Faye Kellerman - The Burnt House

Marge nodded. “Let’s do it.”

The two of them walked over to Patricia Childress a.k.a. Marina Alfonse and pulled her off the lap of a sweaty bald man in his late fifties. He was incensed but not as mad as she was. “What the fuck?”

Marge flashed her badge. “Police, Ms. Childress. You need to come with us.”

“I’m clean!” she cried. “I swear I’m clean!”

“We believe you,” Marge said. “We’re not from narcotics.”

“Homicide,” Oliver answered.

The owner of the club came rushing over and asked what was going on. Oliver showed him the shield and said, “Hello, Mr. Michelli, nice to see you again. We have a warrant for the arrest of Marina Alfonse-whose real name is Patricia Childress-”

“You!” Recognition of Oliver’s face in the dancer’s eyes. She had turned ashen. “I had nothing to do with it. It was all Ivan’s idea!”

Michelli said, “Can we do this in a more private place?” He regarded the confused look on the customer’s face. “You’ll get every penny back, sir.” To the cops, Michelli said, “This way.”

The detectives followed Michelli, guiding a furious dancer between them, until they stepped into the common makeup and dressing room. The owner waited until after Marge had Mirandized his dancer. Then he said, “You’re fired, Marina. Pack up your things and go.”

“But I swear I didn’t do anything, Mr. Michelli!” Patricia cried out.

Michelli glared at the dancer. “Get her out of here!”

By now, Patricia was sobbing. Her makeup was smeared, black streaks of mascara running tracks down her cheeks. She moved slowly, taking off her thong and her pasties until she was stark naked. With effort, she poured herself into her street clothes-a low-cut pink T-shirt, skintight jeans, spike-heel sandals, and a hooded sweater jacket. Since she was still wearing loads of cheap rhinestone jewelry around her neck and arms, she looked like a streetwalker. Patricia had stuffed her working clothes into a giant handbag and looped it over her shoulder. Tears were still washing her face. “It was all his idea.”

“You can tell us all about it at the station house.” Oliver grabbed one of Patricia’s arms and Marge grabbed the other. They led her out the back door, into the parking lot, and toward the unmarked car. Oliver let go of her arm to pull out the handcuffs. As soon as he did this, Marge turned Patricia until she was looking at the dancer’s back, pulling one of her arms behind her in anticipation of snapping on cuffs. That’s when something metallic winked at her.

It could have been the jewelry, but Marge didn’t stop to figure out what it was. She threw the woman down to the ground and pounced on top of her.

A.32 Smith & Wesson skittered out of Patricia’s hand, fell to the ground, and discharged, the bullet slicing through the car’s rear passenger tire. Immediately, the car sank off balance. Marge stared at the hapless vehicle.

What was it with her and flat tires at the most inconvenient times?

By now Marge was riding Patricia’s back and had yanked her arms around as Oliver clamped on the manacles.

“That was dumb.” He straightened up and picked up the dancer’s purse. “What else do you have in here, Patricia?”

“My name is Marina and I don’t have anything in there!”

“You have Mace.”

“A girl needs protection!”

“What the hell is this?” Carefully Oliver pulled out a leather sheath. Inside was a seven-inch boning knife. He handled it gingerly, knowing that he could be looking at a murder weapon. “A gun and a knife and Mace? Are you planning to take on some terrorists?”

“I didn’t do anything!”

“Lady, you just tried to shoot me!” Marge exclaimed.

“I wasn’t trying to shoot anyone,” Patricia yelled back. “If you wouldn’t have jumped me, the gun wouldn’t have gone off!”

“Oh my God!” Marge’s heart was beating like a hummingbird. She didn’t want to say anything she’d regret, so she kept silent.

Patricia was yelling. “I was just trying to get rid of the gun so I wouldn’t get into trouble.”

Marge got off the dancer’s back and jerked her to her feet. “Guess what, Patricia! It didn’t work!”

DECKER WAS GRATEFUL that he had gone home instead of straight to work. It had forced him to shower, change, and eat and made him much more presentable for the long hours needed for the upcoming interviews. Patricia Childress a.k.a. Marina Alfonse had been charged with capital murder, ADW, weapons possession, as well as resisting arrest. She wasn’t going anywhere. Ivan Dresden was another story. He had been asked to come in voluntarily to answer a few routine questions about the Beemer, using the pretense that the police were planning to return it shortly.

Decker wanted to see whose story best fit the forensic facts. He figured that both of them were in on the crime. Whoever was deemed the more reliable would be tapped as the state’s witness against the other. It was possible that neither one would qualify, but he wouldn’t know that until he had heard both sides.

Since Oliver had dealt with Patricia before and since it was likely that Patricia favored men over women, he was elected the primary interviewer of the stripper. Decker would try his luck with Ivan Dresden. He was relieved when Dresden walked into the station house without his lawyer-not likely to remain that way once the questioning got started. It was Decker’s job to put Dresden in a talkative mood.

“Thanks so much for coming in, Mr. Dresden.” He did a quick once-over of his prey. The stockbroker had on a black muscle T, a pair of black jogging pants, and a sweat jacket. Athletic shoes on his feet. His hair was combed back and he was newly shaven. The man appeared comfortable and that was good. To make him even more comfortable, Decker had brought in two cups of coffee with packets of powder and sugar and laid them on the steel table: that along with three steel chairs composed the furniture in the room. He sat down, took a sip from one of the paper cups, then loosened his tie and tried to appear casual. “Just in case you want some coffee.”

“No.” Dresden was dour. “How long is this going to take?”

“How about some water?”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“I know.” Decker grinned. “That’s a police technique we learn at the academy. Never answer questions.”

Dresden wasn’t biting. “When do I get my car back?”

“Aren’t you curious why we took it in the first place?”

Dresden said, “Is that also a technique? To answer a question with a question?”

“You caught me.” Decker pulled out a pad of paper and his pen. “We’re trying to rule out the possibility that you had anything to do with your wife’s disappearance. We checked your condo and that was clean. Next step was the car.”

“Then why did you bother with a warrant?” Dresden sulked. “Why not just ask me? You could have checked the car.”

Decker wrote as he spoke. “We just like to do everything by the book.”

“And what book is that? The comic book?” Dresden shook his head. “You said you had a few questions and then I’d get my car back. I came here without my lawyer. I’m trying to be cooperative, but everyone has a limit.”

“Then I’ll sum things up for you,” Decker said. “We talked to Jimbo Jim Franco at Jim’s upholstery. You had the entire car redone about a month after the crash. I’m curious about that.”

“First of all, I didn’t redo the entire car,” Dresden said. “I changed the carpets and the upholstery. Roseanne had some kind of whitey, creamy color that looked too feminine for my taste.” He looked down at the tabletop. “Also the car reminded me too much of Roseanne. I wanted to keep the car, but I didn’t want a ghost riding around with me. Plus, I sold my own car to pay some debts. So if that’s a crime, sue me.”