. It makes them look mysterious. In your case, Pete, black would set off your red hair very nicely.”

“It’s more gray than red,” Decker grumped.

“It’s still has plenty of red in it. So does your mustache. And you’ve got a lot of it … head hair. What you really need to look hip is a soul patch.”

“I’m beyond trying to look hip. All I want is to look appropriate so I don’t embarrass my teenage daughter.”

“I thought that was the purpose of parents of teenagers, to embarrass them.”

She had a definite point. Nothing was as much fun as to see his kids squirm at his misbehaviors. “So what’s going on with the graffiti and the looting?”

“We’ve gotten calls about homes being tagged.”

“How did that happen with units patrolling the area twenty-four/ seven?”

“The taggers are wily guys. They’re also not afraid of heights. We found signatures on the 405 Freeway overpass, and a couple of twenty-foot-high billboards. There’s also one on the top of the Parker/Doddard building, which has to be seven stories high.”

“Criminal Sherpas. Send them out to Everest where they can do some good.”

“I don’t think we’d like to see their signature in the snow, especially if we think what they might use to write with.”

Decker let go with a deep laugh. It felt good. “Not a pretty image. So what’s going on with the looting? Who’s reporting the activity?”

“Anonymous phone calls.” Marge laughed. “Since the residents aren’t back in the area to substantiate the claims, I’m thinking that may be thieves reporting on other thieves.”

“Any arrests?”

“A few for burglary, but that hasn’t deterred the felons. You know how it is, Loo. If houses are left unattended, crime is going to happen even with a strong police presence. The bad boys love to take chances. It’s like the tented houses when the owner fumigates for termites. There are always one or two yutzes who think they can beat the system and make it out before poisonous gas renders them unconscious.”

“How many looting complaints have been called in?”

“About a dozen.”

“Okay. Assign someone to call up the owners of the looted houses and have someone meet them there. Do a quick search inside to see if something is missing. That way if something has been stolen, they can contact their insurance agency right away.”

“I’ll get to it right away.”

“Thanks, Marge.”

“Leave the door open?”

“Absolutely.”

After she left, Decker looked around his private space. It was small, with used furniture, but it had walls that reached the ceiling and a door that made it an office as opposed to a cubicle. He was even lucky enough to have an outside window, although it didn’t open. It wasn’t big, but it usually let in enough light to add a pinch of cheer. Today the sash framed a gunmetal-gray sky. Ash had collected on the sill. He ran his hands through his gray-yet-still-red-according-to-Marge hair. He was still tired, but didn’t dare bitch about it, not when he looked down at all the message slips.

His fingers dialed the first number. A young male voice answered the call. Decker introduced himself and asked for Estelle Greenberg. The voice told him to hold on a second and then it called out, “Ma, police are on the phone.”

The woman who came on the line spoke before he uttered a word. “You found her!”

“Mrs. Greenberg, this Lieutenant Peter Decker of the Los Angeles Police—”

“Yes, yes … did you find my daughter?”

“And your daughter is …”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake! Why are you calling me if you don’t even know why I called?”

So much displaced anger. Decker rode with it. “I was just given a message. I’m sorry to upset you. Believe me, that isn’t my intention.”

“Did you find my daughter?” She was yelling over the phone.

“We haven’t recovered any bodies from the affected area,” Decker explained. “It’s just too hot and dangerous to search.”

“Then why are you wasting my time?” The fury in her voice barely overlay her desperation.

“First of all, I want to tell you how sorry I am. Second, I want to explain why I called you. I’m trying to gather information so that when the investigators do go into the area, they’ll know who they’re looking for. From this conversation, am I correct in assuming that your daughter lived in the affected building?”

The answer didn’t come right away. When it did, it was laced with tears. “Yes.”

“All right. May I please have her name?”

“Delia Greenberg. Apartment 3C.”

“I know the next couple of questions are going to sound moronic and insensitive, but I have to ask them anyway. So please forgive me if I upset you. I take it you haven’t heard from Delia since the incident.”

“No.”

“Does she have a cell phone?”

“I tried it a thousand times …” She was weeping. “It goes directly to her voice mail.”

“Okay. Did Delia live with anyone?”

“Alone.”

“So there was no one with her when it happened?”

“I don’t know! There might have been. She had friends stay over sometimes.”

“All right. Do you have any names, perhaps?”

“I don’t know! I can’t think right now!”

“You’re really helping me a lot, Mrs. Greenberg. Thank you for talking to me. One more thing regarding Delia. Do you think that you could obtain a copy of her dental records for identification purposes?”

The request was met with a long, long pause. “Probably,” she whispered.

“They can be sent directly to me or you can bring them in person. You are welcome to come in to the station house at any time or any hour and talk to one of us. There will always be someone here who’ll be familiar with your situation. I’m going to give you my cell number. Feel free to call it at any time.”

“Thank you,” she said without emotion.

Decker rattled off several sets of numbers. Whether the woman was writing any of it down was anyone’s guess. “Is there anything you want to ask me?”

“Who am I talking to again?”

“Lieutenant Peter Decker.”

“You’re a lieutenant?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Your captain couldn’t have given me a call?”

“He’d be happy to call you, Mrs. Greenberg.”

“But he didn’t. You did.”

“Yes. If you want to set up an appointment with Captain Strapp—”

“Why should I want to set up an appointment if the man doesn’t have the decency to call me?” She was sobbing. “When do you want the X-rays?”

“How about if I come to your house and we’ll go to the dentist together?”

The woman didn’t answer. All Decker heard was weeping. Then she said, “All right. Do you know where I live?”

“No, but I can take down an address.”

“I don’t live so close to my daughter. She wanted her privacy. I’m all the way in the city.”

“I have a car, I can drive. What’s the address?”

She gave him the street address. “When can you come?”

“How about tomorrow morning around eleven?”

“Eleven would be all right. What do you look like?”

“I’m very tall and have red hair.” That’s turning gray very quickly. “I’ll show you ID at your door. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant. I know you’re trying to be nice. It’s just …”

She was crying again. Decker could have said, “I know …” Decker could have said, “I understand.” But he didn’t know and he didn’t understand.

Thank God.


3 (#u4ed9c3e9-232c-5df1-b5ae-30f1b3495387)






IT WAS A hard time for the West San Fernando Valley. Even the news that the crash had likely been caused by mechanical failure didn’t stave off the increase in emergency calls, of reported heart attacks, asthma attacks, and fainting spells.

The week of the crash, Decker had worked on casino time, never seeing the light of day, never knowing what time it was. He never made it to Rina’s parents’ for Friday-night dinner, nor did he make it over the hill for Shabbat Saturday lunch. There was just too much to do. He did manage to cram in a phone call to his married daughter. Cindy was a grand-theft-auto detective over the hill in Hollywood, and had been doing double duty because so many of the uniformed officers had been diverted to the crash area.

But all things must pass, and eventually the terrible incident that had grabbed headlines in the local papers for two weeks running became old news. Coverage faded and fell to page three, then to page five, then to the back of the front section. Eventually it was relegated to local news until it became yesterday’s news. With the coroner’s investigators working nonstop on the body recoveries, and the NTSB working nonstop on plane and fuselage recovery, the police were permitted to go back to doing police work.

No one would have definitive answers for many months. Maybe it would even be years before the total puzzle was put back together. The nature of the beast required time and patience. Rina had told him that immediately after the crash, people in the area had seemed to move a bit slower, taking more time to smile and say hello. Traffic had been sparser and much more polite. And despite the initial looting and break-ins that had happened directly after the crash, overall monthly crime had actually taken a drop.

A temporary aberration it seemed, because the statisticians reported that the following month, life and crime in the San Fernando Valley had returned to their precrash status.

FORTY-SOX DAYS AFTER the crash, as Decker was looking over the upcoming court cases of his detectives, his extension rang. It was Marissa Kornblatt, one of the three department secretaries who manned the front desk for the squad room. Over the intercom, her voice sounded tentative.

“Excuse me, Lieutenant. I have someone on the line who is demanding to speak to the head honcho.”

“Head honcho?”

“His words, Lieutenant, not mine. His name is Farley Lodestone, and as far as I could make out, he’s ranting about his missing daughter.”

“How old is his daughter?”

“Twenty-eight.”

“Twenty-eight?”

“I told him our standard policy is thirty-six hours before we file a report, but then he said he’s been waiting over a month and he has had enough.”

The man sounded like a nutcase. Decker said, “Why don’t you patch the call to Matt Thurgood and have him take a missing-persons report—”

“Lieutenant, Mr. Lodestone is screaming that it’s a homicide. I don’t think he’s going to be happy with an MP report … sir.”

“I’ll take it.” Decker punched the blinking light. “Lieutenant Decker.”

“Lieutenant?” The voice was surprised. “Finally! Now we’re getting somewhere! You know how many phone calls I’ve made over the last few days?”

“How can I help you, sir?”

“Farley Lodestone is the name and you certainly can help me, Lieutenant Deckman. My stepdaughter’s missing. Me and her mom haven’t heard from her in forty-six days. We thought about it and thought about it and came to the same conclusion. That sumbitch husband of hers finally went out and did it.”

“Did it?”

“You know what I mean, Deckman. The sumbitch finally killed her!”

Decker looked at the phone monitor and took down the calling number. It appeared to be a cell phone and was from an out-of-the-city area code. “Mr. Lodestone, why don’t you come in to the station house and we can talk about this? Things that are this serious shouldn’t be discussed over the phone.”

There was a long pause. “You think so?”

“Yes, sir, I do. I could see you in about an hour. How does that sound?”

“Too quick! It’ll take time for me and the missus to get over there.”

“Where are you calling from, Mr. Lodestone?”

“Fresno.”

One hundred and eighty-six miles away as the crow flies. “And you’re calling this station house because your stepdaughter lives in this area?”

“Two-three-one-one-six Octavia Avenue. That’s where you’ll find the sumbitch.”

“And who is this sumbitch?”

“Ivan Dresden. He’s a broker for Merrill Lynch in Porter Ranch. My stepdaughter’s name is Roseanne. Roseanne Dresden.”

Decker tucked the receiver under his chin as he wrote it down. As he saw Roseanne’s name in print, he realized he wasn’t reading it for the first time. “Her name is familiar. Would there be any reason that I might know her?”

“Well, you mighta probably read her name in the papers saying she was on that WestAir flight that crashed down on the apartment building.”

That was it! Decker’s mind was racing, trying to understand the purpose of the call. “Mr. Lodestone, are you saying that your stepdaughter wasn’t on that WestAir flight?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“But the papers reported her as one of the victims.”

“Young man, I’m sure someone somewhere musta told you that you should never believe what you read in the papers.”

THEY MATERIALIZED AT the station house at ten minutes to five in the afternoon. Farley and Shareen Lodestone were dressed in their Sunday finest, the man in a decently fitting gray suit with a white shirt and a tie, and Shareen in a flowered dress and low heels. She had taken the time to put on rouge and lipstick. Blond and blue-eyed, with good skin, at one time the woman had been attractive, but grief had deepened her eyes and depressed their light, giving her face a beetle brow.

Farley was thin and of average height with a mop of white hair. Yet Decker had seen enough of these guys to know that they were deceptively strong and wiry. He knew that beneath that jacket and shirt were some stringy arms with good grip strength. The man looked more mad than upset, but that was often a man’s way of coping with heartache.

Decker got them both cups of coffee and settled them into two seats opposite his desk. After closing the door, he sat down and took out a notepad, although he suspected that what they were going to tell him was a case of extreme denial. He said, “Before we get started, Mr. and Mrs. Lodestone, I want to express my condolences. I am very sorry for your loss.”

“Yeah, I am, too,” Lodestone grunted out. “So if you want to help, you’ll put that sumbitch behind bars.”

“I always had a queasy feeling about him,” Shareen added.

“Him … meaning your son-in-law?”

“That’s right,” Shareen said. “Ivan Dresden.”

Decker wrote down the name. “And you suspect … what?”

“That Ivan killed her.”

“Didn’t I already tell you that?” Lodestone butted in.

“Yes, you did.” Decker paused. “Before you came in, I called up WestAir. They verified that Roseanne had been on the flight.”

“Yeah, verified in what way?” Lodestone said. “They haven’t found her body.”

“They haven’t finished all the recovery, Mr. Lodestone.”

“They finished most of it,” Shareen added. “They got thirty-eight so far.”

“Then maybe we should wait until they have all forty-seven.”

“They aren’t gonna find forty-seven bodies, Lieutenant,” Farley said. “Besides, it don’t matter if they do find everyone on the passenger list because WestAir didn’t issue her a ticket.”

That threw Decker momentarily off guard. “They didn’t?”

“No, they didn’t!” Farley said triumphantly. “So how the hell did they know she was on the flight?”

Decker didn’t answer. He wrote down no ticket? while stalling for time.

Shareen rescued him. “Let me start from the beginning, Lieutenant. Roseanne was a flight attendant for WestAir. After the crash, when we couldn’t get hold of Roseanne, we called up the airlines. But WestAir told us she wasn’t working on flight 1324. Then the company called us up a couple of days later and backtracked. No, she wasn’t working 1324, but she was on the plane, hopping a ride to San Jose to work the route up there for a couple of nights … which is why they claimed they didn’t issue her a ticket.”

“Wait a minute.” Decker started to take notes in earnest. “I thought every passenger who flew on an airline had to be issued a ticket.”

“That’s what I thought,” Shareen said. “But I was wrong. This was told to me by one of Roseanne’s friends, so I hope I’m getting this right.” She took a deep breath. “Okay. Here we go. I think if you work for the airlines and you’re flying to work at a destination, you don’t have to be issued a ticket even if you’re not working the flight.”

Decker nodded. “So it was possible for her to be on the flight and for the airlines not to have a record of it. But then they’d have a record of the assignment, wouldn’t they?”

“They should have a record,” Shareen said. “But they’re not telling me yes, they have one, or no, they don’t have one.”

“Right now they’re not saying nothing without their lawyer,” Lodestone said.

Shareen said, “Roseanne used to work San Jose. So I figure that maybe WestAir was shorthanded in San Jose. So I called up San Jose, and asked if Roseanne was scheduled to work some routes up there. First they tell me no, then they tell me yes, then they tell me that if I want to talk to them again, they’ll put me in contact with their attorneys.”

“Same old, same old,” Lodestone said.

Shareen patted her husband’s knee. “Their hemming and hawing was making us very suspicious.”

Decker nodded. It did sound funny on the surface, but the airline was probably in disarray.

“I talked to Ivan,” Shareen said. “I just didn’t like what he told me.”

“What did he tell you?”

“That at the last minute, Roseanne changed her plans to work in San Jose. He told me emphatically that she was on the plane and he was upset enough without me making up stories about her not being on the plane. Then he said, in the long run, we were hurting not helping and that he and several other people had lawsuits pending, so we should kindly shut up.”

“He told you to shut up?”

“Not in those exact words, but that’s what he said between the lines. Then he told me I was in denial.” The old woman’s eyes watered. “I’m not in denial, Lieutenant. I know in my heart of hearts that Roseanne is dead. I just don’t think it was the crash that killed her.”

“You said Roseanne had worked San Jose before,” Decker said. “Could she have gone up to San Jose to visit someone?”

“Who, sir?” Lodestone said. “She’s married.”

“I was thinking about a friend.”

Shareen said, “If she was hitching a ride to visit someone, then WestAir would have had to issue her a ticket. The only way she could have boarded the plane without a ticket is if she was working the flight—which WestAir admitted to me that she wasn’t.”

