Faye Kellerman: The Burnt House

“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.”

A T 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, “It’s 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.