Faye Kellerman - The Burnt House

THE RANCH HOUSE was in the same area as Raymond Holmes’s renovation project, similar in style but tired. The paint job was cracking in spots and the landscaping was patchy. There was a porch with several lawn chairs, and that’s where Marge and Decker waited for Leslie Bracco to make her appearance.

As the time crept toward six o’clock, Marge called up Will and asked him to push the dinner reservation off until nine. In a gallant act of chivalry, Will told her that he was off early and that he’d be happy to drive down south, saving her some time and aggravation. There were a number of great restaurants in San Jose and several of them were open late.

Leslie showed up at six-ten, a set of keys in her hand. She was small and compact, square in the shoulders, a woman in her late forties, with helmet-clipped black hair streaked with silver. Green eyes and thick lips sat in a round face with big, apple cheeks. She wore a dark brown pantsuit, the jacket hugging a dusty-rose-colored wool sweater. Her shoes were simple brown flats. “I’m so sorry I’m late. The meeting just went on forever. We’ve been doing a rock-bottom savings promotion to try to woo back customers and it’s been very successful. WestAir has agreed to keep it going.” She opened the front door. “Have you been waiting long?”

“Not too bad,” Decker said.

“You’re just being nice.” She walked into the house and began opening drapes and turning on lights. The detectives followed.

“It gave us a little time to catch up on our work.” Decker smiled and she smiled back with bleached white teeth. “I’m Detective Lieutenant Decker and I believe you’ve spoken to Detective Sergeant Dunn.”

“Hi.” Leslie shifted her purse from one arm to the other and held out her right hand. First to Marge then to Decker. “Sit anywhere you’d like. Sorry for the mess.”

The mess was a newspaper folded neatly on the coffee table. Other than that, the place was immaculate. The decor could have been lifted from a furniture ad-a traditional rose-patterned upholstered couch, matching love seat and armchair-with-ottoman arrangement. Sitting in the corner was a piano, the top obscured by family pictures. More photographs were hanging on the walls. The beige carpeting was thick ply and spotless.

Leslie threw her purse on the sofa. Then she looked at it and placed it upright on a walnut end table. “Can I get either of you coffee? I’m making decaf for myself, so it’s no bother.”

“That sounds fine.” Marge looked at the wall snapshots; most of them displayed Leslie, a husband, and three kids in the usual vacation backdrops. A more recent photograph appeared to be a skiing vacation-six young adults with four babies and toddlers. There was no husband in that picture, but there was a picture of a pale bald man holding a baby. He was wearing an old terry robe and had an ear-to-ear smile.

Leslie was a widow and her husband had probably succumbed to cancer.

The flight attendant caught Marge staring at the photograph. Her eyes welled up with tears. “That was Jack.” A forced smile. “It’s been three years and I still miss the hell out of him.”

“Boy, was he proud,” Marge told her.

“Yes, he was.” She wiped her eyes. “Our first grandchild. How do you take your coffee?”

“Black,” Decker said.

“Same,” Marge answered.

“You two are easy.” She disappeared and came back a few minutes later with a tray and three mugs of coffee. She placed it on the sofa table and handed out the mugs, then sat down on the love seat, taking off her shoes and placing them neatly under the end table. Finally she curled her toes under her legs and picked up her mug. “Wow! That tastes good!”

“It does indeed,” Decker said. “You don’t look old enough to have four grandchildren.”

“Five, actually. That picture is old. And thank you for the compliment. People tell me I wear my age well. I think it’s because I had a good marriage. Jack was an airline pilot. We both loved to travel. Even when the kids were little, we’d schlep them everywhere. One of my sons inherited the wanderlust. My daughters are much more rooted.”

“Do they live near you?” Marge asked.

“The girls both married computer guys and live in nice houses in a great school district. My son and his wife live outside of Sitka, Alaska, and work for the Fish and Game Department.”

“There’s a switch,” Decker said.

“He definitely followed his own muse.” Leslie took a sip of coffee. “I understand from my boss that you wanted to talk to me about Roseanne Dresden. How can I help you?”

“So WestAir knows you’re talking to us?” Marge said.

“Oh yes. They’ve asked me to cooperate fully, which I would do without their orders, but it seems important to them that I appear helpful…beyond making coffee.”

Decker smiled. “Hey, sometimes that’s enough. Anyway let me give you some details. Roseanne Dresden has not been seen or heard since the accident. So, at first, it seemed logical that Roseanne had jumped the plane without a ticket and had perished along with everyone else. Our problem is we can’t find any verification of that. No body, no personal effects, no ticket, no work order…absolutely nothing.”

“We’re treating it as a missing-persons case,” Marge said. “We’re trying now to retrace Roseanne’s last movements before she disappeared. We found a phone call on her cell, around midnight on the night before the accident. It came from a San Jose tower. Would you know anything about that?”

“No, nothing.” Leslie shook her head. “But I think I can help you in a big way. I saw Roseanne the morning of the accident.” Again, pools formed in her eyes. “I was working the ticket counter.” She smacked her lips shut. “I knew the entire crew. It’s everyone’s worst nightmare…oh my, here come the faucets again.” Tears erupted and trailed down her cheeks. She pulled a tissue and dabbed her eyes. “Every time I think about it, I just can’t stop crying.”

“I’m sure it’s still raw for you,” Decker said.

“That’s a good word…raw. That’s exactly it.”

Decker waited a few minutes for her to get the emotion out and for his racing heart to slow. Then he said, “You saw Roseanne the morning of the accident?”

“I saw her and I talked to her.”

Marge tried to appear calm. She flipped the cover on her notepad. “And when was this?”

“Very early in the morning…around four-fifteen maybe. She was hitching a ride to Burbank.”

“Was she in uniform?” Marge asked.

Leslie shook her head. “No, she was in civilian clothing. I was surprised to see her. She hadn’t worked San Jose for a while. She said she had come up from Burbank the day before to talk to management about being transferred…specifically to be based in San Jose.” She looked down. “She was very frank. She was unhappy in her marriage and she wanted to move and be closer to her parents.”

“She came into San Jose the day before the accident?” Decker asked.

“That’s what she said.”

“Did she say what time she arrived in San Jose?” Decker said.

“No, but that wouldn’t be too hard to find out. She probably came in on a WestAir flight. And I imagine that if she wanted to speak to management, it would have to be before five. That’s when the offices close.”

Marge’s brain took note. When she and Oliver interviewed Ivan Dresden, the stockbroker had said that his wife had stormed out of the condo around four in the afternoon. That would make it very hard to meet with management before the company closed.

Someone was fibbing.

The look on Pete’s face told her that he was thinking the same thing.

Decker said, “Okay…so we have you seeing her the morning of the crash, around four-fifteen A.M. Are you positive that she took the early flight back to Burbank? Is it possible that she changed her mind?”