“But then they backtracked,” Decker said.

“They’re lying,” Lodestone insisted. “They haven’t found her body! You know why they haven’t found her body?’ Cause it isn’t there. If that isn’t proof enough of something’s wrong, then I don’t know what is.”

“Mr. Lodestone, I don’t want to sound like a broken record, but neither the coroner’s office nor the NTSB has claimed to recover all the bodies. And even with those that they have recovered, it takes time to do positive identification.”

“Lieutenant, I talked to the sumbitch and asked him point blank why they haven’t dug up her body. You know what the sumbitch told me?”

“No, Mr. Lodestone, what did he tell you?”

“That they just didn’t dig deep enough. Can you believe that?”

Maybe it was true. Piles of debris still hampered much of the recovery operations. Still, it was a strange remark. Decker nodded sympathetically.

“Does that sound like a grieving husband to you?” Lodestone asked him.

It didn’t, but Decker had stopped trying to pigeonhole grief long ago.

Shareen said, “The only reason that Roseanne’s name is on the list is because Ivan Dresden called the newspapers and told them to put her down on the list.”

Decker didn’t like the sound of that. “Are you certain about that?”

Shareen backed down. “Well, that’s what I think.”

Lodestone said, “When he found out about the plane crash, he finally found a way to kill her and hide it. You know, I wouldn’t be surprised if he blew up the plane on purpose.”

Decker had heard people say outlandish things when upset, so his accusations fell on deaf ears. None of the vehemence surprised him, although the intricacy of the fabrication that they had created to explain their daughter’s death was beyond the pale. “Has Ivan Dresden ever threatened your daughter before?”

“He was having an affair.” Shareen had neatly sidestepped the question. “She was going to divorce him.”

“The condo’s in her name,” Lodestone told him. “I helped her buy it. He was gonna lose everything if the divorce went through.”

“And what did he do for a living again?” Decker asked. “Something with finance?”

“Broker for Merrill Lynch. That’s a fancy title for a salesman.”

“And what do you do, Mr. Lodestone?”

“Hardware … three stores and every single one of ’em is profitable.” A smile bisected his face. “Used to bother Mr. High and Mighty that I make more money with my nails and screws than he does with his fancy stocks and bonds.”

Shareen said, “No one has seen or heard from Roseanne since the crash, Lieutenant.”

That’s because she has disintegrated into dust. There was denial and there was this kind of denial, people so horrified and filled with rage that they actively hunted for an object to absorb their venom. Their anger was so encompassing that it blocked out not only the anguish, but also reason.

Decker said, “And you’re sure that she wasn’t on the airplane?”

“I called up a few of her friends,” Shareen responded. “No one remembers anything about Roseanne working San Jose.”

“Can you tell me the names of the friends you talked to, Mrs. Lodestone?”

“Certainly.” She picked up a purse and opened it. “I have a list in my handbag.”

Lodestone clapped his hands. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

Decker held out his palm to slow the old man down. “One step at a time.” After Shareen handed him the list, he took a moment to look over the names. “And this is everyone you’ve talked to?”

“Yes, sir, and the addresses and phone numbers are current.”

An efficient woman. “Well, I suppose this is as good a place to start as any.”

Moisture in the woman’s eyes ran over the lower lids and down her cheeks. “Thank you, Lieutenant, for taking us seriously.”

Decker patted her hand. “In return, I want you to do me a favor, Mr. and Mrs. Lodestone. After investigating these leads, if I feel that Roseanne was definitely on that plane, I’d like you to understand when I say that I can’t do any more.”

“Fair enough,” Lodestone answered. “What are you gonna do besides call up those people on Shareen’s list?”

“I’ve got a few options.”

“Like what?” Lodestone pushed.

“I’ll talk to the airlines … talk to the flight attendants who worked the desk to see if anyone remembers seeing Roseanne board the flight.”

“That’s good because we tried doing that,” Lodestone said. “WestAir wouldn’t return our phone calls.”

Shareen said, “If you could push them hard enough, I’d bet my bottom dollar that you’ll find out she wasn’t scheduled to work San Jose.”

“Maybe it was a last-minute change in schedule.”

“I don’t think so. There’s something fishy going on and WestAir isn’t talking.”

“I’m sure they’re worried about lawsuits,” Decker said.

“They should be worried,” Lodestone told him. “If my plane crashed and killed a bunch of people, I’d be worried, too. They can be worried all they want, but they don’t have to worry about a lawsuit from us ’cause they didn’t kill Rosie. That sumbitch did it and that’s all I have to say.”


4 (#u4ed9c3e9-232c-5df1-b5ae-30f1b3495387)






THE NEXT MORNING, Decker called in Marge Dunn. She had just come back from a spirited weekend with a man she had declared to be a keeper. Will Barnes was in his late fifties—a detective out of Berkeley who was divorced with no children, but got along well with Marge’s adopted daughter, Vega, now a young adult studying astrophysics at Caltech. For the last six months, Barnes and Dunn had seemed perfectly content with a long-distance relationship. As of a couple of weeks ago, Barnes was telling Marge about an opening in the Santa Barbara Police Department—less pay but about two hundred miles closer to L.A. That meant the relationship would be within commuting distance.

As Decker related his conversation with the Lodestones, Marge nodded in the appropriate places. Today, she had donned a white shirt, olive slacks, and a brown jacket. The neutral coloring would have normally washed out her complexion, but her skin glowed with a deep weekend tan. Her brown eyes sparkled with love.

At the end of the tale, Decker raked his hair and took a sip of water, giving her a moment to absorb everything. As he was summing up the story, he realized how weird the Lodestones’ accusations had been. “Pretty bizarre.”

Marge raised an eyebrow. “Beyond bizarre, Pete. I’d say we’re into the realm of fiction.” She flipped through her notebook. “So let me make sure I have this one down correctly. Roseanne Dresden was a flight attendant for WestAir.”

“Yes.”

“Her husband claimed that Roseanne had made a last-minute schedule change that put her on the doomed WestAir flight 1324.”

“Yes.”

“She was not working flight 1324 but was en route to San Jose to work some WestAir flights up north.”

“Yes.”

“Therefore, because she was on a flight for work, she was not issued a ticket.”

“Yes.”

“Now her stepfather and her mother are insisting that Roseanne’s husband, Ivan … as in Ivan the Terrible … heard about the crash, and suddenly decided that this presented an opportune time to kill his wife.”

“Yes. She was contemplating divorce and he stood to lose financially, according to Farley Lodestone.”

“The stepfather who owns three hardware stores.”

“And every single one of them makes money.”

Marge continued: “So Ivan killed Roseanne once he heard about the crash. Then he called up the newspapers and told them that Roseanne had been on the ill-fated flight, and that her name should be added to the list of crash victims.”

“That about sums it up.”

“And so far, her body has not been recovered.”

“Farley Lodestone made a point of telling me that three times,” Decker said.

“Yes. But as of this morning, there are still bodies that have not been accounted for. So why don’t we wait until the recovery operation is complete?”

“Lodestone is tired of waiting.”

“And we have to capitulate to this man, who probably harbors some irrational grudge against his son-in-law?”

Decker shrugged.

“May I ask why?”

“You may and I will try to answer you because I’ve thought about it myself. If it were just Farley’s accusation, I wouldn’t bother. But there’s something earnest about the mother, Shareen. She knows that Roseanne is dead, so she’s not in denial. I know the smartest thing to do is to stall them until the body is recovered, but these folks are suffering. If months go by and recovery doesn’t locate Roseanne, we’re just that much further away from what actually happened. Things get lost, people move away. If it is a homicide, it would be good to have a jump start.”

“If.”

“I know. The big if.”

Marge smiled. “What do you want me to do, Rabbi?”

“Make a couple of calls to WestAir. See if you can’t get some written confirmation that Roseanne was actually on the flight—a computer printout that showed Roseanne’s work schedule, a memo or a slip of paper: anything that puts Roseanne working in San Jose. The Lodestones were trying to do that on their own, but right now WestAir isn’t directly talking to any of the families.”

“Probably worried about lawsuits.”

“That and also busy trying to figure out what went wrong. If we could find the assignment sheet, maybe we could give the parents some peace of mind.”

“And what if there’s no written record of a schedule change?”

“There has to be, Marge. She couldn’t just show up in uniform and hop a plane.”

“Why not?”

Decker sighed. “Well, maybe she could do it, but why would she do it?”

Marge conceded the point. Roseanne must have gotten the assignment and there must be a record of it. “All right. I have some time in the afternoon. I’ll make a few phone calls.”

“Thanks.”

“If the airline refuses to cooperate, is there anyone else I can talk to who might verify Ivan the Terrible’s account of what happened to his wife?”

“As a matter of fact …” Decker pulled out the list that Shareen Lodestone had given her. “What I have is a list of FORs—friends of Roseanne. For what it’s worth, they told Shareen Lodestone that Ivan the Terrible’s version of what happened was pure horseshit.”

“Have you called anyone?”

“No. I am the lieutenant. You are the sergeant.” He handed her the list. “Now, as the sergeant, you may assign this task to someone else.”

“Who do you have in mind?”

“You choose.”

Marge stepped outside Decker’s office and looked around the squad room. Most of the detectives were already in the field and the few who were loitering around their desks were making a good pretense of looking busy.

All except Scott Oliver.

The thirty-year veteran detective was busy cleaning his nails. He had obviously showered this morning because his face was shaved pink and baby smooth. His black hair was combed straight back and kept in place by gel. His clothes were meticulous: a gray linen suit, a starch-pressed white shirt and a cherry-red tie, with lizard-skin loafers on his feet.

But somehow, even with all that morning grooming, he had missed his nails.

She walked over to his desk.

“I see you’re busy,” she told him.

“Qué pasa?” he asked without looking up.

“I have an assignment for you.”

“Hit it, babe.”

“You can either call a list of people or you can call up WestAir and deal with bureaucracy.”

Oliver looked up and frowned. “How many people on the list?”

“Around eight.”

He took the list and scanned the names. “Info, please?”

“A flight attendant named Roseanne Dresden was listed as one of the people who died on WestAir 1324. Her parents think she wasn’t on the flight, but instead was murdered opportunistically by her husband, Ivan, who then called in her death to the newspapers, saying that she had a last-minute schedule change and was on the flight.”

Oliver stopped filing his nails, his eyes dazed. “What?”

“You want to take out a notepad, Scotty. It might help your aging memory.”

As Oliver put away the manicure set, Marge explained the Lodestones’ theories. When she was done with them, she realized that the story still sounded absurd. “Look, what would help close this out is finding someone who saw Roseanne board the flight or an official work order that says that Roseanne had flown up on 1324. Because she wasn’t issued a ticket.”

“She wasn’t?”

“No. If you’re a flight attendant and you’re working the flight, or you’re on your way to work a flight, you don’t have to be issued a ticket. I’m thinking that it shouldn’t take more than an hour to clear up this mess and give the parents some peace of mind.”

“You think this won’t take more than an hour? Can I quote you on that, Dunn?”

“No, you may not quote me on that, Oliver, because I’ve been fooled before.”

PHONE CALLS TO the airlines went nowhere. Marge went from one division to another with no one anxious to talk to her, let alone give her any information.

“I can’t help you with that. Let me try another department.”

“I think we have a task force dealing with the crash. I’ll transfer you there.”

“I have no way of knowing that. You might want to call up human resources.”

“I wouldn’t have that information. You’ll have to call up Burbank.”

“Sorry, I can’t give you that information without a written request from the employee.”

“The employee is dead,” Marge told her.

“Then I’ll need a written request from the next of kin.”

Next of kin was Ivan Dresden, who, in Marge’s opinion, might not be inclined to give written consent.

She was spinning her wheels and that was the problem with the phone. It was hard to be charming and disarming without the visuals. She hung up the receiver and went over to Oliver’s desk.

“How’s it going with the list?”

“They’re at work, Dunn. I left messages and kept them vague. If they have something illuminating to tell me about Ivan the Terrible, I don’t want to scare them off. Furthermore, I don’t want it to get back to the husband that we’re looking into his wife’s death. I would surmise that such action would displease him. How’s it coming with you and WestAir?”

“The phone is good for some things, but not so hot for others. How would you like to come with me and pay a visit to WestAir?”

“And what makes you think that the company will talk to us?”

“Our gold shields. They’re very shiny.”

“Where are the offices?”

“Burbank.” Marge checked her watch. “We can grab some lunch then attempt to wade through the corporate morass. I have a few names. By the way, the women I spoke with over the phone sounded young and beautiful.”

“Sure, dangle that carrot in front of me.” But Oliver was already on his feet, straightening his tie. “What the heck. I’m kind of hungry anyway.”

THE BOB HOPE Airport—formerly Hollywood-Burbank—was one of those smaller, suburban airfields that attempted to drain air traffic from LAX. Originally associated with Lockheed, the Hollywood-Burbank/ Bob Hope was a convenient locale for the residents of the San Fernando Valley. The field was way more Burbank than Hollywood. For years, Burbank’s biggest claim to fame was NBC studios. Recently, the city had been trying to gentrify, with boutique theaters, funky vintage clothing shops, café restaurants, and tree-lined jogging paths. But the strip malls still abounded. So did the car dealerships, the outlets, and the cheap electronic wholesalers dealing out of storefronts.

Turning onto Hollywood Way, Oliver and Marge passed several business hotels, several franchise restaurants, and a business park of soulless glass structures—all windows but very little light. WestAir corporate offices were located in a bank building on the fifth floor. There was an adjacent parking lot for the structure and Oliver chose to park on the top level, even though there were plenty of spaces on the other three tiers. This was his usual habit. His rationale was that if the big earthquake should hit and the parking structure pancaked, his car, sitting on the top level, would stand a better chance of surviving.

Just as Marge pushed the elevator button, her cell rang. She looked at the phone’s window and the number staring back startled her.

It was Vega’s cell.

Vega, now living in one of Caltech’s dorms, called every night precisely at eight o’clock, come hell or high water. It didn’t matter where she was and it never mattered where Marge was. Vega called at eight because Marge had asked her to call every day. Not necessarily at eight o’clock, but that was Vega—a rule and a schedule for everything.

So her calling now signaled an emergency.

“I’ve got to take this,” Marge said.

Over the line, Vega’s voice was panicked.

“Oh, Mother Marge, I am so sorry to be bothering you. This is going to sound very silly, but I don’t know what to do.”

“Tell me, honey.”

“Mother Marge, I work with a man named Joshua Wong. He’s in my particles class. He’s a very nice man.” She took a deep breath. “He asked me to come with him to a party tonight. I was so shocked that I said yes.”

A grin stretched Marge’s mouth. “Honey, that’s wonderful.”

“Mother Marge, I don’t know what to do.”

“Just have a good time, Vega.”

“I don’t know how to have a good time. I don’t even know what a good time is.”

Her voice was one step away from tears. Marge knew her daughter’s radical statements were completely true. Vega had grown up in a cult: all work and absolutely no play. When the cult was raided and destroyed, the teen had been left an orphan. Marge had taken her in and they had developed a special relationship. Most definitely, the girl knew how to love, but no matter how much Marge tried, the kid was socially blunted.

“I don’t know how to act at a party. I don’t know what to say. Joshua is going to think that I’m stupid.”

“That’s not possible.”

“What do I say, Mother Marge? I am so sick and dizzy about this that I can’t work. I’m afraid to go but I’m also afraid to cancel. I like Joshua. I don’t want him to hate me.”

