The Burnt House. Faye Kellerman
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.
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