Faye Kellerman - The Burnt House

On the way to the parking lot, Oliver dumped the request forms along with the SASE into the nearest trash can.

T HE 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 name was added. The question is: Who added the name?” Mutual shrugs answered his question. The crash was still using its long tentacles to give Decker a massive headache. “While Henson the Hacker was doing his mischief, did he happen to find any work order that nails Roseanne being on the flight?”

Marge shook her head no.

“Then the two of you are going to have to go back to WestAir and go through official channels. Find the official list and Roseanne’s work order. Without it, we have nothing.”

“With it, we’ll have nothing,” Oliver stated.

Decker became irritated. “Just go back to WestAir and find what we’re looking for, Scott. It seems to me that neither the Times nor WestAir would put her on the official victims list without being able to verify it. It would open them up to lawsuits.”

“Not if the husband, Ivan the Terrible, called up the airline and told them to do it,” Marge said. “Besides, he’s already suing the airline.”

Decker said, “This should be easy to settle once we have the work order. Oliver, did any one of Roseanne’s friends call you back?”

Oliver took a small notebook from his pants pocket. “Two: David Rottiger and Arielle Toombs.”

“Two out of eight?”

“Not a terrible batting average considering that all the names on the list work for WestAir, and the airline’s official policy is that anything to do with flight 1324 goes through the flight task force.”

Marge said, “After having visited the corporate offices, it was probably pretty brave of these two to call back. If management finds out they talked to us, it could be bad for them.”

“So set up interviews before they change their minds,” Decker said.

Oliver said, “I’ve already made an appointment with Rottiger. He lives in West Hollywood, and since I’m going into the city tonight, I asked if I could stop by around six. He agreed, but he sounded cautious.”

“And what about Toombs? Where does she live?”

“Studio City.”

“Do you have time to talk to Arielle Toombs tonight?” Decker asked Marge.

“If I do some rearranging. I was going to meet Vega at six.”

“The girl’s actually going out on a date-”

“Scott, you’re not being nice.” Marge looked at Decker for support. “A guy asked her to a party tonight. She wanted to meet me before the party, but I could meet her afterward.”

“No way, this is a big deal in Vega’s life and you’ve got to be there.”

“Thanks, Pete. I really appreciate that.”

It was four in the afternoon. If Decker could set up something with Toombs in the early evening, then he’d take the family out for dinner at Golan. His mouth watered as he thought of shwarma and baba ghanoush with warm pita bread. Even if he couldn’t set something up with Toombs, dinner at the restaurant still sounded good. “Give me Toombs’s phone number and I’ll make an appointment with her.”

Oliver gave him a set of digits. He looked uncomfortable and Decker asked what was wrong.

“I don’t know…” A forced exhalation. “Just where are we going with this Dresden thing? Do you really think that her husband heard about the crash and magically decided to bump her off and use the flight as an alibi?”

“Maybe they had a fight or something,” Marge suggested. “They didn’t get along, according to Roseanne’s parents.”

“Yes, exactly,” Oliver said. “According to Roseanne’s parents. And we’re going along with their craziness because they’re grieving and in denial?”

Decker said, “I’m still reserving judgment, Scotty. Find out as much information as you can about Roseanne Dresden and the official WestAir policy about putting flight attendants on planes without tickets. Marge, you call up the Times and see if you can’t find their original list. Then see if it matches the one given to you by Henson the Hacker. And if it does, who at the Times added Roseanne’s name to the victims list or was it called in by WestAir. And if it was WestAir, who specifically called it in.”

“No problem, but I doubt L.A. Times will have anyone there at four in the afternoon.”

“Then leave your number and do a follow-up call tomorrow. Plus, I want both of you to go back to WestAir to find the work order.”

“All the airline is going to do is give us forms to fill out.”

“So fill them out and press for more.”

“It might hold more weight if you were there with us, Decker,” Oliver said.

“My shield’s the same color as yours.”

“But your title’s higher.”

“That’s true. Which is why at this stage of my career, I don’t do bureaucracies other than LAPD.”

THE STREET WAS located behind a major supermarket, the address corresponding to a set of bungalows that shared a common lot, the only distinguishing feature between the four structures being the A, B, C, or D tacked onto the address. The outside area was a wee brick square patio hosting a faded teak table and chairs and surrounded by assorted ceramic pots filled with leafy plants and flowers dripping with blooms.

A man in jeans, a gray T-shirt, and flip-flops held a steel watering can, bending low as rivulets poured out the spout and rained down on bright red begonias in a terra-cotta container. He was medium height, and just a smidge short of stocky. His hair was deep red and his complexion was a map of freckles. His demeanor suggested that he was unbothered by Oliver’s presence.

“Excuse me,” Oliver said. “I’m looking for David Rottiger.”

The man continued to water his plants. “I’m David.” He finally looked up with eyes round and brown. “Is it Detective Oliver or Detective Scott?”

“It’s Scott Oliver. Either one is okay. And thanks for agreeing to talk to me.”

“I’ll probably get fired in the process.”

“I certainly hope not.”

“I don’t even care anymore. You can’t imagine how tense the atmosphere has been since it happened.”