“First of all, no one could hate you.” She looked up and Oliver was making fake yawns. She glared at him. Then she took a deep breath.

Talk to Vega in a language she can understand.

“Are you in front of your computer?”

“I have my laptop, as always.”

“Okay. I’m going to give you some instructions. Write them down.”

“Right away, Mother Marge, I’m ready.”

Her voice had perked up at the sound of an assignment. “Clothing. Go out and buy a nice pair of black slacks and a black top. No turtleneck, Vega, make it a scoop neck.”

“Long-or short-sleeved?”

“Either one. Shoes can be anything black. I’d wear your combat boots. That would show that you’re not afraid to be an individual.”

“Okay, but they’re dirty. I’ll polish them. What else?”

“Do you still have that gold necklace I gave you?”

“Of course. I treasure it.”

“Don’t treasure it, wear it.”

“I will do that.”

“Fine. Do you have any perfume, Vega?”

“No.”

“Go buy some … wait, not perfume. Eau de cologne. It’s cheaper.”

“What kind?”

“Uh … any kind that smells good.” She glanced at Oliver, who was tapping his watch. “Now, instructions for the party. Listen closely.”

“I am listening.”

“Good. If you ask people questions and look like you’re interested in their answers, people will talk to you. People love to talk about themselves.”

“But what if they ask me a question, Mother Marge? That’s what I’m afraid of. Or rather … that’s of what I am afraid.”

Marge sighed. She’d been taught the king’s English and that made her weird. “Vega, if they ask about your background, tell them you were adopted at a young age by a single mother who was a cop. Usually, the word cop shuts people up. Do not tell them about the cult and Father Jupiter. If you do, they will ask you many, many questions, Vega. You don’t want that.”

“Yes, you’re right.”

“Sweetheart, just be your own sweet self. Talk about the weather, talk about politics, talk about your work. It’s a party of Caltech people, right?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’m sure you’ll know some of the people and I bet quite a few will have some understanding of astrophysics and your current research.”

“I can ask them about their research?”

“Absolutely.”

A big sigh. “All right. I’m going to do this, Mother Marge. Where should I buy the clothing? Is the Gap suitable?”

“Yes, the Gap is fine.”

“Good.” Another exhalation. “Thank you so much. I feel so much better. My stomach pains are gone. I love you, Mother Marge.”

“I love you, too. Let me know how it goes.”

“Of course. I’ll call you at eight o’clock tonight.”

“Sweetheart, if you’re in the middle of the party, you don’t have to call me.”

“No, I will call you. If I don’t, I will be very anxious.”

“Then I’ll be waiting for your call. Now go shop.”

“Yes. Thank you. Good-bye.”

“Bye, honey.” She stowed the cell in her pocket. “Let’s go.”

“Some geek asked her out?”

“Some smart person asked her out,” Marge corrected.

“Is she freaking out?”

“Vega never freaks out. But she is a little nervous.”

“How old is she?”

“In her twenties.” She glared at Oliver. “No wiseacre comments, please. Just be happy for her, okay?”

Oliver looped his arm around Marge. “I am happy for her. And I’m happy for you. It’s going to be fine.”

“I sure hope so. I just want her to be happy. I want her to have a nice, normal social experience. God, I hope it goes well and he’s not a jerk.”

“I’m sure he’s a very nice young man. And even if he is a jerk, that’s part of the experience, too, right?”

“I suppose so.” She smiled at him. “Yeah, you’re right. I can’t protect her anymore. She’s an adult.”

“Exactly. Now take a deep breath and please stop biting your nails. We have to con an airline into thinking we’re important.”


5 (#u4ed9c3e9-232c-5df1-b5ae-30f1b3495387)






AT THE RECEPTION desk, a twentysomething, exotic-looking woman of mixed race scrutinized the badges presented to her while ignoring the ringing phone lines. She peeled her eyes away from the shields, looking up at their faces, then flipped a sheet of black hair over her shoulders and checked her log. “And your appointment is with …”

Oliver said, “Its not down there?”

“I don’t see it.” Exotic Woman shook her head. “Hold on a moment.” She pushed a button. “WestAir. How may I direct your call? One moment.” She depressed a buzzer and mumbled softly into her headset. Then she looked at Oliver.

“Who was your appointment with?”

“Jeez, I forgot the name.” Oliver tapped his forehead. “Someone in human resources. If you name a couple of names, I’m sure I could recognize—”

“The director is Melvin O’Leary and he’s not in right now.” Down went another blinking button. “WestAir. How may I direct your call?”

Marge spoke up. “Someone must be working in human resources. Can you give the department a call and tell them that Detectives Dunn and Oliver are here?”

“In a minute.” Another line. “WestAir. How may I direct your call?”

“Hey!” Marge shouted.

Shocked brown eyes beelined toward her face. “Excuse me?”

“We’re investigating a homicide, ma’am, and you’re impeding it! Do you want to help us out or do you want to cause WestAir more bad publicity?”

Pissed but nonetheless chastised, Twentysomething regarded a directory. “I’ll see if Nancy Pratt is able to help you.”

“Thank you.”

She shoved down a button and asked for Ms. Pratt. When she spoke into her headset, her voice was barely above a whisper. She regarded Oliver, not daring to make eye contact with Marge. “Your names, please?”

Marge reiterated slowly, “Homicide Detectives Dunn and Oliver.”

“Thank you.” Mumbling into the headset. “Ms. Pratt will be with you in just a moment. You can take a seat.” Back to her phone lines. “WestAir, how may I direct your call?”

The two detectives sat on sling-back chairs. Oliver leaned over and whispered, “What’s the game plan?”

“Maybe Pratt can direct us to the right department.”

“Hope so. Be nice to get Dresden’s work schedule and be done with this silly case. It’s a waste of our time.”

“I agree.”

“So why are we doing this?”

“I think Decker felt sorry for the parents and the story had just enough intrigue that he wants to make sure that she was on the plane.”

“Is there any doubt?”

“Oliver, it doesn’t pay to get ahead of ourselves.” At the sound of heels clicking onto the floor, Marge looked down the long hallway to see a woman approaching. Tall and big-boned, with clipped blond hair, she appeared to be in her forties and wore a black suit, white shirt, and sensible pumps. The two detectives stood, and when she was within greeting distance, she held out her hand. “Nancy Pratt. Elizabeth tells me you’re from homicide.”

“Yes, ma’am, we are.” Marge introduced the two of them. “Is there a place we can talk privately?”

“Absolutely. Come this way.” She led them down a black granite corridor, and opened a door that connected to another hallway, except this one had Berber carpeting. The foyer had cubicles on one side and offices on the other, hushed except for the occasional shuffling of papers or fingers clicking against a keyboard. The insides of WestAir looked like Corporate Office, U.S.A.

Nancy Pratt turned the handles of several locked doors until she found one that was open. The room was small and sterile, with a single table and four chairs. It was also frigid, with air-conditioning that roared as it escaped the vent. She motioned for them to sit, then took a chair, folded her hands, and waited for one of them to talk.

“Actually, we’re not sure who to contact, but we figured human resources is a good start,” Oliver said.

Nancy looked pleased. “So how can I help?”

“Our needs are simple,” Oliver said. “Which department assigns the work schedules for WestAir flight attendants?”

Nancy’s smile was patronizing. “Before I can direct you to the right department, maybe you can tell me what you want?”

“All we need is a copy of the work schedule for one of your flight attendants.”

Pratt clucked her tongue. “I’m sure you know that I can’t give you that.”

Marge said, “The employee in question is deceased. Roseanne Dresden. She was on flight 1324 and, apparently, WestAir had assigned her to work San Jose field just that morning. All we’re looking for is verification of that assign—”

Pratt held up her palm as a stop sign. “I’m sorry, Detectives, but I can’t help you with that or anything about Roseanne Dresden. All questions about flight 1324 must be directed to the flight 1324 task force.”

“Look, Ms. Pratt, I know that’s the company policy and I know you have to worry about lawsuits, but what we’re asking for is a very simple thing. We just want some kind of written verification that Roseanne Dresden was on the flight because she wasn’t officially working the flight. But she wasn’t issued a ticket, either, which means she had to be on assignment, correct?”

“Detective …” A sigh. “It sounds simple to you, but it isn’t simple. Anything with regard to flight 1324 must be handled by the task force, period.”

All right.” Marge gave up. “Where can we find the task force and who should we speak with?”

Nancy Pratt was already on her feet. “If you could wait here for a moment, I’ll see if anyone’s available to help you. It may take a few moments.”

“No problem,” Marge said. “My throat’s a little dry. Would you happen to have a glass of water?”

Nancy’s expression matched the arctic temperature in the room. “I’ll see what I can do.”

After she left the room, Oliver said, “I don’t think she likes us.”

“I don’t think WestAir likes anyone poking around in their business.”

“You know we’re not going to get anywhere without warrants. And we have no cause to get warrants. This is a total waste of time.”

“Let’s just play it out and say we tried.”

Neither of them spoke for a minute, Oliver shaking his leg, Marge rubbing her arms. The knock at the door was a welcome distraction. A young man came inside holding a paper cup and a plastic bottle. He was slight in build, with blue-black eyes, zits and pits on his cheeks, and a tentative attitude. Marge surmised that this was his first job and he was trying really hard not to screw it up.

“Excuse me, but someone wanted water?”

“That would be me,” Marge said. “Thank you very much.”

“You’re welcome. Anything else?”

“Not really,” Oliver answered, “unless you want to break into some files for us.”

The boyish man looked aghast.

“I’m kidding,” Oliver said. “I’m from the police. Think I’d have you do something illegal?”

“I wouldn’t answer that if I were you,” Marge told him. She opened the bottle of water and poured half of it in the cup. “It could only work against you.”

The kid gave a small smile. Being one of the gang seemed like a new experience for him, so Marge took a big chance. “Relax, sir. You don’t want to end up like your boss, do you?”

“You mean Ms. Pratt?”

“She seems a little humorless.” She drank the cup dry then moved on to the rest of the bottle. “Or maybe it’s just that WestAir has been under tremendous tension.”

“That’s for certain.”

Oliver joined in. “And when everyone gets testy, I bet I know who they take it out on.”

The blue-black eyes became wary. “Anything else I can do for you?”

“What’s your name?” Oliver asked.

“Henson.”

“Okay, Mr. Henson. I’m Detective Oliver and this is Detective Sergeant Dunn. Now we’re officially introduced.”

“Nice to meet you, but my first name is Henson. Henson Manning. My mother was a big Muppets fan and had a whacky sense of humor, ha ha.”

Poor kid, Oliver thought. Not only was he saddled with no muscle and bad acne, but he also had a weird name.

Marge gave him her most sincere smile. “Henson, thank you very much for the water. You’re the first smile we’ve seen all day.”

Henson nodded. “You polished that off pretty quickly. Can I get you another bottle?”

“No, I’m fine, thanks,” Marge said. “But you look like you want to ask me something. Are you wondering why the police are here?”

Henson’s shrug was noncommittal, so Marge had to talk fast. “We’re looking for the work assignment schedule for a flight attendant named Roseanne Dresden. Supposedly, she was on flight 1324 but wasn’t is sued a ticket.”

Oliver added, “Any ideas?”

“Flight attendants aren’t issued tickets.”

Marge said, “She wasn’t officially working the flight but was en route to work in San Jose.”

Oliver said, “All we need is her work schedule and we’re out of WestAir’s life.”

“Can I ask why?”

“Insurance fraud,” Oliver lied.

“I thought you were from homicide,” Henson countered.

“Slow week for murder, we’re moonlighting,” Oliver said. “The point is we tried getting the paper faxed to us, but no one can seem to find Roseanne Dresden’s work schedule.”

“Or doesn’t want to find it,” Marge said. “Did you ever meet Roseanne?”

“No.”

“Shame. I hear she was a lovely person.”

He stood guard by the door, looking sideways as he talked to the detectives out of the corner of his mouth. “Company policy is that if anyone asks us about flight 1324, we should direct them to the special flight task force.” He dropped his voice. “Management doesn’t want any of us talking about it.”

“Lots of lawsuits, I bet,” Marge said.

The kid didn’t bite. “I’m sure the task force will find what you’re looking for.”

“I’m sure it could if they made it a priority,” Marge said. “But I don’t think they will.”

Oliver said, “Just too many other issues to worry about. Would you know who keeps the paperwork for job assignments?”

“Everything’s computerized here. I’m sure they could find it easily.”

“If they want to,” Marge said.

“I’ve got to go.” Henson crooked a thumb in the door’s direction. “Good luck.”

Nancy Pratt knocked into his shoulder as he left. “Ow.” She glared at the gofer. “Could you kindly watch where you’re going?”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Pratt.”

“What’s your name again?”

“Henson Manning.”

“Well, now that you dislocated my shoulder, go get me water and an Advil.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Now, please.”

As he left, Nancy muttered “stupid kid,” but none too softly. Then she turned her attention to the detectives. “I’m sorry, but there’s no one on the task force that can help you at this time. I’ve brought in some forms. If you’ll fill them out, giving us a written request of precisely what you’re looking for, someone more knowledgeable than I will get back to you with some answers.”

Marge said, “Actually, all we need is written verification that Roseanne Dresden was assigned to work in San Jose and was on flight 1324. That shouldn’t be hard to find.”

“I’m sure it isn’t, but I can’t help you. You can fill out the forms and mail them back to us. I’ve enclosed a self-addressed stamped envelope for your convenience.”

“That was thoughtful,” Oliver said.

Nancy took his words at face value even though the tone was snide. “We try our best.” She opened the door as wide as she could, almost smacking Henson in the face. “Well, you’re just everywhere, aren’t you.”

The young man looked mortified. “Here’s the water and the Advil.”

“Thank you.” She popped the pills in her mouth and swallowed, giving him back the paper cup. “Now could you be so kind as to show the detectives to the exit?” She smiled tightly at Marge and Oliver. “Sometimes when people are distracted, it’s hard to find.”

She departed in a huff, leaving them with Henson and the paper cup.

Marge whispered, “Cheer up. You’ll probably outlive her by a good thirty years.”

For the first time, Henson gave a genuine smile. “Do you need your parking validated?”

“Uh, yes, thanks,” Oliver said.

“Wait here. I’ll get the stickers.” Henson returned a few minutes later. “Did you get what you needed?”

“’Fraid not,” Marge said.

“All we got is the old bureaucratic runaround and a very polite but unhelpful ‘we’ll see what we can do.’” Oliver held up the papers Nancy had given them. “And a bunch of forms to fill out.”

“This way.” Henson led them back through the carpeted hallway into the lobby. Phones were still beeping but the exotic woman named Elizabeth was nowhere to be seen. The young man dropped his voice. “Look … if you give me your card, I’ll see what I can do.”

Marge shook her head and whispered back, “Stay out of it. I don’t want you getting in trouble for doing anything illegal.”

Oliver’s card was already out of his pocket. “However, if you want to ask around, I won’t object.”

“Detective, if I ask around, I’ll bring attention to myself. Right now I’m the invisible whipping boy.”

“That’s a bummer,” Marge said.

“I don’t care. It’s decent pay for a summer job and I can ride my bike.”

“You go to college?” Marge asked.

“Cooper Union in New York.”

“Science or design?” Henson stared at her. Marge said, “My daughter’s at Caltech. She looked at Cooper Union, but wanted to live closer to home.”

He nodded. “Yeah, I can understand that. New York is a big city.” He pushed the elevator button. Still talking softly, he said, “I’m pretty good with a keyboard, if you know what I mean.”

