The Burnt House

“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

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 issued 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 Mission Impossible.” 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

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.