Faye Kellerman - The Burnt House

Decker parked the rental curbside and killed the motor. He turned to Marge. “If he’s married, why did he ask us to meet him at his house? Even if his wife and kids are out right now, she could come home with an emergency.”

“Beats me,” Marge said. “People do strange things.”

They shrugged simultaneously, got out of the car, and walked up to the front door. Decker rang the bell and Holmes answered it a toe tap later.

He had been described as a big guy and that was no lie. His five-foot-ten-plus frame must have been carrying an extra one hundred pounds of weight, most of it gut hanging over his belt buckle like a muffin top, stretching the fabric of his black polo shirt to the limit. His hips, being much smaller, were housed in baggy khaki pants and his feet were shod in running shoes but no socks. His face was round and smooth with a slight double chin. His eyes were saucers of coal, his nose upturned, and his mouth lined by a gray-and-auburn goatee. White was taking over what had once been a full head of dark hair. Half-style reading glasses were perched on his nose. His eyes were looking over the lenses. “You’re the detectives from Los Angeles?”

“Yes, sir, we are,” Decker answered. “And you are Raymond Holmes, sir?”

He sidestepped the question. “Could I see some identification?”

“Of course.” Decker took out his badge and ID card and Marge followed suit. The big man studied them very carefully then spoke in a reedy voice that belied his size. “Can’t be too sure these days. All this terrorism and identity theft. You never know who’s really who. Come in.”

Marge and Decker stepped into an empty room in a half-finished state of remodeling. The space had been drywalled but not painted, and they were walking on subflooring. Punched-out holes in the walls indicated where outlets and light switches were supposed to go. The area was filled with light from generous windows. Holmes led them through what was most likely a dining room and into an area that was the kitchen, judging from the rough plumbing. The main attraction was a folding table and four chairs. The contractor indicated for them to have a seat.

“Sorry about the dust, but it was easier to meet here than at my office.”

“You’re in the construction business?” Decker asked.

“Real-estate development,” Holmes told him. “This is one of my many projects.”

Decker looked around. “This is what…1940s vintage?”

Holmes parked himself on a chair, his knees spread apart to allow room for his stomach. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. It wasn’t particularly hot, but it wasn’t unusual for big men to sweat. “Are you interested in real estate, Detective?”

Decker smiled. “My daughter and son-in-law are about to undertake some renovation, so I guess I’m curious. How long have you been in the business?”

“All my life.” He checked his watch. “Listen. I don’t mean to be rude, but I chased away the crew to have some privacy because we’re talking about a…delicate matter. They’re supposed to come back in about forty minutes.”

“Then we should speed things up,” Decker said. “First of all, Mr. Holmes, I want to thank you for seeing us on such short notice.”

“You were a little sketchy on the details,” Holmes said. “Something about Roseanne Dresden. Did she leave me some money or something?”

Marge and Decker exchanged glances. Decker said, “Her estate hasn’t been settled. That’s why we’re here. Recovery hasn’t found her body at the accident site. It’s been a while, so we’re considering Roseanne Dresden as a missing-persons case.”

Holmes pulled out another tissue and mopped his brow. “I don’t want to sound callous or strange, but in these cases, do you always find the body?”

“No,” Decker said, “but there’s usually something that indicates that the person was on board: personal items or at the very least a ticket. For the flight attendants who don’t have tickets, there’s usually a work assignment. So far, we’ve come up empty.”

Marge said, “No one remembers seeing her boarding the plane.”

“Matter of fact we have the opposite,” Decker said. “The desk clerk who was working the gate at Burbank swears that Roseanne didn’t board the plane.”

“So that’s why at this point, we’re considering it a missing persons,” Marge said.

Decker said, “If something is recovered from the accident site that puts Roseanne on the flight, then of course this discussion is moot. But since no one has seen or heard from Roseanne, we’re investigating her disappearance.”

“I thought that I read that they found her body. Like a couple of weeks ago.”

Decker said, “Recovery found a body, but it wasn’t Roseanne.”

Holmes dabbed his brow. “Who was it?”

“We don’t know.”

“So how do you know it’s not Roseanne?”

“From our forensic odontologist. The teeth don’t match.”

“And that’s what they’re basing it on?” Holmes blinked several times in rapid succession. “Teeth?”

“Yes, sir, enamel is the hardest substance in the human body. Often teeth do survive when everything else is burned up.”

“So let me tell you why we’re here,” Marge said. “The last phone call on Roseanne’s cell went through a San Jose tower.”

Holmes didn’t respond.

Marge gave him the date of the call. “We’re just trying to locate Roseanne’s final movements before she disappeared. The call was from San Jose, you live in San Jose, you have a relationship with the deceased-”

“Had, Detectives,” Holmes said. “Past tense. I had a relationship with her. We broke up about eight months ago and I haven’t seen her since.”

The detectives were silent. Decker counted to six before Holmes spoke.

“I’m sorry I can’t help. If you would have just said something on the phone, you wouldn’t have had to come up here and waste your time.”

“As long as we are here, we’d like to ask you a few questions,” Decker said.

“Just to get a little background on Roseanne,” Marge added.

Again, the big man looked at his watch. “You got about thirty minutes.”

Decker said, “Could you tell me the last time you saw Roseanne?”

“I don’t remember the exact date, but I can look it up in my old calendar book. It’d be there because we went to Percivil’s and I made a reservation.” His jaw began to chew something imaginary. “It was her favorite spot.” Chew, chew. “She got all teary-eyed and I knew it was over. She said she was going to try to work it out with that rat husband of hers. Nothing I said would change her mind.”

“And you never heard from her again?”

“No.”

Decker said, “So if I were to check out the date, which you said can be easily verified, and then check Roseanne’s cell number, I wouldn’t find any calls from you to her after your evening at Percivil’s.”

This time his jaw muscle froze in a gigantic bulge as if it were a solid tumor. “What I meant to say is I never saw her again. I think I called her a couple of times.”

“What were the phone calls to her about?” Marge asked.

Holmes said, “I was trying to get her to change her mind. It didn’t work. That’s that and I’ve moved on. End of Roseanne, end of discussion.”

Decker smiled. “How about giving us a few more minutes?”

Marge said, “Just indulge us, Mr. Holmes. It makes you look better.”

When the big man turned quiet, Decker took that as a signal to continue. “I’m sorry to have to ask you this, Mr. Holmes, but where were you the night before the crash?” He gave him the specific date.

“I don’t remember.” He stared at the detectives, wiping perspiration from his face. “If you write down the date-and any other dates you want-I’ll let you know if I was anywhere except home.”