The Burnt House. Faye Kellerman

      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,