“I don’t want to hear this,” Marge said.

The elevator doors parted and the two detectives stepped inside. As the doors closed, Henson said, “I’ll get back to you within the hour.”

As they rode down, Marge said, “I sure hope we don’t get the kid into trouble.”

“C’mon, Margie, did you see the look in his eyes? With a single stroke, he’s morphed from a nerd to Tom Cruise in MissionImpossible.” Oliver smiled. “Good with a keyboard …” He laughed. “The kid’ll have our answer in ten minutes.”

On the way to the parking lot, Oliver dumped the request forms along with the SASE into the nearest trash can.


6 (#u4ed9c3e9-232c-5df1-b5ae-30f1b3495387)






THE COFFEE WAS strong and bad, unlike the news, which was just plain bad. Decker winced as he attempted to down the black mud. Then, placing the mug on his desk, he decided it wasn’t worth the rotgut just to get the caffeine jolt. A computer printout lay on his desk: a list of victims from flight 1324, and Roseanne Dresden’s name wasn’t on it.

Marge was seated, but Oliver was standing near the door. Both were waiting for his next set of instructions. Decker said, “So then tell me again. What exactly is this?”

As if his asking would change the picture. Marge said, “This is what we’re assuming is WestAir’s original list of the people aboard flight 1324. Oliver and I checked it against the original newspaper list from the Times. That one had Roseanne’s name on it.”

“And this came from Henson the Hacker?”

“Yes.”

“How reliable is this kid?”

“I don’t think he made this up, if that’s what you’re asking. I think he retrieved this little nugget somewhere within the bowels of WestAir’s microchips.”

“So it’s possible that he doesn’t have the entire picture,” Decker said.

“It’s probable that he doesn’t have the entire picture,” Oliver answered. “This was just the shit he was able to pull up within an hour or so before closing time. There’s probably a slew of material he can’t get access to.”

Marge said, “You also have to keep in mind that lists change … like when there’s a baby or a toddler that wasn’t ticketed. Roseanne wasn’t ticketed, so it could be something like that.”

Decker said, “So somewhere between the crash and the printing of the Times edition, Roseanne’s name was added. The question is: Who added the name?” Mutual shrugs answered his question. The crash was still using its long tentacles to give Decker a massive headache. “While Henson the Hacker was doing his mischief, did he happen to find any work order that nails Roseanne being on the flight?”

Marge shook her head no.

“Then the two of you are going to have to go back to WestAir and go through official channels. Find the official list and Roseanne’s work order. Without it, we have nothing.”

“With it, we’ll have nothing,” Oliver stated.

Decker became irritated. “Just go back to WestAir and find what we’re looking for, Scott. It seems to me that neither the Times nor WestAir would put her on the official victims list without being able to verify it. It would open them up to lawsuits.”

“Not if the husband, Ivan the Terrible, called up the airline and told them to do it,” Marge said. “Besides, he’s already suing the airline.”

Decker said, “This should be easy to settle once we have the work order. Oliver, did any one of Roseanne’s friends call you back?”

Oliver took a small notebook from his pants pocket. “Two: David Rottiger and Arielle Toombs.”

“Two out of eight?”

“Not a terrible batting average considering that all the names on the list work for WestAir, and the airline’s official policy is that anything to do with flight 1324 goes through the flight task force.”

Marge said, “After having visited the corporate offices, it was probably pretty brave of these two to call back. If management finds out they talked to us, it could be bad for them.”

“So set up interviews before they change their minds,” Decker said.

Oliver said, “I’ve already made an appointment with Rottiger. He lives in West Hollywood, and since I’m going into the city tonight, I asked if I could stop by around six. He agreed, but he sounded cautious.”

“And what about Toombs? Where does she live?”

“Studio City.”

“Do you have time to talk to Arielle Toombs tonight?” Decker asked Marge.

“If I do some rearranging. I was going to meet Vega at six.”

“The girl’s actually going out on a date—”

“Scott, you’re not being nice.” Marge looked at Decker for support. “A guy asked her to a party tonight. She wanted to meet me before the party, but I could meet her afterward.”

“No way, this is a big deal in Vega’s life and you’ve got to be there.”

“Thanks, Pete. I really appreciate that.”

It was four in the afternoon. If Decker could set up something with Toombs in the early evening, then he’d take the family out for dinner at Golan. His mouth watered as he thought of shwarma and baba ghanoush with warm pita bread. Even if he couldn’t set something up with Toombs, dinner at the restaurant still sounded good. “Give me Toombs’s phone number and I’ll make an appointment with her.”

Oliver gave him a set of digits. He looked uncomfortable and Decker asked what was wrong.

“I don’t know …” A forced exhalation. “Just where are we going with this Dresden thing? Do you really think that her husband heard about the crash and magically decided to bump her off and use the flight as an alibi?”

“Maybe they had a fight or something,” Marge suggested. “They didn’t get along, according to Roseanne’s parents.”

“Yes, exactly,” Oliver said. “According to Roseanne’s parents. And we’re going along with their craziness because they’re grieving and in denial?”

Decker said, “I’m still reserving judgment, Scotty. Find out as much information as you can about Roseanne Dresden and the official WestAir policy about putting flight attendants on planes without tickets. Marge, you call up the Times and see if you can’t find their original list. Then see if it matches the one given to you by Henson the Hacker. And if it does, who at the Times added Roseanne’s name to the victims list or was it called in by WestAir. And if it was WestAir, who specifically called it in.”

“No problem, but I doubt L.A. Times will have anyone there at four in the afternoon.”

“Then leave your number and do a follow-up call tomorrow. Plus, I want both of you to go back to WestAir to find the work order.”

“All the airline is going to do is give us forms to fill out.”

“So fill them out and press for more.”

“It might hold more weight if you were there with us, Decker,” Oliver said.

“My shield’s the same color as yours.”

“But your title’s higher.”

“That’s true. Which is why at this stage of my career, I don’t do bureaucracies other than LAPD.”

THE STREET WAS located behind a major supermarket, the address corresponding to a set of bungalows that shared a common lot, the only distinguishing feature between the four structures being the A, B, C, or D tacked onto the address. The outside area was a wee brick square patio hosting a faded teak table and chairs and surrounded by assorted ceramic pots filled with leafy plants and flowers dripping with blooms.

A man in jeans, a gray T-shirt, and flip-flops held a steel watering can, bending low as rivulets poured out the spout and rained down on bright red begonias in a terra-cotta container. He was medium height, and just a smidge short of stocky. His hair was deep red and his complexion was a map of freckles. His demeanor suggested that he was unbothered by Oliver’s presence.

“Excuse me,” Oliver said. “I’m looking for David Rottiger.”

The man continued to water his plants. “I’m David.” He finally looked up with eyes round and brown. “Is it Detective Oliver or Detective Scott?”

“It’s Scott Oliver. Either one is okay. And thanks for agreeing to talk to me.”

“I’ll probably get fired in the process.”

“I certainly hope not.”

“I don’t even care anymore. You can’t imagine how tense the atmosphere has been since it happened.”

“I’m sure it’s been very unpleasant.”

“Unpleasant doesn’t cover the range of emotions that you feel when your friends die and you know in your heart of hearts it could have been you.” His lip trembled. “Where are my manners? Can I get you some water or a cup of coffee? Something stronger?”

“Whatever you’re drinking, Mr. Rottiger, sounds fine to me.”

“I have a wonderful Syrah that I opened last night. Have a seat, then. I’ll be right back.”

“Take your time. It’s beautiful out here.”

“Isn’t it, though? My one refuge is gardening, but it’s a good one.” A few minutes later he came back carrying two red-wine glasses filled almost to the brim. He handed one to Scott and the two men drank in silence.

Oliver said, “Excellent texture. Very smooth. Do you mind if we talk some inside, where it’s little more private?”

“It’s fine with me, but you know that I’m not allowed to talk about flight 1324. We’ve been instructed to refer all questions to the task force or to WestAir’s lawyers. So anything about the flight is off-limits.”

“I understand,” Oliver answered. “Actually, I’d like to talk to you about Roseanne Dresden.” He stood up. “Which unit is yours?”

“C as in crash.” He gave off a weak smile. “Morbid humor. It helps to get you through the day.”

“I’ve used it many times myself.”

Rottiger opened the unlocked front door. The place couldn’t have been more than six hundred square feet, but it was done up to perfection: high ceilings with crossbeams, gleaming bamboo floors, and lots of light. The walls were painted pale green and were hung with Japanese scrolls and minimalist pen-and-ink abstracts. Since the unit had only one bedroom and one bath, the double-wide couch made for comfortable sleeping quarters for guests, Rottiger explained. A black granite counter separated the living room from the kitchen. It was a stark surface except for an obsidian vase of bloodred roses. One of the kitchen cabinets was open, exposing a thirty-inch plasma TV. Oliver was impressed … especially with the TV.

“Is that HD?”

“But of course. When I watch baseball, I can see the players spit chaw in 3-D.” Rottiger pulled out a bar stool from under the counter and sat down. “So what can I do for you?”

“I’m sure this is going to sound a little funny, but Roseanne’s parents have contacted us. They don’t believe that she was actually on flight 1324.”

Rottiger stared out the window while sipping wine.

Oliver said, “What do you think about that?”

“I think it’s hard for them to accept some things.”

“So you think Roseanne was on the flight?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“On a small plane like flight 1324, are there enough jump seats for working flight attendants plus an extra like Roseanne?” Oliver asked.

“I’m sorry, Detective, but these are technical questions. You really should be discussing these issues with the WestAir lawyers or the task force. I can’t discuss policy with you.”

“WestAir doesn’t seem to want to talk to us.”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t talk to the police. If it gets back to management, I’ll lose my job.” He took a long sip of wine. “The only reason I’m talking to you at all is curiosity. Why is a homicide detective interested in Roseanne? Surely you don’t believe Mrs. Lodestone’s story, do you?”

“I understand you were very good friends with Roseanne. What was she like?”

“Are you profiling Roseanne?”

“In a way. Tell me about her.”

“Have you ever seen a picture of her?”

Oliver shook his head no. Rottiger held up a finger and came back a few minutes later with a photograph of eight WestAir flight attendants. He pointed to a tall willowy blonde in the middle. “That’s her.”

Oliver whistled. “Beautiful woman.”

“Yes, she was. It’s amazing that she was so naive about men.”

“How so?”

“She grew up in a small town up north, with Bible parents in a Bible community.”

“She was religious?”

“No, she gave all that up. But she still carried that farm-girl innocence. Her faith in her husband defied credulity. It took her catching him in the act for it to finally sink in what a shit he was. Even then, she agreed to therapy and mediation.”

“How was that working out?”

“Not well.” He turned to Oliver. “You don’t think she was on flight 1324, do you? You think that bastard did her in and blamed it on the flight.”

Oliver scratched his cheek. “Right now I’m just getting information, sir. And when you’re doing that, you’ve got to keep an open mind. What do you think?”

“Put it this way. The condo they were living in was in her name. So was the bank account, the car, the furniture, and just about everything of value that they owned. After catching him red-handed, Roseanne started talking about divorce. Poor little Ivan. Now how was he going to pay his lap dancers if he had to make rent and car payments, too?”

“Lap dancers?”

“Ever heard of Leather and Lace?”

Oliver faked naïveté.

“It’s a ‘gentleman’s’ club.” Rottiger made quotes with his fingers. “I have a good friend who works there as an exotic dancer.” When the man saw Oliver’s facial expression, he said, “It’s not like you think. She’s only doing it for the money.”

“That’s usually why girls lap dance,” Oliver said. “Anyway, what about her?”

“She met Rosie and Ivan at one of my famous patio parties.” A look of disgust washed over his face. “When Roseanne wasn’t looking, Ivan came on to her.”

“Does your lap-dancer friend have a name?”

“She does but I’m not comfortable giving it to you, right now. Especially after what happened with Ivan. I work very hard at putting my parties together. I don’t need idiots like Ivan making my friends feel uncomfortable. But there’s a punch line to this.”

“Go on.”

“Two weeks later Ivan shows up at Leather and Lace, stuffing twenties into my friend’s thong.”

“And did the relationship between the two of them … uh, improve?”

“That isn’t the point!” Rottiger bristled. “The point is he was spending lots of money on his bad habits. Roseanne’s money, no doubt. She finally had enough!”

“So Roseanne was contemplating divorce.”

“Yes. Finally.”

“And where was Roseanne living while she thought about divorce?”

“In her condo.”

“And Ivan? Where was he living?”

“They were still living together, but I think she was about to kick him out. She told me if anyone was going to temporarily move out, it was going to be him.”

“Because the condo was in her name.”

“Exactly.”

“Didn’t her husband have a job?”

“Some kind of low-level job in finance. I know they were living off Roseanne’s money as a flight attendant because Rosie complained about it.”

Oliver thought that it would be helpful to get into Roseanne’s bank accounts to see whose signatures were on the household expense checks. Maybe Ivan was skimming money from his wife’s bank account and that was the last straw. So far, the only thing working against Ivan the Terrible was bad behavior. And if that was a crime, Oliver was in deep, deep shit.

Rottiger said, “You know that the bastard is going to get a lot of insurance money now that Rosie’s dead. She had a life insurance policy from the company, and on top of that, I’m sure he’ll get a settlement from the airline. She was worth a lot more to him dead than alive.”

Oliver said, “I know that, but I can’t arrest Ivan for getting a windfall from his dead wife. What I need to know as a homicide detective is simply this: Was Roseanne Dresden on that plane or not?”

“I don’t know,” Rottiger said, “and that’s the truth.”

Oliver checked his watch. He had just enough time to clean up and make it to the restaurant. He set his wineglass down on the sleek bar and then handed his card to Rottiger. “You’ve been very helpful.”

“If you say so.”

“I know you can’t talk policy, but it’s my understanding that a flight attendant can hop an airline without a ticket if she’s on her way to work.”

“That’s certainly true.”

“We know that Roseanne wasn’t a flight attendant on 1324. We were told that she was on her way to San Jose to work. If you happen to stumble across anything that would definitely put Roseanne Dresden on flight 1324 or any paperwork that assigned her to work in San Jose, I’d love to know about it.”

Rottiger stuck the card in his jeans pocket. “I don’t see how that would happen. I try to mind my own business and do my job.”

“Same with me, Mr. Rottiger, but some people don’t want me to do my job. For instance, take your airline. My partner, Detective Dunn, and I asked WestAir about assignment sheets. We didn’t get anywhere and there was no one in the task force who could help us. We were told to fill out papers and just wait. Now, how am I to close a case if I’m being shined on like that?”

“It doesn’t surprise me. But you have to understand that WestAir is in a chaos right now.”

“Let me ask you one more thing.”

“Sure.”

“Is it possible for Roseanne to suddenly hitchhike on a plane without a job assignment and without a ticket?”

“It’s not procedure, but … if she made a sudden decision to escape from the bastard, and she had a good friend working the flight, maybe someone would bend a rule, let her hitch a ride, and clear it up later.”

Oliver nodded. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Rottiger. If I have any more questions, can I feel free to call you again?”

“Absolutely, as long as you’re discreet. WestAir can’t find out about our chat.”

“No reason they should know.”

A tear fell down Rottiger’s cheek. “She was a wonderful woman and a good friend, Detective. All of them who worked flight 1324 were wonderful. We were like a family. I am happy to help in any way I can as long as my job’s not jeopardized.”

