The Burnt House. Faye Kellerman
the words as English, but it took him a few moments to grab the meaning. “Uh … do we have a list of the ground deaths?”
Strapp’s voice was strained. “Did you just wake up?”
“My wife just woke me up. I’ve only been home for”—he looked at the clock— “a little under eight hours.”
“How long did you work?”
“About forty-two hours.”
“Good grief! That’s a lot of overtime.”
“I suppose it is.” Decker hoped he had kept the sarcasm out of his voice.
“In answer to your question, we don’t have a list of ground deaths. That’s what I want you to work on. I want your task force to contact the families of the suspected ground deaths and gather names. You can act as a liaison between the bereaved families and the NTSB and the coroner’s office. I’m calling for a town-hall meeting to assess what the community needs. The first thing we need to do is to set up a system so that worried families can access information.”
Decker’s brain was beginning to work. Strapp was spot on target. The charred bodies of the crash belonged to the coroner’s office, the wreckage of the plane belonged to the National Transportation and Safety Board, but the community belonged to the police. Working with bereaved families was bound to be a gut-wrenching assignment, meaning it would be a job that he’d do personally.
Another long day.
Strapp was talking. “… less immediate note, there have been reports of graffiti and looting in the affected areas. I want those investigated as well.”
Decker sat up. “Who’s reporting the looting? The residents haven’t been allowed back in.”
“That’s what I want you to find out.”
Decker exhaled. “All right. I’ll try to make it down in about thirty to forty minutes.”
“See you then.”
The receiver clicked off. Decker gave his wife the phone. “I’ve got to take a shower and go to work.”
She didn’t even bother to protest. “I’ll make you breakfast.”
“Food … that sounds real good.” Decker swung his legs over the bed, stood up, and stretched his six-foot-four frame. Over the years he had gained a few pounds, topping out around 225, but for a guy in his fifties, he carried his weight well. “Is Hannah in school?”
“School is in the hot zone. It’s been temporarily canceled until the board can find facilities where the kids can inhale without clogging their bronchioles with ash. We’re going to my parents for Shabbat, by the way. The air isn’t pristine over there, but it’s a lot better in Beverly Hills than it is here.”
“That could apply to a lot of things. That sounds fine. I’d love to see your parents.”
“You would?”
Decker smiled. “After witnessing such harrowing events, I look forward to a night with the in-laws and their mundane problems. Besides, your mother is a phenomenal cook.”
“That she is.”
“What about Cindy and Koby? Weren’t they supposed to come over on Saturday?”
“Friday night, actually, and Mama was gracious enough to invite them as well. Hannah, by the way, is thrilled. Not so much because she’s going to see her grandparents, but because she gets to see her friends that live in the city for a change.”
“It’s the age.”
“That’s true. Hannah lives for her friends. She’s either IMing someone or on the phone or doing both at the same time.”
“I hope I can make dinner this weekend.” Decker kissed his wife on the forehead. “This public servant may be doing overtime for a while. At least it’ll mean more cash in the till.”
“I’d rather have you.” Rina stroked his face and Decker realized how lovely she looked. His hormones shot through his lower body, but it was all for naught. He didn’t have the time.
After he showered and dressed, he sat down to pancakes and a cheese omelet. He drank four cups of coffee and two glasses of juice. He could have eaten more but the clock was ticking. When he announced that he had to go, Rina didn’t try to hold him back.
“Are you safe behind a wheel?”
“Safe and completely fueled.”
“I packed you a lunch while you were showering—four sandwiches and various side dishes. What you can’t eat, you can share with your brethren in blue.”
“I’m sure they will be grateful for any morsel I throw to them.” He kissed his wife chastely on the lips, deciding that this wasn’t at all satisfactory. The next kiss was long and deep. “I really do need to retire from my job.”
“You keep threatening, but for me it’s not a threat. First of all, I love you. Second of all, I’ve been collecting a list of projects that we’ve jawed about over the last four years. I’m ready when you’re ready.”
He knew what she was referring to. They’d conversed endlessly about adding more space to their eighteen-hundred-square-foot home, although the house had been losing occupants rather than gaining them. For the last few months, they’d been cutting out articles in design magazines. Rina’s pet project was a sumptuous master bathroom. Decker had been saving articles that dealt with media rooms and home theaters. Everything was still in the dream stage, but it made for interesting reading over the weekend.
Fantasy was the stuff of life.
AT HIS DESK, Decker sorted through the list of names and numbers. “This should keep me busy for a while.”
“Why not call a conference for all of them to come in?” Marge asked him.
“Because I think initial contact should be personal. These people lost loved ones in a horrible way. Besides, it shouldn’t take me all that long to make the phone calls. As the families start dropping off the dental X-rays, we’ll set up a schedule. There needs to be someone manning the desk all the time to deal with the bereaved until we’ve got all the bodies accounted for.”
“I can do that.”
“We should also contact several professionals who can offer support.”
“I’ll call social services and see what they can do for us.”
“Great.” Decker regarded his favorite detective—over forty and young at heart. They had worked together for over twenty years. As bedraggled as he felt, she looked fresh and alert. “How many hours of sleep did you get?”
“About five. Why? Do I look that bad?”
“On the contrary, you look chipper.”
“It’s the coral blouse,” Marge told him. “All women look good in coral.”
“What about men?”
“Men should wear black. It makes them look mysterious. In your case, Pete, black would set off your red hair very nicely.”
“It’s more gray than red,” Decker grumped.
“It’s still has plenty of red in it. So does your mustache. And you’ve got a lot of it … head hair. What you really need to look hip is a soul patch.”
“I’m beyond trying to look hip. All I want is to look appropriate so I don’t embarrass my teenage daughter.”
“I thought that was the purpose of parents of teenagers, to embarrass them.”
She had a definite point. Nothing was as much fun as to see his kids squirm at his misbehaviors. “So what’s going on with the graffiti and the looting?”
“We’ve