The Burnt House. Faye Kellerman
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.
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