Oliver cleared his throat. “In that case, I do have one more favor.” He pored through his notes. “Uh … could I have the phone number of your lap-dancer friend. I’d like to talk to her about Ivan Dresden. Maybe she didn’t like him initially, but money makes strange dancing partners.”

Rottiger dug out Oliver’s business card. “I have your number, Detective, and I’ll give it to my friend. If she’s interested in talking to you, she’ll know where to find you.”

Oliver wasn’t perturbed by his refusal to give out the lap dancer’s phone number. If need be, he could always visit Leather and Lace, flash his badge, and ask for Ivan’s friend. And the dive would cooperate because Oliver was a detective and that held sway. Besides, though he wasn’t a regular, he wasn’t unfamiliar with the establishment.


7 (#u4ed9c3e9-232c-5df1-b5ae-30f1b3495387)






MARGE’S EAR WAS hot and sore from being pressed against the receiver for so long. On top of that, she’d made the mistake of wearing the new pearl studs that Will Barnes had given her, making phone work extremely uncomfortable. But they were so pretty and she was so thrilled with the gift that she couldn’t help herself. The voice on the other end of the line was giving her a hard time.

“Yes, I know that Roseanne Dresden’s name is on the victims list,” Marge explained. “I’m asking you if she had always been on the list or was her name added later because I know that lists are revised when more information is given … no, don’t put me on hold … Shit!” She slammed down the phone.

Decker happened to be passing by her desk. “Everything all right?”

“I hate being sent into the electronic void.” She checked her watch. “I’m on lunch hour. I think I’ll pay our illustrious paper a visit.”

“How’s your afternoon?”

“Not bad.”

“In that case, since you’ll be in the area, pay a visit to North Mission Road. It’s been a while since we’ve talked to the recovery team. Find out how many bodies on the list they’ve recovered and/or identified. Also, while you’re there you can ask them if they’ve recovered any artifacts that might have belonged to Roseanne Dresden.”

Marge had been taking notes. After he stopped talking, she stowed her pad in her purse. “Not a problem. What about you?”

“I’ve got an appointment with Arielle Toombs, the only person other than Rottiger that returned Oliver’s call. She didn’t sound thrilled, but I got her to commit to a time. Nice earrings, by the way.”

Marge’s smile was wider than her neck. “Will got them for me.”

“Will’s a nice guy.”

Marge picked up her bag and studied her boss and her friend. “You look tired, Pete.”

“All of a sudden we’ve got another epidemic of burglary reports, mainly from people who had to evacuate their homes when flight 1324 went down.”

“Yeah, Paul Deloren was talking to me about that. How many of those calls do you think are legit?”

“Not all of them, that’s for certain. We’re going through them one by one along with the insurance investigators.”

“I know we’ve had a surge of DUIs this past week.”

“That and drunk-and-disorderlies, discharging a weapon in a public place, and about twice as many assaults as normal. Bar fights, but domestic violence, too. And higher-than-normal sudden heart attacks.”

“The aftermath,” Marge said. “You, me, and everyone else are going crazy. At least this time, there’s a reason.”

THE CITY’S LARGEST and oldest newspaper had set up its headquarters in downtown L.A. over 125 years ago when the area had breathed the air of youth, with its bustling streets, its posh department stores, and the famous Angel’s flight cable car. In its fourth reincarnation, the paper had settled into its current headquarters at Spring and First streets. The structure was a paean to American Art Deco and the WPA artists who fashioned the building, with its bronze bas-relief, friezes, carving, and adornments.

Once inside, Marge stood in a rotunda, the centerpiece being a rotating globe banded by the signs of the zodiac done in bronze relief. To her right was a brief history of the paper; the left side was manned by a uniformed guard; and straight ahead, through alarmed turnstiles, was a bank of elevators. She had several names and numbers from her phones calls this morning and gave them to the guard, who rang up a couple of extensions. He announced that Mr. Delgado would be with her shortly.

Twenty-six toe-tapping minutes later—after reading a self-aggrandizing history of the paper—Marge saw a stocky man lumber through the turnstiles. He had jet black hair combed straight back, Dracula style, and dark brows gave a roof over startling pale blue eyes. His skin was tan but without wrinkles, so Marge put his age in the late twenties to early thirties. He wore a white shirt, black slacks, and penny loafers. His blue-and-graystriped tie was loosened at the neckline.

“Mr. Delgado?” Marge asked.

“Rusty is fine.” He stuck out his hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name.”

“Marge Dunn.” She shook his hand. “Thank you very much for seeing me on no notice.”

“No problem. And this is about …”

“It’s complicated,” Marge told him. “Is there somewhere we can go that’s more private?”

“Uh, sure …” Delgado’s voice edged toward the higher side of the male range. He led her into the heart of the paper. If Marge had expected an area overrun with cubs and stringers and editors barking out commands, she was sorely disappointed. The floor was filled with open cubicles and was as quiet as a library. Placards hung from the ceiling—health, real estate, calendar, metro, home: section headings of the Times.

She tailed him down a foyer where featured photographs and prizewinning articles hung on a wall, passing a display case filled with vintage news cameras, and into a second area of open cubicles. A skeleton wearing a hula skirt and a coconut-shell bra was displayed on a pole.

“Obits,” Delgado announced.

“The place is empty.” Marge smiled. “People must be dying to get out.”

Delgado smiled back. “How can I help you?”

Marge launched into her prepared spiel, a dodge to keep the young man from asking too many questions. “I work for Ace Insurance Company, which subcontracts for other more recognizable insurance companies. I’ve been assigned to find out about the original victims list from WestAir flight 1324 that was given to your paper for publication by WestAir itself, and compare it to the final list of flight 1324 victims. Originally, Tricia Woodard did the articles on the crash. I thought she might be able to help me.”

“Tricia is out of town.” Delgado looked baffled. “Isn’t there only one list?”

Marge’s smile was gentle. “That’s what I’m trying to ascertain. I was told that the list was updated several times during the first couple of days after the crash, and that additional people were added.”

“Excuse my ignorance, but who would be added on? Isn’t there a flight list of everyone on the airplane?”

“Only those who have purchased tickets. That wouldn’t include infants and toddlers—”

“Ah, yes, of course. And you’re investigating the names because …”

“It’s routine after every crash.” Marge didn’t know if that was true, but she suspected it was. “Before insurance pays, it wants to make sure that those who were listed as dead actually died. Sometimes, especially with small infants, well, I hate to be graphic. Let’s just say it’s impossible to make identification on the bodies … or even to find the bodies can be tricky. Even with adults. Sometimes, people commit fraud.”

Delgado’s curiosity was definitely piqued. He was smelling a story. “How so?”

“Well, let’s put it this way. Someone calls up and says Ms. So-and-So also had an infant daughter who perished in the crash. Ninety-ninepoint-nine percent of the time, that’s what happened. Every once in a blue moon, you get a real psycho who made up Ms. So-and-So’s daughter to collect more insurance, or the infant actually does exist, but she was mercifully tucked away with grandparents and not on the plane. We’ve got to check things like that out.”

“People actually claim that children are dead when they’re not?”

“Mr. Delgado, when it comes to insurance payment, we’ve seen everything.”

“I’m sure you have.”

“So you have the list given to you by WestAir?”

“Sure, and I could get that for you right now. But in the future, all you have to do is pull it out of the paper’s archives.”

“See, that’s the rub. I’m not looking for the first list that the paper printed. I’m looking for the first list that was called in to you from WestAir. Just to see if there are any discrepancies.”

“So why can’t you get this information from WestAir?”

“I did,” Marge lied. “But Ace Insurance has asked me to go directly to the paper and compare it to the WestAir list.” She let go with a wide smile and a wink. “You’re a newspaper person, you know how important it is to check your facts.”

Delgado nodded. “If anyone had a list, it would have been Tricia, but she’s on vacation.”

“Dang. And there’s no one else who might have had that list?”

Delgado thought a moment. “Let me see what I can do. Would you mind waiting here for a few minutes?”

“No problem. Thank you very much, Mr. Delgado. You’ve been an enormous help. It sure beats talking to voice mail.”

“I’m glad, although I haven’t done anything.” Delgado smiled. “Wait right here. As I said, it may take me a few minutes.”

After he left, Marge thought about Delgado, who wasn’t much older than Vega. Her daughter seemed to be making unexpected headway in the social-arts department. After her first successful party experience, Vega was once again asked out by Josh, from her particle-physics course. This time it was dinner. After the requisite panic attack, she calmed down enough to accept the invitation and call Marge for more advice. When Marge suggested talking about a recent book, Vega went out and bought the top-ten books on the New York Times hardcover nonfiction list and polished them off in three nights.

The minutes stretched on.

Marge checked her BlackBerry. Will Barnes had called, text messaging that he was coming down to Santa Barbara for an interview. Did she want to come up? A weekend in the resort city sounded nice, and she was thinking about walks on the beach and a terrific halibut dinner when Delgado came back, holding pieces of paper in his hands. Marge stood up, but Delgado didn’t hand her the sheets right away.

“The first list actually printed by the paper wasn’t hard to find. That’s this one.” He gave it to Marge, then rattled another piece of paper in front of her eyes. “As far as I can tell—and I’m not positive about this—but I believe this is the original list given to us by WestAir, and just as you said, it has fewer names than the list the newspaper printed.”

“See? I actually was sent here for a purpose.” She held out her hand.

“Uh, I should have asked you this in the beginning. Could I see some ID, please?”

“Sure.” Marge rifled through her purse and debated showing Delgado her police identification. Sometimes, when she showed it quickly, people barely read it. This wasn’t one of those cases. Delgado wanted to verify who she was. She said, “You know, I don’t have my business cards with me. I can show you my driver’s license.” She presented it to him. “Don’t read my birth date. It’s not polite.”

He smiled, but studied the license. “You are indeed Marge Dunn, but you could be anyone.”

The only way she was going to slip out of this unscathed was if he smelled a big scoop slipping away. “You know, maybe I should wait for Tricia Woodard and go through proper channels. We both want to be careful, right?”

Delgado frowned. “What are you really after, Ms. Dunn?”

“Why don’t you let me look at the list and I’ll tell you.”

The young man made a calculated decision. He handed her the slip of paper. Rusty was nothing if not efficient. At the bottom of the first list were three names that had been added to the printed list. The first two were Campbell Dennison and Zoey Benton. Marge’s eyes scanned the list and found ticketed passengers to match: Scott and Lisa Dennison and Marlene Benton. These poor souls were children under the age of two. She’d verify them later.

The last name on Delgado’s added list was Roseanne Dresden.

Marge pointed to the first two names. “It looks like these two were the children of ticketed passengers. This last one—Roseanne Dresden—she was a flight attendant who worked for WestAir. But she wasn’t working the flight; she was on her way to San Jose. Any idea why she wasn’t on the first list?”

“None whatsoever. What do you think?”

“Spoken like a true newspaper person. Any idea who called her name in as an official victim?”

“Probably WestAir.”

“Probably, or do you know that for sure?”

“No, I don’t know that for sure. I didn’t have anything to do with compiling the list. That was Tricia’s job. I’m just showing it to you, and I probably shouldn’t be doing that because you suspect something is amiss. Want to tell me about it?”

“I don’t think anything’s wrong. I was sent to verify who called Roseanne Dresden in as a victim and who added her to the official list. It was probably WestAir, but we need to verify that, just to make sure it wasn’t called in by a third party who wanted to scam insurance.”

“Then the woman would be alive,” Delgado said.

“Alive and scamming or she could be dead by some other means. It could have been called in by someone who had something to gain if Roseanne had died.”

Delgado was definitely interested now.

Marge said, “Let me ask you something theoretically. What if it wasn’t WestAir who called in her death? What if it was a third party? You wouldn’t automatically add Roseanne’s name to the list, would you?”

“No. Tricia would have fact-checked the call with the desk editor and with WestAir. What are you thinking? That Roseanne might have faked her own death or that she was murdered?”

“I’m not thinking anything, I’m just verifying.” Marge placed a hand on his shoulder. “Could you do me a favor, Mr. Delgado? Could you find out the name of the person at WestAir who called in Roseanne’s name as one of the official dead? And if it was a third party, who fact-checked her name with WestAir? If you keep me in the loop, I’ll keep you in the loop.”

Delgado ran his fingers through his hair. “I wouldn’t want Tricia to get into trouble because of this.”

“I can appreciate that, sir, but you wouldn’t want your paper looking like a bunch of boobs. And you certainly wouldn’t want Roseanne or anyone getting away with fraud. I don’t think we have to get Tricia involved. All I want is verification that it was WestAir and not a greedy relative who phoned in Roseanne as a victim.”

“I take it Roseanne Dresden’s body hasn’t been identified. Otherwise why would you be bothering with this?”

The guy was sharp. Marge said, “The recovery efforts are still ongoing, but no, she hasn’t been officially ID’d. How about if we both keep that fact a secret? The fewer people who know what I’m doing, the better off we are.”

Finally, Delgado nodded. “Give me a day to poke around and dig through some phone slips, okay?”

“Great.” Marge wrote down her cell number. “Whatever you find out, I’d like to hear about it. For someone to commit fraud and profit from a death is not only pathetic, it’s immoral.”

“I agree, but just look at 9/11.”

“Of course,” Marge said. “You know, your paper should write a story about that. You know how vultures swoop within minutes of tragedy to find a profitable angle for themselves.”

Delgado considered the idea and found it a good one. He spoke quietly and with a conspiratorial air. “If your investigation turns out to be fraud, I’ll run the whole thing past the desk editor. I’m sure with the right pitch, I can parlay this into some kind of a feature story.”


8 (#u4ed9c3e9-232c-5df1-b5ae-30f1b3495387)






STUDIO CITY HAD gotten its moniker from its proximity to the major movie corporations and broadcasting systems. It was ten minutes away from Universal, a quick trip across the canyon from Paramount, CBS, and all of old Hollywood, and a speedy fifteen-minute freeway drive from NBC in Burbank. The Greenwich Village of the Valley, it was a section of boutiques, florists, clubs, and coffeehouses, and most important, it had a big bowling alley where the beautiful and young Hollywood elite were often seen spending a recreational night out, just being plain folk.

Arielle Toombs lived in a wood-sided complex that was shaded in the hot, hot summers by dozens of lacy elms and giant sycamores. Each apartment had its own private balcony, but the pools, gym, and the recreation room were communal—enjoyed by anyone with a rent check that didn’t bounce.

Morning fog had given way to a tent of blue above, and as Decker climbed the stairs to Arielle’s third-floor apartment, he was already planning his weekend. Cindy and Koby were coming in for a wayoverdue Friday-night dinner, Saturday would be synagogue and study group in the afternoon, but Sunday would be his to plan, time unscheduled and unfettered by obligations. If Hannah had arranged something with her friends, a very frequent occurrence since she reached her teens, maybe he and Rina would take a spin out to Oxnard, to the kosher winery and restaurant. It had become one of their favorite places.

Decker’s knock was answered by a woman in her thirties: brunette, tall, and lithe. Her eyes were deep green and set off by her clothes—jade-colored, cotton capri pants, and an orange T-shirt. Her hair was pinned back into a ponytail and her feet were housed in flip-flops. “Are you Lieutenant Decker?”

“Yes, I am.” He showed her ID to back up his claim.

She smiled and said, “I suppose I should have asked who it was before I answered the door. But like they say, no harm, no foul. Come in. Would you like something to drink?”

“Water would be great.”

“Still or sparkling?”

Only in L.A. “Either would be fine,” Decker said.

