Faye Kellerman - The Burnt House

She handed him the coffee and stared at his ravaged face. “When was the last time you had some sleep?”

“A while back.”

“Go home, Decker,” Marge told him. “We can execute warrants without you.”

Oliver walked into the office and regarded Decker’s puffy face. “You need sleep, Loo.”

“I do, but as long as I’m here, you two might as well bring me up to speed. Then one of you has the privilege of taking me home.”

“I can do it,” Oliver said. “I’m ready to pack it in myself.”

“What happened to your car?” Marge asked.

“Rina drove me. I’m not alert enough to be behind a wheel.”

“Good call.” Oliver leaned against the wall and looked at Decker. “You want to go first?”

Decker sipped coffee. By now, his gut was on fire from all the acid, but being conscious took precedence over comfort. “I have a quick question, first, and then I want you two to tell me what’s going on. My question is: Are we still considering Raymond Holmes as a suspect in Roseanne Dresden’s murder?”

“Why?” Marge said. “Do you have anything new that would point us in that direction?”

“No, but I’ll add this. If Holmes did it, it would most likely have to be a murder for hire. A credit-card receipt puts him in San Jose at ten-fifteen on the morning of the crash. So I’m flinging the question back to you. Do you have any indication that he was involved?”

Oliver and Marge exchanged looks. Then she said, “I’ll repeat what you told me over the phone. It’s complicated.”

“This is not what I wanted to hear,” Decker said. “Okay, what do we know so far?”

“We are pretty sure that the Beemer was a kill spot,” Oliver said. “Forensics stripped off the new carpet, went down to the original metal, and sprayed it with luminol.”

“It lit up like blue fireworks,” Marge said. “There was a big pool of blue on the rear floor behind the driver’s seat, but there was also a lot of fluorescent spatter.”

“On the steering wheel, on the dash, on the gauges, on the gearshift, on the convertible roof, which wasn’t replaced, just cleaned.”

“There was a steady stream that fluoresced on the glove compartment. It looks like the initial spurt that might come from a stab wound that hit a major artery.”

Decker said, “Do we know if the blood is Roseanne’s?”

“Not yet,” Oliver said. “We called up Shareen Lodestone and asked her if she might have something that contains her daughter’s DNA, like an old hairbrush or an old toothbrush.”

“No go on the toothbrush, but she does have an old hairbrush,” Marge said.

“We need a hair with a root,” Decker said.

“Yes, that would help,” Oliver said. “But even if we don’t find a hair with a root, we can always do a mitochondrial DNA. If Shareen’s mitochondrial DNA a is perfect match to the mitochondrial DNA extracted from the blood, we can establish that the blood has to have come from a female progeny of Shareen. The woman doesn’t have any other daughters. I think the conclusion is obvious.”

“Can we extract mitochondrial DNA from the samples we have?”

“According to forensics, definitely,” Marge told him. “The samples are not that old and not that degraded. Plus they found what they think might be tissue.”

“Excellent.” Decker smoothed his mustache. “So if there’s a match, we can be almost certain that she was murdered in her car.”

“With that much fluorescence, it’s a safe bet,” Marge told him.

“Can we put Ivan at the scene?”

Marge said, “We found some latent bloody prints. Several partials on the dash and a lovely right thumbprint on the steering wheel itself.”

Oliver said, “Meaning that the prints were made at the time Roseanne was murdered in her car.”

“You’re hesitating. What is it? The prints aren’t Ivan’s?” Marge and Oliver shrugged. Decker swore. “Do you have anything that links Ivan to the bloody scene?”

Oliver said, “We have his prints all over the place, but since he’s been driving the car for over six months that proves nothing.”

“Damn!” Decker told himself to backtrack. Let the evidence point to the suspect and not the other way around. “Where is Ivan right now?”

Marge shrugged. “We have a warrant to search his car for blood, Loo, not one for his arrest.”

“We’re working on that,” Oliver told him. “As soon as the blood is determined to be Roseanne’s, we’ll get a warrant for his arrest.”

“In the meantime, he goes south of the border?” Decker said.

“Wanda Bontemps and Lee Wang are watching him.”

“Where is he?” Decker repeated. When the question was met with silence, Decker said, “Scott, call Wanda and find out where Mr. Dresden is currently parking his ass.”

Oliver left wordlessly. Decker looked at Marge. “I take it you’re running the prints through AFIS?”

Marge answered, “George Kasabian is on it, and he’ll call either way.”

“He’s good,” Decker said. “How long has he had the prints?”

“About an hour.”

“Let’s hope he’s contemplating something.” No one spoke for a moment. Then Decker said, “Do you have Kasabian’s number?”

Marge read it off of her cell. Decker put the phone line on speaker and punched in the number. George announced himself after picking up on the fourth ring.

“Hi, George, it’s Pete Decker from West Valley.”

“Welcome back, Lieutenant,” Kasabian told him. “I was just about to call you. Actually, I was just about to call Marge Dunn.”

“I’m right here, George,” Marge answered. “What’s the good word?”

“If you have a pencil, I have a name.”

Two shocked but spontaneous grins. Decker gave his hands a loud clap and said go into the speakerphone.

“The thumbprint belongs to Patricia Childress.” He spelled the last name and gave them Childress’s date of birth. “These particular prints were taken when she was arrested for prostitution seven years ago.”

“God bless vice.” Decker handed the information to Marge. “Dunn is going to feed her information into the computer. Thanks, George. You made my day.”

“I made my own day.”

Decker hung up and rushed over to the computer. Marge had inputted the data and the information on Patricia Childress popped up on the monitor. Two arrests for soliciting, two drunk-and-disorderlies, one misdemeanor drug possession, meaning less than an ounce of weed. At the time of her first arrest, she had been nineteen years of age, five six, 105 pounds, blue eyes, and dark brown hair. Her expression was fear masked by contempt.

“Her last known address isn’t too far from here,” Marge said. “I’ll get a warrant, and if she still lives there, we’ll pay her a visit and bring her in.” She pressed the print button to get copies of her mug shot. Decker picked up one of the sheets and stared at the face. “Who are you, Ms. Childress?”

Oliver walked over to where Marge was working. “According to Wanda Bontemps, Ivan Dresden is eating dinner at Sage with a couple of buddies.” He looked at the monitor and became excited. “George found a match to the bloody fingerprint?”

“He did.” Marge handed him the printed mug shot. “Meet the owner, Ms. Patricia Childress.”

Oliver snapped his head back when he saw the picture. “Patricia Childress?”

Decker said, “You’ve seen her before?”

“I’ve met her before. She was using the name of Marina Alfonse. She’s a lap dancer at Leather and Lace. More important, she’s Ivan Dresden’s girlfriend.”

O LIVER POINTED OUT a sleek blonde in pasties and a rhinestone-studded thong, grinding away at a customer. “That’s her.”