The Burnt House (4 page)

“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.”

T
HE 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.”