“Not a problem. Take a seat anywhere. Please excuse the mess.”

The mess consisted of newspapers lying on a mattress-style black sofa. It was low-slung and tufted with buttons, but surprisingly comfortable. Arielle’s living space was open and she had kept the furnishings sparse. Besides the sofa, the area had two side chairs, and a coffee table made out of acrylic. When she came back, she was carrying two glasses of sparkling water. She handed one to Decker, took a sip from her glass, and then sat down. “I don’t know how I can help you. It’s company policy to direct all questions about 1324 to their official task force.”

“I know that. And you should know, though, that the company can’t take away your freedom of speech.”

“It isn’t that,” Arielle said. “It’s just that in a crisis like this, so much misinformation is circulated. WestAir is just trying to keep it to a minimum.” She flipped her ponytail over her shoulder. “The guy over the phone, I forgot his name.”

“Detective Oliver.”

“Yeah, him. He mentioned Roseanne Dresden. That he had a couple of questions about her?”

“Actually, yes. I’d like to talk to you about Roseanne.”

Tears instantly pooled in her eyes. She put down her water and wiped her eyes. “Sure.”

“You knew her well?”

“Since eighth grade.”

“That’s a long time.”

“Yes, it’s a very long time.”

“You’re from Fresno?”

“Born and bred.”

“What brought you down to L.A.?”

“A boyfriend.”

“Did you come before or after Roseanne?”

“Before, I think, but I’m not sure. We weren’t close in high school. We ran in totally different circles. If you would have told me we would have winded up close friends, I would have said you were nuts.”

“Why’s that?”

“She was one of the popular kids and I wasn’t. To tell you the truth, I didn’t like her much back then. I thought she was a snob. We became close when we both started working for WestAir. The crash was horrible on so many different levels, but I can’t tell you how devastated I was when I found out about her. I was shocked that she had been scheduled to work San Jose.”

“Really.” Decker took out his notepad. “Why’s that?”

“I would have thought that she had no use for … anyway. When I thought about it, I figured it made some sense. She was having a hard time at home and maybe she felt it would do some good to get away, and San Jose opened up.”

“I’ve heard she had a rocky marriage.”

“Her husband was cheating on her and wasn’t subtle about it. Still, there must be two sides to every story.”

“What would you say his side was?” Decker asked.

A deep sigh. “I loved Roseanne. I truly did. She was lively, funny, loyal, and would give you the shirt off her back. She had an open heart and time for everyone.”

“But …”

“But every once in a while …” Arielle shook her head. “What can I say? That eighth-grade side of her would materialize and she could be absolutely awful. She could cut a person down with a few well-placed words.”

“A person like her husband?”

Arielle looked at the ceiling. “Roseanne was usually such a sweetie, so if you’d never seen it, it would throw you off guard. But I remember this one specific time that my boyfriend and I were at a dinner party with them—Rosie and Ivan. She was really upset with him, and was zinging him all evening. Every once in a while, he’d try to zing her back, but he was clearly out of his league.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah. Exactly! Ivan probably had it coming, but it was still pretty ugly, especially since …” She waved her hand in the air. “Never mind.”

Decker said, “Now’s not the time to play coy, Ms. Toombs. I really need to know what was going on between them.”

Arielle paused. “Why?”

It should have been Decker’s turn to say never mind. Instead, he fed her a little white lie. “We’re investigating the crash for insurance fraud. There seems to have been some dispute as to whom she named as benefactor of her policy. If she and Ivan had been having long-standing problems, it might have some bearing on the claim and counterclaim.”

“Well, if Rosie would have known what was going to happen to her, I’m sure she wouldn’t have left the twit a dime. But I don’t know if she had gotten around to changing her insurance policy.”

“So what were you hesitant to tell me a few moments ago?”

“Oh, golly! It’s just that Roseanne wasn’t such an angel herself.”

“Ah …” Decker nodded.

“But it’s still Ivan’s fault. She didn’t start doing anything until he stepped out on her repeatedly.”

Decker said, “Was she seeing anyone specific?”

“I suppose I should lay all the cards on the table. About six months ago, Rosie broke off a long-standing affair that she was having with a married man. He was in his fifties. I don’t know how rich he was, but I do know he spent a lot on her. Every time we went up to San Jose for work, and we’d have to spend the night there, she’d come back the next day with something shiny on her finger or on her wrists or earlobes. One time he bought her a diamond watch—a Chopard. That’s a very expensive brand.”

“Yes, it is. So maybe that’s why she was planning to work from San Jose.”

“If this had happened six months ago, I would have said of course, that’s the reason.” Arielle took a long gulp of her water. “But she broke it off and was resolved never to see him again. Mr. Married Man began having ideas about the two of them running off into the sunset, and while he was good for a trinket or two, she definitely didn’t want him around permanently. When she broke off the affair, Rosie told me that he was very upset with her. The whole thing ended badly. That’s why I found it so odd that she was on the plane, planning to work in San Jose.”

“Maybe they reconciled.”

“I … honestly don’t think so. She was trying to reconcile with Ivan. They were in counseling together, although it wasn’t working, according to her.”

“I’d like to talk to her ex-lover. I’ll need his name.”

“I can give it to you, but what relevance would it have to her insurance policy?”

“We’re just checking out all kinds of avenues,” Decker said. “Maybe if she was going to marry this guy, she would have changed her policy.”

“No, you’re on the wrong track. She had no intent of marrying Ray. Raymond Holmes. He’s five ten, two-seventy, and like I said, in his fifties. He was a builder. I found him as dull as dry toast. Roseanne would never marry him.”

“Why not? He could certainly give her the security that Ivan wasn’t giving her.”

“Roseanne never cared about security. Her father has money and she was earning a good living. Roseanne was interested in a shoulder to cry on and Ray was perfect for that … although I’m sure the jewelry didn’t hurt.”

“Tell me something, Ms. Toombs. How did Roseanne … with all her attributes … hook up with a loser like Ivan Dresden?”

“Have you ever met Ivan?”

Decker shook his head.

“He’s really good-looking. It’s his best asset. It’s his only asset. If he would have just been a slacker, and a spendthrift, I think Roseanne would have tolerated him because he’s great arm candy. It was the affairs. They made her look small. Even though she had her own fling, her heart wasn’t into it. She was planning on leaving him, but like I told you before, I don’t know if she got around to changing her insurance policy.”

If there was ever a convenient time for Ivan to whack her, it would have been then. Yet now that Decker had found out about Roseanne’s lover, her being on the flight to San Jose made a lot more sense, despite Arielle’s insistence that the relationship was over. Decker said, “I’ll take Raymond Holmes’s phone number and address now.”

“I’ll give you what I have, but it may not be current.”

“That’s not a problem. I’m sure he’s listed, at least professionally.”

“Yeah, according to Roseanne, he owns a successful contracting company.”

“According to Roseanne,” Decker repeated.

“I believe her. Roseanne was a lot of things, but she wasn’t a liar.”

“She was cheating on her husband. Isn’t that lying?”

Arielle thought about that. “More like lies of omission rather than lies of commission. I don’t know if she ever told Ivan about the affair. And I doubt that Ivan cared enough to ever ask.”

DECKER’S CELL PHONE displayed a new message: Marge, and there was urgency in her voice. He called her back immediately and she picked up on the third ring.

“Where are you?” Decker asked.

“On my way back to the station house from the Crypt. We can put the brakes on the Dresden mystery. A female body just showed up on a slab from recovery.”

“Roseanne?”

“Nothing definitive, but who else would it be? Roseanne was the only female in the crash unaccounted for. The body is badly burned and badly decayed. The skeleton is extremely fragile. It took them almost four hours to transport it to the Crypt.”

“Do they have the jaw for dental records?”

“They have the entire skeleton, Pete. The problem is that it’s going to take a while to X-ray the teeth. Every time they touch something, a piece crumbles. Except for one area that was relatively unscathed.”

“Which area is that?”

“Back spine.”

“And the pathologist is pretty sure it’s her.”

There was a pause. “You don’t want to let go of this, do you?”

“I guess I just don’t like spinning my wheels. My fault. I made the assignments before recovery was done. I’m sure she’ll be identified and that will be that. I’ll call up the Lodestones and let them know the news.”

Marge said, “Even if the dentals aren’t perfect, we caught another break. We found some intact fabric and there was discernible writing on it … like a message T-shirt. Pink. We can go back and check if Roseanne owned a T-shirt like that one, maybe there’s even a photograph with her in it.”

“Great.” Still, Decker felt oddly disappointed. Some aspect of him had bought into the Lodestones’ fantasy idea that Roseanne hadn’t been on the plane. “Well, we’ll get some kind of identity soon enough, so it certainly doesn’t pay to put any more time into the case.”

“I wish I would have known about it earlier in the day. Save me a trip to the paper bullshitting with a reporter and pretending I was an insurance agent … although I must say I pulled it off nicely.”

“I used an insurance dodge, too.”

“Great minds think alike.”

“Call up Oliver and tell him to put the case in storage until further notice. I’ll meet you back at the station house and we’ll see what other mayhem the residents of the West Valley have cooked up for us.”


9 (#u4ed9c3e9-232c-5df1-b5ae-30f1b3495387)






AT THE SOUND of the tentative knock, Decker lifted his head from his paperwork. It was Marissa Kornblatt, the squad room secretary, and her expression was as reluctant as her entrance. “So sorry, Lieutenant. I tried the intercom but your phone’s not working.”

“I unplugged it. Otherwise, I can’t get anything done. What’s going on?”

She handed him a thick pile of pink message slips. “These were last hour’s calls, but that’s not the issue. Farley Lodestone is on line three, and in typical fashion, he won’t take no for an answer.”

It was the seventh time the bereaved stepfather had called in two weeks. It was getting to be a morning ritual. He wasn’t taking the recent news well.

Hello, Farley—they were on first-name basis now.

No, they haven’t positively ID’d the body yet, but they’re working on it. Yes, I’m so sorry it’s taking this long, but we all want to do the best possible job. The coroner and I will call you when we’ve got something definite to tell you.

Decker picked up the phone. “Hello, Farley. Pete Decker, here.”

“You must be sick of me calling.”

“Not at all. I just wish I had something to tell you. I haven’t heard from the coroner’s office yet, but it’s only eleven in the morning.”

“I just got off the phone with them, Decker. Not with the whole office. With Cesar Darwin. You ever talk to the man?”

“Several times. He’s a very competent doctor.”

“Good to hear, specially ’cause he talks with an accent.”

“He’s originally from Cuba. Is he the one doing the identification for the recovery?”

“He’s the one, and that’s why I’m calling you. When I talked to him, he sounded cagey.”

“Cagey?” Decker raked his fingers through his hair. “In what way, Farley?”

“Like he knew somethin’ and didn’t want to tell me. Call him up for me and find out what’s going on. If you call me back and tell me I’m bein’ paranoid, I’ll believe you. But I want you to be damn straight with me, Decker, if you also think that he sounds fishy.”

“Fishy?”

“I asked him if he got to Roseanne’s autopsy—a straight yes-or-no question. The problem is he didn’t give me a straight yes-or-no answer. What I got was doctor-talking, jumbled-up bird crap. I come to trust you, and I suppose that’s a compliment of sorts ’cause I don’t trust no one. So do me the favor, Decker. Call him up and see if your bullshit detector is as finely tuned as mine.”

THE CALL TO Dr. Darwin was quick, but the answer wasn’t at all to Decker’s liking.

“I think this might be better if we meet in person,” he answered.

Cesar Darwin had been in the country for twenty-five years, but his accent was still thick and he was hard to understand over the phone. Decker thought it was because Cesar had been holed up in the Crypt talking to corpses instead of seeing patients with beating hearts. He probably didn’t get a lot of auditory feedback.

A face-to-face meeting was probably a good idea.

“It’s complicated?” Decker asked him.

“Yes.”

“What time works for you?”

“I have another autopsy. How about two? I’ll be done and I’ll be hungry. I know a great Cuban place not too far from here. Unless you want to meet at the Crypt.”

Decker thought back to his prekosher, Floridian days. Cuban cuisine offered very little in the way of pure vegetarian entrées. Even the rice and beans were often mixed with lard. On the other hand, the Cubans made a great cup of strong coffee. Besides, anything was better than the stench of dead bodies. “Cuban sounds fine. Give me the address and we’ll meet you there.”

“We?”

“I’m bringing along Detectives Dunn and Oliver. I fear that I might need them.”

WHILE DECKER NURSED his coffee, Oliver, Dunn, and Darwin gorged on pastelitos—little puff pastries of ham, chicken, pork, and a Cuban specialty, pacadillos, a spicy ground beef. In addition to the savory tarts, there was a pot of pork adobo. Sides included fried black beans and fluffy white rice. The day was mild, which was convenient because the East L.A. storefront restaurant had no air-conditioning. The sidewalks were humming with activity, some of it legal, some of it otherwise, but it wasn’t Decker’s district and he wasn’t in the mood to look for trouble. Even though Decker couldn’t eat the food, he could smell it and the aromas had aroused his taste buds. Thank goodness he kept kosher. It helped keep his weight down.

There must have been considerable spice in the food because Marge was sweating even after taking off her sweater and rolling up the sleeves of her white blouse.

“Really good.” Oliver had shed his suit jacket and was now in the process of loosening his tie and rolling up his own long sleeves. “How’s the coffee, Loo?”

“Good. And I should know. I’ve had four cups.”

“Caffeinated?” Marge asked.

“According to my heart, yes.”

Darwin summoned a local girl of about fifteen. She had chocolate, curly hair and gang insignia tattoos inked across her arms, neck, and back—everything from snakes and tigers to butterflies. The artwork was intricately done, which meant a lot of needles and a fair amount of pain. She wore a denim miniskirt and a black wife-beater T. Her toenails were painted black and her feet were shod in flip-flops. Lazily, she got up from her chair and took out a pad. The doctor had explained to them that her father owned the place and this was her employment since she dropped out of school.

“Coffee, Dr. Cesar?”

“For the table, Marta.”

She turned to Decker. “I think you had enough coffee.”

“You’re right. I’ll take water.”

“You don’t like Cuban food?”

“I had an enormous breakfast,” he answered her in Spanish. “I’m just not hungry.”

Marta wrinkled her nose. “You talk the talk, but you don’t walk the walk. I bring you some dessert, okay?”

“What kind of dessert?”

“Does it matter?”

“I don’t eat anything baked with lard.”

She harrumphed and turned tail. A few minutes later she was back with the coffees and a plate of sizzling hot fritters. “Vegetable oil only.”

Decker smiled and picked up the fried concoction. It melted in his mouth. “Oh, man, this is good. But it requires coffee.”

“I’ll bring you decaf.”

The better part of an hour had passed, and it was time for the discussions to begin in earnest. Decker turned to Darwin. “I’m sure my fellow detectives are grateful for the meal, but that’s not why we’re here. What’s going on, Doc?”

“Ah, yes, the reason I called you down.” The doctor ate a fritter and blotted his lips on a paper napkin. “This is a very perplexing case, yes, and a most difficult autopsy. The skeleton has been thoroughly charred, everything reduced to bones and, unfortunately, ashes. We hope to make a definite identification through the teeth. We do have an intact skull, but it is very delicate. Since we don’t want to damage forensic evidence, we have been treating it quite gingerly. As a result, it has been hard to get the exact angle to match the dentition in the radiographs given to us by Roseanne’s dentist. The jaw is thicker in bone mass, so it is a bit sturdier and easier to position. But I must emphasize, what we are working with is very fragile.” Darwin stopped talking, taking a sip of his coffee. “I’ve had three forensic odontologists compare and contrast the pre-and postmortem radiographs. We all agree that the skull does not belong to Roseanne Dresden.”

