Faye Kellerman - The Burnt House

“We are very happy.” Marge explained the situation in detail. When she got to floor mats, Decker pumped his fist and shouted “yes.” “I put Oliver on contacting the woman from e-Bay. She was out and he left a message on the machine, but we both think we shouldn’t take any chances. We’d like to drive down tonight.”

“I agree. Take along a tech to luminol. I want this as professional as possible.” Decker paused. “I hope we get something. Usually some proteins remain in the bleed-out area, but in this case, the carpets were professionally cleaned. Even if we get a little fluorescence, defense could always say it was her car, maybe she scraped her ankle and bled into the carpet.”

“I thought about that,” Marge said. “But we can counter by saying it must have been quite a lot of blood to survive a professional cleaning. Also, Dresden’s cover story is fishy-that he left the top down in a rain. It had to have been quite a downpour because the interior was not only soaked beyond redemption but infested with mold.”

“When did he bring the car in to the shop?”

“About a month after the crash.”

“So check that date against the local weather reports. Let’s see if it was raining around that time. If it wasn’t, we’ve punched a hole in that alibi.”

“I’ve already put Oliver on that as well. The weather was L.A. consistent-partly cloudy with burn-off in the afternoons. No precipitation in the area other than morning dew. I also had Scott check farther up north and east in the mountains. There was some light rain in San Bernardino, but the system passed through pretty quickly. I’m no mycologist, but for it to smell that bad, it sounds like the interior was soaked. I think Dresden took a hose and drowned the interior, trying to wash away evidence.”

“Makes sense. Let’s see if we can get some bright blue splotches to back it up.”

“Where are you now?”

“I’m back in my hotel room packing up. I’ve got a little spare time, so I’ll probably grab some lunch and then drive back to Albuquerque. I’ll make sure my cell is charged, but reception on the ride back isn’t always so great. If you don’t get me, just leave a message. Call as soon as you know anything.”

“I will. Have you decided on where to eat?”

“Anywhere I can walk. Any suggestions?”

“Pasquals on Water Street. It’s casual, it’s comfortable, and the food is terrific. Be sure to ask for both red and green chili on the side. Man, that’ll give your taste buds a workout.”

“I could use a good meal. Thanks for the tip.”

“I’ll give you another one. Instead of asking for red and green chili, just ask for Christmas chili. It’ll mark you as a local.”

DECKER HAD THE option of a private table with a thirty-minute wait or immediate seating at a round communal table. He was tired and starved, so he opted for the latter. His tablemates included a retired stockbroker with a passion for fly-fishing, a ceramic artist, a family of tourists with two young children, and a couple from Texas who owned a second home somewhere in the mountains. When the stockbroker asked about him and what he did for a living, Decker told the table that he was a lawyer and was in Santa Fe on business. The two sentences, stated separately, were the truth. It was only putting them together that turned his words into a little white lie.

He had just closed the door on his rental car when his cell went off. It was a restricted number, which meant it was probably Rina.

“Yo,” Decker said. “I’m on my way home.”

“Uh…I’m looking for Lieutenant Decker.”

The voice was male and official. Decker switched gears. “This is Lieutenant Decker. Who am I talking to, please?”

“This is Detective Newt Berry from San Jose Police Department.”

That got his attention. “Yes, Detective Berry, what’s going on?”

“About twenty minutes ago, I got a call from a woman named Lindie Holmes. She said she’d like to talk to us, that she has a lot to say about her husband, Raymond, who, as you well know, is still in our custody.”

“Thanks for calling. I’d love to talk to her.”

“Figured as much. I think it might be a good idea for you to fly up here and do just that.”

Decker said, “I’m in New Mexico, but I’m on my way to the airport. I’ll see if they offer any flights into Oakland or San Francisco. Did she ask for me specifically?”

“She asked for whoever was in charge of her husband’s investigation. She says she has a lot to say about that.”

“Even if I can find an immediate flight up north, it’s going to take me at least three hours to get there and that’s with a one-hour time gain. Do you think she’d be willing to come in to the station house in the evening?”

“Tell me your schedule once you know it, and I’ll call her back. Right now the woman seemed very eager to unload on her rotten husband. She kept on saying that she has information that would interest us.”

“Sounds promising…if she tells the truth.”

“Yeah, I thought about that. From speaking to her, I can’t tell you if she’s gonna lie to us because she’s mad at the bastard and wants revenge, or if she’s finally coming forward with the truth because she’s mad at the bastard and wants revenge. What I can you tell is that she’s pissed with a capital P.”

W ITH A LITTLE shuffling around, Decker managed to secure a flight that put him into Oakland at six in the evening. Newt Berry was waiting for him at the baggage claim. The San Jose detective topped out at six feet, thin and bald, with a long equine face, brown eyes, and a ski-sloped nose. The two men shook hands and walked to the parking lot in silence. When they got into the car, Berry said, “You found a direct flight?”

“Two stops. A little roundabout, but I’m here.”

“What’s up in Santa Fe?”

“My main witness against Raymond Holmes. I think he’s getting cold feet.” Decker brought Berry up-to-date. It took the entire ride over to police headquarters. “I’m wondering how much Lindie Holmes knew about Ray’s past.”

“Well, I’m sure you’ll find out. The woman is on a mission.”

“Seek and destroy?” Decker said.

“Just destroy. She kept going on and on about how much she hated the son of a bitch. I didn’t ask anything too specific because I knew you were coming down.”

“Smart. Where is she now?”

“By now, she should be at the station. Over the phone, she asked if we could get her a decaf grande nonfat latte and vanilla syrup. She says she talks much better over a cup of coffee. I told her it wouldn’t be a problem.”

“Not at all. If it’s only coffee and revenge she wants, we’ll get away cheap.”

LINDIE HOLMES WAS crunchy granola: a petite woman in jeans, a T-shirt, athletic sneakers, and a hooded jacket. She had straight, shoulder-length salt-and-pepper hair with bangs cut across her forehead, and a face free of any kind of makeup. Her skin was clear and held some wrinkles around her brown eyes. Her mouth was small and hard set, giving her an angry expression. Her right hand was clutched around a paper coffee cup; her left was clenched in fury, with a ring finger encircled by a light patch of skin that had once been covered with a wedding band. Decker didn’t need a prod to get her to talk. She was out of the gate before the gun went off.

“The son-of-a-bitch bastard! He swore to me that there was no one and I believed him. How dumb is that!”

How dumb, indeed. Her husband was going to go before a grand jury on charges of capital murder and she was irate about his mistress.

“Jesus, I just want to ring his neck!”

Decker nodded. “I need to ask you a few basic questions. Who are you referring to when you say ‘no one.’”