Faye Kellerman - The Burnt House

“I’m sure it’s been very unpleasant.”

“Unpleasant doesn’t cover the range of emotions that you feel when your friends die and you know in your heart of hearts it could have been you.” His lip trembled. “Where are my manners? Can I get you some water or a cup of coffee? Something stronger?”

“Whatever you’re drinking, Mr. Rottiger, sounds fine to me.”

“I have a wonderful Syrah that I opened last night. Have a seat, then. I’ll be right back.”

“Take your time. It’s beautiful out here.”

“Isn’t it, though? My one refuge is gardening, but it’s a good one.” A few minutes later he came back carrying two red-wine glasses filled almost to the brim. He handed one to Scott and the two men drank in silence.

Oliver said, “Excellent texture. Very smooth. Do you mind if we talk some inside, where it’s little more private?”

“It’s fine with me, but you know that I’m not allowed to talk about flight 1324. We’ve been instructed to refer all questions to the task force or to WestAir’s lawyers. So anything about the flight is off-limits.”

“I understand,” Oliver answered. “Actually, I’d like to talk to you about Roseanne Dresden.” He stood up. “Which unit is yours?”

“C as in crash.” He gave off a weak smile. “Morbid humor. It helps to get you through the day.”

“I’ve used it many times myself.”

Rottiger opened the unlocked front door. The place couldn’t have been more than six hundred square feet, but it was done up to perfection: high ceilings with crossbeams, gleaming bamboo floors, and lots of light. The walls were painted pale green and were hung with Japanese scrolls and minimalist pen-and-ink abstracts. Since the unit had only one bedroom and one bath, the double-wide couch made for comfortable sleeping quarters for guests, Rottiger explained. A black granite counter separated the living room from the kitchen. It was a stark surface except for an obsidian vase of bloodred roses. One of the kitchen cabinets was open, exposing a thirty-inch plasma TV. Oliver was impressed…especially with the TV.

“Is that HD?”

“But of course. When I watch baseball, I can see the players spit chaw in 3-D.” Rottiger pulled out a bar stool from under the counter and sat down. “So what can I do for you?”

“I’m sure this is going to sound a little funny, but Roseanne’s parents have contacted us. They don’t believe that she was actually on flight 1324.”

Rottiger stared out the window while sipping wine.

Oliver said, “What do you think about that?”

“I think it’s hard for them to accept some things.”

“So you think Roseanne was on the flight?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“On a small plane like flight 1324, are there enough jump seats for working flight attendants plus an extra like Roseanne?” Oliver asked.

“I’m sorry, Detective, but these are technical questions. You really should be discussing these issues with the WestAir lawyers or the task force. I can’t discuss policy with you.”

“WestAir doesn’t seem to want to talk to us.”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t talk to the police. If it gets back to management, I’ll lose my job.” He took a long sip of wine. “The only reason I’m talking to you at all is curiosity. Why is a homicide detective interested in Roseanne? Surely you don’t believe Mrs. Lodestone’s story, do you?”

“I understand you were very good friends with Roseanne. What was she like?”

“Are you profiling Roseanne?”

“In a way. Tell me about her.”

“Have you ever seen a picture of her?”

Oliver shook his head no. Rottiger held up a finger and came back a few minutes later with a photograph of eight WestAir flight attendants. He pointed to a tall willowy blonde in the middle. “That’s her.”

Oliver whistled. “Beautiful woman.”

“Yes, she was. It’s amazing that she was so naive about men.”

“How so?”

“She grew up in a small town up north, with Bible parents in a Bible community.”

“She was religious?”

“No, she gave all that up. But she still carried that farm-girl innocence. Her faith in her husband defied credulity. It took her catching him in the act for it to finally sink in what a shit he was. Even then, she agreed to therapy and mediation.”

“How was that working out?”

“Not well.” He turned to Oliver. “You don’t think she was on flight 1324, do you? You think that bastard did her in and blamed it on the flight.”

Oliver scratched his cheek. “Right now I’m just getting information, sir. And when you’re doing that, you’ve got to keep an open mind. What do you think?”

“Put it this way. The condo they were living in was in her name. So was the bank account, the car, the furniture, and just about everything of value that they owned. After catching him red-handed, Roseanne started talking about divorce. Poor little Ivan. Now how was he going to pay his lap dancers if he had to make rent and car payments, too?”

“Lap dancers?”

“Ever heard of Leather and Lace?”

Oliver faked naïveté.

“It’s a ‘gentleman’s’ club.” Rottiger made quotes with his fingers. “I have a good friend who works there as an exotic dancer.” When the man saw Oliver’s facial expression, he said, “It’s not like you think. She’s only doing it for the money.”

“That’s usually why girls lap dance,” Oliver said. “Anyway, what about her?”

“She met Rosie and Ivan at one of my famous patio parties.” A look of disgust washed over his face. “When Roseanne wasn’t looking, Ivan came on to her.”

“Does your lap-dancer friend have a name?”

“She does but I’m not comfortable giving it to you, right now. Especially after what happened with Ivan. I work very hard at putting my parties together. I don’t need idiots like Ivan making my friends feel uncomfortable. But there’s a punch line to this.”

“Go on.”

“Two weeks later Ivan shows up at Leather and Lace, stuffing twenties into my friend’s thong.”

“And did the relationship between the two of them…uh, improve?”

“That isn’t the point!” Rottiger bristled. “The point is he was spending lots of money on his bad habits. Roseanne’s money, no doubt. She finally had enough!”

“So Roseanne was contemplating divorce.”

“Yes. Finally.”

“And where was Roseanne living while she thought about divorce?”

“In her condo.”

“And Ivan? Where was he living?”

“They were still living together, but I think she was about to kick him out. She told me if anyone was going to temporarily move out, it was going to be him.”

“Because the condo was in her name.”

“Exactly.”

“Didn’t her husband have a job?”

“Some kind of low-level job in finance. I know they were living off Roseanne’s money as a flight attendant because Rosie complained about it.”

Oliver thought that it would be helpful to get into Roseanne’s bank accounts to see whose signatures were on the household expense checks. Maybe Ivan was skimming money from his wife’s bank account and that was the last straw. So far, the only thing working against Ivan the Terrible was bad behavior. And if that was a crime, Oliver was in deep, deep shit.

Rottiger said, “You know that the bastard is going to get a lot of insurance money now that Rosie’s dead. She had a life insurance policy from the company, and on top of that, I’m sure he’ll get a settlement from the airline. She was worth a lot more to him dead than alive.”

Oliver said, “I know that, but I can’t arrest Ivan for getting a windfall from his dead wife. What I need to know as a homicide detective is simply this: Was Roseanne Dresden on that plane or not?”