The table fell silent. Oliver coped with the news by eating three fritters in a row.

Darwin said, “As you well know, the recovery team has accounted for all the missing females involved in the crash except Roseanne Dresden. So this unexplained female body poses a problem.”

“You’re sure it’s female?” Marge asked.

“The pelvic bones, by the angle and appearance, are almost certainly female,” the doctor answered. “But even if it was a small male or an adolescent boy, we’d still have a problem. Still unaccounted for from the crash are two male bodies: an old man in his seventies and another man in his forties. We do not have the pelvis of an old man or a man in his forties. It is most certainly a woman, and I would say probably a young woman. But an old young woman, meaning I think the body predated the crash. Once the mandible did not match up with Roseanne Dresden’s radiograph, we began to study the bones more carefully. On the top of the skull there is a well-formed depression.”

“Blunt-force trauma,” Decker said. “Homicide.”

“Probably that would be my ruling if the body was in better shape. Right now I’m going with inconclusive because of all the extenuating circumstances.”

“How long has the body been lying there?” Oliver was up to number five in the fritter department. Last one, he swore to himself.

“If it would have been discovered before the fire, I would have had a much better idea. Now it is almost impossible for me to say.”

Decker twirled the ends of his mustache. He did that in order to prevent his hands from taking more dessert. “Can you at least tell us a race?”

“Possibly Caucasian, possibly Hispanic.”

Oliver said, “Well, in L.A., that’ll narrow it down to a few gazillion people.”

“Was she inside the wreckage of the building or was she found in the ground under the building?” Decker inquired.

“You’ll have to ask recovery, but I think there is still quite a bit of foundation left from the building. I can’t imagine why anyone would dig under the foundation and discover a body.”

“If she was found in the wreckage and not under the foundation, her death can’t be any older than the building,” Decker surmised. “So let’s find out when the building went up. Then we’ll go through the missing persons from that time forward. I’d like to send the skull out to a forensic reconstructionist and put a face on the bones.”

“The bones are too delicate. They would break under the impression material needed to make a cast of the skull. Then you would lose any forensic evidence that the original skull might produce.”

“This is a nightmare,” Marge said. “We finally find a missing body, but it isn’t Roseanne. Instead of one possible homicide, we now have two.”

Inwardly, Decker groaned. He hated cold homicides and this one was in deep freeze. But his main concern was dealing with Farley Lodestone. “Is there anything you can do to help us pinpoint a time of murder?”

“From the skeleton, no. But I think we have tremendous good luck in one regard.”

“The clothing!” Marge said.

“Yes, the clothing.” Darwin ate the last fritter and called for the check. “A chunk remained remarkably intact. No label but it seems that Jane Doe was wearing a shirt with lettering on the back. It was preserved because she was buried faceup and the shirt material was synthetic and not as prone to decay. I have it enclosed in a protective plastic bag. We can go back to my office and examine it under a microscope.”

Marta, the tattooed teenager, handed the bill to Darwin, but her eyes were on Decker. “Dessert okay?”

“Delicious.”

“Next time you come here, Germando can fix you up real good. No problem if you’re a vegetarian. We can do somethin’ for you.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Yeah, we get all kinds of requests nowadays. No this, no that, no this, no that … man, even the cholos are picky. Everyone’s tryin’ to cut down on the fat.”

THE L.A. COUNTY Coroner’s Office was on North Mission Road in the once-notorious Ramparts district, northeast of downtown L.A. The police substation was now squeaky-clean, but though the mark of Cain was fading, it wasn’t entirely gone.

The morgue was two buildings separated by a walkway, offices to the right, the Crypt on the left. A perennial swarm of black flies welcomed the visitor at the front doors. After the detectives signed in and donned protective garb, including shoe covers and face masks, Darwin took them down to the Crypt, the smell in the elevator growing stronger with every inch of descent. No matter how many times Decker had dropped by, it was the stink that always got to him.

The corridor was quiet, the doors of the foyer leading to the glassed-in autopsy rooms and the refrigeration area used for the storage of the bodies. Because of the tremendous glut of corpses, there were cadavers on gurneys in the hallways, most wrapped in plastic sheeting, but others were more visible, skin gray and growing mold.

The pathologist’s office was off the main hallway, set up like a galley-style kitchen with cabinets above and below, and stainless-steel countertops that spilled over with instruments of the trade—microscopes of various intensities along with scales, calipers, scalpels, tweezers, and camera equipment. There were seven jars containing body parts that floated in unnamed scientific liquids, mostly digits being rehydrated for fingerprinting. Darwin’s desk was tucked into a corner and was piled high with papers. The office provided adequate space for one person, but was crowded for four adults.

The activity centered around a microscope, the doctor and the detectives taking turns as they tried to make out details on a sullied piece of cloth. The swatch was roughly a six-inch square, most of it mud-colored. With the aid of the lens, Decker could see individual threads that still carried some of the original pink dye. Darwin reduced the magnification in order to make out the lettering, the clearest section directly in the middle of the fabric. The paint was rapidly flaking off.

Decker peered into the eyepieces. “Takes a little getting used to.”

“Yes, it does,” Darwin agreed. “But you can make out words.”

“I can make out letters.”

“What letters?” Marge took out her notepad.

“V-e-s …” A pause. “It looks like v-e-s-t-o-n.”

Marge wrote it down. “What else?”

“Underneath the v-e-s-t-o-n is d-i-a-n. Underneath that is a-p-o-l and underneath that is …” He let out a short breath. “I think it’s p-e-k …” He peered at the area with intensity. “Everything else is smudgy.”

Darwin said, “Look before the p in the p-e-k. I think there is an o.”

“Yeah … yes, I see it. So it’s o-p-e-k.”

“Opek?” Oliver said. “The oil cartel?”

“That’s o-p-e-c,” Decker told him.

Darwin said, “Look in the upper-left corner. You can also see lettering.”

Decker shifted the protected fabric and found the section that the pathologist was referring to. “Yes, I see it. A-j-o-r.”

“Exactly.”

“Anything else I should be looking for?”

“That’s all I could tell you at this magnification,” Darwin told him. “Perhaps we can scan it into the computer and it can bring up more information.”

“Good idea.” Decker pulled away from the instrument and rolled his shoulders. “Anyone else want to take a look?”

“I’ll take a crack at it,” Oliver said. The group waited in silence as Oliver looked over the fabric. “Yeah … that’s all I can make out as well.” He lifted his eyes from the lens. “Not exactly much to go on. The letters are obviously part of bigger words.”

Marge said, “We have to take the cloth in context.”

“What context?” Oliver asked.

“Well, for starters, what was the shirt used for?” Marge examined the fabric. “Because of the printing on it, I’d say that the garment was originally a T-shirt, a sweatshirt, or a jacket.”

Decker added, “Since the material is synthetic, my vote is with a jacket. T’s and sweatshirts are usually cotton.”

“I agree,” the pathologist said.

Marge continued to peruse the cloth. “There’s a lot of lettering on a single patch, and usually jackets don’t have long messages on the back. And the way the partial words are stacked on top of one another …” She got up from her hunched position. “To me that suggests some kind of list.”

Oliver said, “So what kind of list would be on the back of a jacket?”

Decker’s brain fired up. “Margie, let me see your notes for a second.” After reading her pad, he hit the paper with the back of his hand. “It’s like doing a gridless crossword without any clues. Still, if you do enough crosswords, your mind fills in the blanks. V-e-s-t-o-n. If I say it instead of spell it, it helps. Veston. How about the city, Galveston. For o-p-e-k, how about Topeka. D-i-a-n could be lots of things, but if we’re in that part of the country, I’d say Indianapolis.”

“Maybe that’s the a-p-o-l,” Marge suggested.

Decker said, “In any case, I think we’re looking at a tour jacket.”

“Sweet,” Marge said. “Unfortunately, we don’t know whose tour jacket. But we know that it was once pink. I’m betting it’s a girl group, a group with a girl as its lead singer or a solo girl.”

“Madonna?” Darwin said. “She was really popular.”

“She’s been around for a long time,” Marge said. “I bet there’s some nut out there who’s an expert on Madonna’s tours.”

“You picture Madonna going to Galveston?” Oliver asked.

“What’s wrong with Galveston?” Marge countered.

“Nothing,” Oliver said. “I’m sure it’s a great city except in hurricane season. Superficially, it just doesn’t seem like her crowd.”

“A country star,” Decker said.

“With Topeka and Galveston, I’d say that’s a good guess.”

Decker said, “How old do you think the jacket is?”

Darwin shrugged and the small lab fell silent. So many unanswered questions.

Oliver bent over and looked into the eyepieces, adjusting the lens for stereoscopic vision. He shifted the cloth to the upper-left corner, reading the letters aloud. “A-j-o-r. These letters are bigger and not stacked. I don’t think this word is part of the list of cities. So the question is …” He looked up. “What are these letters and I’m saying … that maybe the letters indicate the band.”

“Ajor,” Marge said out loud. “Maybe major?”

“Shit!” Oliver hit his head. “Oh man! What about Priscilla and the Major?”

“Now there’s a blast from the past,” Decker said.

“Who?” Marge and Darwin asked simultaneously.

“They were a singing duo in the seventies. They played soft rock, if I had to categorize it, but they were very popular with the country circuit because he was a retired army major and very patriotic.”

“He played guitar, but she was the star,” Oliver said. “They were big in their time.”

“True,” Decker said, “although I don’t think I ever bought one of their albums.”

“Albums,” Marge said. “Now you’re really dating yourself.”

“They came in somewhere between acid rock and disco,” Oliver told her. “They were a nostalgic group even in those times.”

“You know a lot about them,” Marge told Oliver.

“My ex liked them,” Oliver said. “Me? I never bought any of their albums, either, but I remember Priscilla as being a fox. That’s old-speak for being a hottie.”


10 (#u4ed9c3e9-232c-5df1-b5ae-30f1b3495387)






LET ME THINK out loud for a moment.” Decker sat at his desk. Across from him were Marge and Oliver, awaiting further instructions. “Two cases: Jane Doe and Roseanne Dresden. Jane is a homicide … Roseanne?” He shrugged. “We’re reserving judgment on her. Recovery’s still digging, but it’s been a while. Someone has to talk to the husband.”

“And ask him what?” Oliver asked. “Did you kill your wife?”

Decker answered, “The fact is we don’t know if she’s even dead. We do suspect that the Dresden marriage was in trouble. David Rottiger and Arielle Toombs said that the couple was headed for divorce. Plus, Arielle told me that Roseanne had broken up with a paramour named Raymond Holmes six months prior to her death. She said he didn’t take it well. For all we know, he could be involved.”

A pause.

“We have to approach Ivan Dresden in a nonthreatening way. I think it’s far more likely that he’ll talk to us if he thinks we’re investigating a missing person rather than a homicide. So far that’s true.”

Marge said, “If the guy is as money hungry as all say, we can tell him insurance won’t settle until they find a body.”

“That’s probably true,” Oliver said.

“Up to a point,” Decker said. “Anyway, we can tell him that the police are investigating her whereabouts for insurance purposes. Since her body hasn’t turned up, we’re thinking that she may be alive.”

Oliver said, “What are we after, Loo?”

Decker said. “First, we need to hear his story. Second, it would be helpful if we could obtain his permission to pull phone records, credit-card receipts, bank records, to see if there’s been any activity since she disappeared. We can tell Ivan that it will be an important part of the insurance investigation.”

“Do we bring up the old flame, Ray?” Marge asked.

“Use your discretion.”

Marge said to Oliver, “You call up Ivan or should I?”

“You can do it. I’d rather call up Ivan’s lap-dancer friend.”

“Lap-dancer friend?” Decker asked.

“Yeah, David Rottiger told me Ivan had a thing for a lap-dancer friend of his. Ivan met her at one of Rottiger’s parties.”

“Interesting.” Decker nodded. “Do you have name?”

“No, Rottiger wouldn’t give it to me, and at the time, there was no reason to push. But I know where she works and I’d be happy to conduct a field interview with her.”

“I bet.” Decker smiled. “Actually, she may be a legitimate source of info later on. But first talk to Ivan. And see if you can conduct the interview in his condo because it’ll give you an opportunity to see the way he’s living. Get on his good side. We’re trying to wrest permission from him to look at Roseanne’s paperwork. Once we sort through all the credit slips, the bank statements, and the phone records, we’ll get a clearer idea about her last days.”

Oliver said, “Have you told Farley Lodestone about the latest developments?”

“Not yet.” Decker sighed. “This is not going to improve his trust in the justice system. If he wasn’t so bereaved, I’m sure he’d gloat.”

Marge said, “You know, if Roseanne was on flight 1324, there could be someone who worked the gate that remembers seeing her board the plane. I’d like to go down to WestAir’s airport counter next week and talk to the desk people.”

“They’re only going to refer you to the task force,” Oliver said.

“Maybe woman-to-woman, I can get some information. Now that Roseanne’s been missing for so long, I’d like to take one more crack at it.”

Decker said, “I think it’s a good idea. So we’ve got some strategies mapped out with Roseanne. Let’s move on to problem number two—our skeletal Jane Doe, who was probably a homicide. We need to identify the body and we can’t put a face on the bones because the bones are too delicate to mess with. So what can we do? We can find out when the apartment building went up. We can also locate someone involved with Priscilla and the Major to see if we can date the jacket.”

“Wanda Bontemps is on the computer trying to get a bead on the singing duo,” Marge said. “I did manage to Google them right before the meeting. Over five hundred thousand references, but no official Web site. How old would either of them be?”

“Sixties.” Not all that far from his age, Decker thought. “While Wanda is tracking down the duo, somebody needs to go down to building and safety and find out when the apartment building went up. Let’s go with Lee Wang and Jules Chatham. Both of them are good with bureaucracy, paper shuffling, and details.”

“Chatham is on vacation,” Marge said. “I think Lee is at his desk. I’ll talk to him.”

Oliver said, “You’re talking about a twenty-five-maybe thirty-year-old building. That’s a lot of tenants, Loo.”

“Someone must have a record of everyone who rented there for tax purposes. Talk to the current owners and work backward. I’ll draw up an assignment schedule. We can confer again tomorrow morning. Maybe by then Wanda will have found a location for Priscilla and the Major.”

“Are you going to wait until the morning to call Lodestone?” Oliver asked.

“No, I’m going to call Lodestone as soon as you leave. Then I’m going to go home and forget about all this stuff. It’s Shabbos tonight and that means I get a day of rest. And even if I don’t get my day of rest, I’m at least entitled to a last supper.”

MUNCHING A PEANUT-BUTTER-AND-BANANA sandwich, Wanda was still at the computer when Oliver and Marge came out of Decker’s office. She didn’t bother to look up from the screen as she spoke. “The wonders of modern technology. Almost everyone in the universe is just a click away.”

Oliver said, “What have you found out about them?”

“First off, the original duo is a thing of the past. The original Major—Huntley Barrett—has been dead for twelve years. Priscilla used to perform with another guy, Kendrick Springer, but the fans and the reviewers didn’t like him at all. You should read the comments.” She shook her head in dismay. “Passions ran very high about Huntley’s replacement.”

“Does Priscilla still perform?” Marge asked.

Bontemps shrugged. “That’s an interesting question. She doesn’t have an official Web site, but she does have an agent. I can’t find any current concert dates for her. Last one I found was seven years ago.” She looked at her notepad, tore off the top sheet of paper, and gave it to Oliver. “Her agent.”

Oliver glanced at the slip of paper. Miles Marlowe with a phone number. It was after six and Marlowe was probably gone, but he’d leave a phone message. “Anything else?”

She handed him a four-inch stack of paper. “Everything I’ve pulled up and thought worth printing, I printed for you.”

“Jeez, I feel a little guilty.” Oliver hefted the pile. “Like I just nuked a forest or something.”

Bontemps smiled. “Sir, don’t take this wrong, but I would have never thought you to be the environmentally conscious type.”

“Don’t tell anyone, Wanda, but I even recycle.”

PRISCILLA AND THE Major’s last top-ten song had been recorded over twenty-eight years ago, but they had left behind a rich legacy of blogs, K-Right (order by toll-free number, only available through this TV offer) boxed-set CDs, and a host of sixtysomething fans wishing nostalgically for singable melodies and clean lyrics. As Oliver read through the stack of computer information, he discovered that though the couple had divorced, they had remained friendly up to the day the Major had died. Priscilla had moved to Florida specifically to minister to him during the final months of his life. As a result, the Major, the business brains behind the duo’s success, had left her his very sizable estate, including a collection of sixty vintage guitars, most of which Priscilla had auctioned off. There had been a daughter and it had been big news when Priscilla had given birth, but what happened to the girl was anyone’s guess.

After going through the material, Oliver stored the sheaves of paper in the newly created Jane Doe folder, and was just turning the key to his desk’s lone file cabinet when his cell rang. The window displayed a number that looked familiar, although he had no idea who was on the line. Since it was his cell and not the desk phone, he answered it by the regular hello rather than “Oliver.”

“I’m looking for a … a Detective Scott Olivier.”

Pronouncing it like the great, late actor. Oliver liked that. It gave him gravitas. “This is Detective Oliver. Who am I talking to?”

“Miles Marlowe. Uh, it’s says here on my message that you called regarding Priscilla Barrett?”

“I did—”

“Well, she isn’t interested in taking on any partners.”

“That’s good because I’m not interested in being her partner.” Oliver held back a laugh. “Where’d you get that idea?”

“Because you called yourself detective.”

“That’s because I am a detective.”

“A real one?”

This time Oliver let go with a chuckle. The man sounded old and feisty. “Yes, a real one, Mr. Marlowe. I’m with Los Angeles Police Department and—”

“Well, you’ve got to understand what I’m dealing with,” Marlowe interrupted. “All sorts of wannabes calling me to partner with Priscilla and they all got titles. I’ve had sergeants, I’ve had captains, colonels, and lieutenants. I’ve even had some royalty: two princes and one duke. I thought you were one of those. You know … remaking my lady into Priscilla and the Detective.” A couple of quick, short breaths—a smoker or emphysema. “Not a bad ring, but it sounds more like a TV show than a singing duo. Anyway, what do you want with my lady?”

“I’d like to talk to her, sir.”

“Why?”

“It’s part of an ongoing investigation. I only need a little bit of Priscilla’s time.”

“Nothing grisly in the investigation, I hope. She’s a delicate soul.”

“Nothing grisly at all,” Oliver lied. “I’ve been doing some homework on her. Last I checked, she was living in Vegas.”

“She was in Vegas for a while. Drew really big crowds, but she decided it wasn’t for her. Like I told you, she’s a delicate soul.”

“Understood, sir. Anyway, being an old fan as well as a detective, I thought I could talk to her—”

“I thought there was an ulterior motive. The woman still has the ‘it’ factor.”

“I’m sure she does,” Oliver said, “but I assure you I have no ulterior motive—”

“Well, this is what I’m gonna do for you. I’ll give her this number. She’ll call you when she’s ready.”

“I think I’m going to need a face-to-face, sir, and the sooner the better. If you want, I’ll be happy to call her up directly.”

“You want to talk to Priscilla, you go through me. For all I know, you could be an agent, trying to steal my lady. You just want to meet her, Detective Olivier. Don’t deny it!”

Oliver decided to lay on the schmaltz. “Okay, Mr. Marlowe, you got me. I’d love to meet your lady.”

“Now that you admitted it, we can get somewhere. So how do I know you are who you say you are?”

Oliver said, “Sir, why don’t you come down to West Valley Division of LAPD and we’ll go together to meet the lady. That way you’ll see that I’m legitimate and you can see I actually work as a detective.”

“Hmm …” Marlowe pondered the suggestion. “All right. I suppose I could come down and check you out in the flesh. If you’re legit, you can follow me to her house. She happens to live in the West Valley … Porter Ranch.”

“Does she, now? Well, that’s certainly convenient for all of us.”

“Not for me. I work in Hollywood.”

“Then I appreciate your taking the time to go out of your way to introduce us. It’s really not necessary, especially since I’m so close—”

“Now don’t you be getting any ideas about popping in on her, Detective Olivier. It’s a gated community with full-time guards.”

“I wouldn’t do that, sir, that would be stalking. When is it convenient to meet you?”

“It’s not my convenience, Detective, it’s Priscilla’s. I’ll call her up and call you back.”

“That sounds fine, Mr. Marlowe.”

The phone hung up abruptly. Ten minutes later, just as Oliver was pulling his Chrysler PT Cruiser convertible out of the police parking lot, his cell rang.

“How about Monday at three?”

It was Marlowe, no introduction necessary. Oliver said, “Sounds great. Thanks for setting it up so fast.”

“I’ll come out to the police station to meet you. But no monkey business or I’ll have your badge.”

“You’re welcome to it,” Oliver whispered.

“What?”

“Thank you very much, Mr. Marlowe, you’ve been a big help.”


11 (#u4ed9c3e9-232c-5df1-b5ae-30f1b3495387)






THE KINDLING OF the candles signified the onset of the holy day of rest, welcoming the Shabbat bride with song and food. Showered and shaved, Decker felt clean and renewed. Since he’d decided not to go to synagogue, he dressed casually—a pair of khaki pants, a black polo shirt, and sandals. His stomach rumbled from the aromas emanating from the kitchen, and his mouth was watering by the time he sat down at the table. Seven place settings of china and crystal: Rina had done the centerpiece herself, the arrangements courtesy of her new hobby. She had turned their backyard into an English garden. The colors and the bouquets were dizzying. Insects and birds abounded. She called it their personal Eden.

Tonight, Rina had elected to wear an emerald-green A-line dress and silver flats. Her hair had been tied up in a knot, covered by a lacy mantilla that fell gracefully down her back. Hannah had two girlfriends over for the weekend, and Cindy and Koby rounded out the guest list. Whenever she had company, Rina and her cooking gene went haywire. Dinner started out with fresh-cured gravlax with a mustard dill sauce. The fish course was followed by a puree of squash-and-carrot soup spiced with cinnamon and ginger, on its heels an arugula salad with grapefruit and orange segments. By the time the entrée was served—turkey breast stuffed with wild rice, with green beans amandine and baby carrots for sides—no one was really hungry. But that didn’t stop anyone at the table from eating. Nor did it dissuade the guests from polishing off the plum cobbler and a bowl of the season’s first cherries.

After they’d stuffed themselves silly, Rina tried to make everyone feel more virtuous. “It’s mostly fruit except for the crumble topping.”

“That’s the best part,” Koby told her. “I’ll have another piece.”

“I can always count on you, Yaakov,” Rina told him, spooning another scoop of the streusel-topped concoction onto his plate.

“That’s because I have no stop button when it comes to food.”

“Lucky you,” Decker muttered.

Rina tossed her husband a “behave yourself ” look, even though she knew what he meant. At six two, one-fifty, Koby was as thin as grass. A wiry man, but deceptively strong. Like Decker, he was also handy around the house. In honor of Shabbat, he wore a white shirt and black slacks and loafers without socks. Cindy wore a black knit skirt and a turquoise sweater that set off her red hair, courtesy of her father’s DNA. Hannah and Cindy had nearly identical coloring, red hair, red eyebrows and eyelids, and clear alabaster skin that freckled in the summertime. The difference was only in the eye color: Cindy’s eyes were brown whereas Hannah’s were green. The sisters resembled each other even though they had clearly come from different mothers.

“Are you two getting any vacation time?” Decker asked his older daughter.

Cindy said, “Nothing definite yet.”

Koby said, “We’re trying for a weekend in Santa Barbara.”

“Do you need help clearing?” Hannah asked her mother. She and her two friends had finished dessert ten minutes ago. They were itching to leave and talk about important issues—school, poetry, alternative rock, Gossip Girl books, and boys, boys, boys.

Rina said, “Just bring in your plates and load them in the dishwasher. I’ll do the rest and call you when it’s time to bench.”

“Are you sure?” Hannah asked. But it was clear the girl was grateful to be dismissed.

“Positive.” Rina turned to Cindy. “Your father installed a new Shabbat dishwasher that has been an absolute godsend. I don’t know what in the world took us so long to buy it.”

“Those built-in dish drawers?” Koby asked.

“Yes, from the same company. We bought the full-size dishwasher for meat and a dish drawer for dairy. I lost a bit of cabinet space, but what we save on time spent doing dishes more than makes up for it.”

“We’re thinking of pushing out the kitchen,” Cindy said. “That’s why we’re asking.” When she noticed her father’s face, she smiled. “No, I’m not pregnant, but we do want a family. And it would be nice to have a genuine room for our future progeny.”

Koby added, “With home prices so expensive, we both think it is better to remodel.”

“Who’s going to do the work?” Decker asked.

“I am … and whoever else wants to help,” Koby answered.

Three pairs of eyes focused on Decker’s face. “Like I don’t have enough to do?” But he knew he’d cave in. That’s the way it was with children.

Cindy said, “We’re a ways off from lugging around two-by-fours, Dad. We’re still gathering information.” She turned to Rina. “The food was delicious. I’m stuffed.”

“Thank you. Can I make you a care package?”

“I was hoping you’d offer.” Cindy stood up and began to clear.

“You sit,” Decker told his daughter. “I’ll help.”

“Age before beauty,” she replied. “Actually, Dad, I am so full that it feels good to move.”

Decker said, “You know what? Why don’t you and I clear together and let Koby and Rina relax?”

Koby said, “It is an offer I won’t refuse.”

Rina smiled. He was trying to get time alone with his girl. “Great. I haven’t read the paper yet.”

“Neither have I.”

“Then we’ll share,” Rina said. “I’ll even pour you a scotch, Yaakov.”

The two of them retreated to the living room while father and daughter cleared the dining-room table of dishes and brought them into the kitchen.

“I wash and you dry?” Cindy offered.

“All you have to do is rinse them and put them in the dishwasher. Why don’t you let me do that?”

“You put away the food. I don’t know where it goes.”

“Deal.”

Cindy turned on the tap. “This is nice. Doing dishes together. Like old times but better.”

“Yeah, the old times were pretty good, too.” He gave her a brief smile as he scraped food into the garbage. “How’s GTA?”

“Busy. You know how it is. The weather starts getting warmer, it’s open season on cars.”

“Crime in general. When it’s wet and nasty outside, no one wants to work—even the psychos. How do you like teaming with Joe?”

Joe Papquick was her partner. “He’s fine. Not exactly loquacious, but he tells me what I need to know. It’s pretty routine, actually. You wind up investigating the same shops, the same junkyards, the same people. It seems the thieves rotate through twenty or so auto yards and it’s just a matter of the choppers getting caught with their pants down.”

“Be careful,” he warned her. “Routine doesn’t exclude bad surprises.”

She smiled. “Joe has this saying. If you don’t treat every call like it’s your first, it could be your last.”

“He is so right. If you’re feeling too comfortable, you let your guard down.”

“I’m careful. And it’s not always routine. Every once in a while, you make a good guess, and because of it, you get another sleaze bucket off the streets.”

“Makes you feel pretty good.”

“Very good, even though most of the time it’s grunt work.”

“That’s being what being a detective is.”

“I would think homicide’s a little more exciting.”

“It is more exciting, even though you get your obvious smoking gun cases. Then you spend lots of time trying to extract a confession.”

“There’s an art to that.”

“Absolutely. But sometimes no matter how skillful, you don’t get what you want. Then you hope forensics will buttress the case. And when that doesn’t work … that’s when it’s really frustrating. The ‘what did I miss?’ second-guessing game. First question is always Did I get the right person? You go through the file over and over, trying to find the magic bullet.”

Cindy said, “How often do you actually find something you missed when you look through an old case?”

“More than you think. The key is to put it away for a while so you review it through fresh eyes. Even with that, I’d say the success rate is maybe … I don’t know. I’d say you have a fifty percent chance that you find something that’ll jump-start something dead in the water.”

“Not a bad baseball percentage.”

“But dismal in murder,” Decker said. “It’s always hard to watch a case go cold. Then there’s the occasional cold case that falls in your lap.” He told Cindy about the sudden appearance of a disinterred body. As he spoke, she listened carefully, adding a word or two at the right spots. If she hadn’t chosen to be a cop, she would have made a hell of a shrink.

She said, “And forensics is sure that the body isn’t the flight attendant?”

“I went down to the Crypt and saw the sets of radiographs myself. So now instead of a solve, I’ve got two open cases.”

“That’s a pisser, but it’s really interesting. Did the apartment building have a basement?”

“No, it was a typical California building: wood-framed stucco, no basement.”

“What about subterranean parking?”

“I believe it had a lot in the back … built in days when land was a lot cheaper. I’m remembering it as one parking space per unit and the rest was street parking.”

“And how many units did the building have?”

“Fifteen. Why do you ask?”

“You said the body was found above the foundation.”

“I don’t think I said yes or no. Why do you ask?”

“Back then, didn’t they build lots of Southern California buildings with crawl spaces between the subfloor and the foundation?”

“I would say yes. The earthquake codes were different. They don’t do that anymore. Usually the subfloor is attached to the foundation.”

“But in the older buildings, that’s where they put the plumbing, right?”

“Yeah, they’d put the sewer lines down there, especially if the building was multistoried.”

“You should find out if the building had a crawl space. It would be a perfect dump for a body since most of the tenants wouldn’t be aware of its existence. Or maybe the person who killed your Jane Doe could have been someone involved with constructing the building.”

“That’s exactly what we’re thinking. We’re looking up the builders as well as the tenants. And all the tradesmen. Plumbers, phone people … pest control.”

“But, Daddy, wouldn’t those people stick out? I mean, if you see a guy walking around your house or apartment, you’re going to ask who it is.”

“And …”

“All I’m saying is that a service guy might feel intimidated dumping a body in a building. He might be scared that someone would see him poking around. I’m thinking that anyone who would dump a body into the crawl space has to feel he wouldn’t attract attention.”

“That’s a very good point,” Decker told her. “So running with your idea, maybe we’re dealing with a janitor or super or maintenance guy who lived in the building. No one would think twice about seeing him getting dirty, hauling out trash, or poking around the insides of a building.”

“When in doubt, look at the maintenance man,” Cindy teased him. “I’ve watched enough of those crime-reconstruction shows to know it’s always the janitor.”

Decker smiled. “I’ll tell someone on the team to check it out. Good thinking, Detective.”

Cindy felt herself go hot and knew she was blushing. Whenever her father praised her, she felt an inordinate swell of pride. She looked down and pretended to be interested in the dishes. “Who’s primary on the assignment?”





Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Получить полную версию книги.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/faye-kellerman/the-burnt-house-42422602/) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.