The Burnt House (11 page)

A
S A SATELLITE
airport, Burbank usually had manageable crowds, which translated into shorter check-in and security lines, and officials who were friendlier and, in general, less bureaucratic. But even a small airport had post-9/11 concerns, and the head of security kept Marge Dunn parked on the wrong side of the metal detectors since she was lacking proper authorization. Because there wasn’t any hope of getting clearance from WestAir, Marge resorted to plan B, working her charm on the staff behind the check-in counter.

There was no scheduled WestAir flight in or out for the next two hours and the sole person manning the counter appeared lonely and bored. Marge put him in his late twenties, sporting a round face and a pinched mouth. She smoothed her navy skirt, rotating the waistband until the zipper sat against her left side. Why the contraption on this particular skirt moved to center when she walked was one of those unexplained mysteries of life. She sauntered up to the WestAir desk and flashed the man her cheeriest smile. He responded in kind and displayed his own white teeth.

“Can I help you?”

“I think you can. I’m from Acona Insurance Corporation, which is a subsidiary of Livalli Corp. We’re working on a specific claim in regard to flight 1324 and we need verification for the benefactor that the victim was on said flight—”

“I’m sorry,” the clerk said. “All questions regarding flight 1324 need to go through the WestAir task force. I can give you the task-force phone number, if you’d like.”

Marge leaned over and dropped her voice to a whisper. “Can I be frank, Mr….”

“Baine.”

“Mr. Baine, I’m Marge Dunn.” She held out her hand and a reluctant Mr. Baine shook it. “Your task force has a problem returning telephone calls. I don’t think they’re very anxious to settle their claims.” She watched Baine’s reaction. When he didn’t immediately defend the company, she depressed her brain’s ad-lib button. “We suspect the company is having severe cash-flow problems. We understand that they’ve even withheld some payrolls checks—”

“Only once,” Baine interrupted.

“I’m not here to knock the management, Mr. Baine, I just need information.” She brought her face closer to his. “I’m representing one of your own flight attendants—Roseanne Dresden. I just need to verify that she was on the flight and then I can give her poor husband a little solace as well as money.”

The clerk harrumphed.

“Do I detect a note of skepticism?” Marge inquired.

A shrug. “I didn’t know either of them very well.”

“Yet you have your opinions.”

“She was well liked. He wasn’t.”

Marge nodded. “I’ll hear anything you want to tell me.”

“My opinions won’t help your situation. Why do you need verification for Roseanne specifically?”

“All of the other bodies have been recovered except hers.”

Baine was taken aback. “I thought they found it a couple of weeks ago.”

“False alarm.”

“Really.” Baine pursed his little lips. “That’s too bad.”

“It’s heartbreaking, actually. Her parents are waiting for news, but we’ve got nothing to tell them.” Marge paused for effect. “This is the situation, Mr. Baine. Roseanne wasn’t ticketed for the flight. We were told that she hopped one of the jumper seats, and was on her way to work in San Jose. But we haven’t found
anything
that puts her on the plane other than the fact that no one has heard from her since the crash.”

“And that’s not enough?”

“Not in this century. If she boarded the flight, she had to pass through security. None of the security agents specifically remember seeing her, but that was a long time ago.” A little lie, but it was harmless. “All I want to know is who worked the gate for flight 1324. Maybe someone remembers seeing Roseanne board the flight.”

Baine was silent, weighing something in his brain. He picked up a phone and turned his back as he spoke into the receiver. A moment later he hung up and pointed to the exit. “Directly across the street, there’s a coffee shop. She’s waiting for you there. You can’t miss her…she’s in uniform.”

“Thank you. And she has a name?”

“She does, but it’s up to her if she wants to give it to you.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” As Marge turned to leave, he said, “It was actually two times.”

She faced him. “Pardon?”

He crooked a finger and she leaned over. Baine whispered, “WestAir held back a month of paychecks—for all their employees. We had to accept the conditions or else the company claimed it would file for Chapter Eleven. Even with that, there still may be some cutbacks.”

“Wow, that’s a rotten deal.”

“What can I do? I need this job.”

“At least the cuts affected everyone,” Marge said.

“So they say,” Baine answered. “Last I heard, the CEO still owned his yacht.”

A SLIM ATTRACTIVE
redhead held out her hand to Marge. “Erika Lessing.”

“Marge Dunn.”

Introductions done, they sat opposite each other at a corner table. The coffee shop was one of those retro cafés made to look like a fifties automat. The tables and chairs were tubular metal and the upholstery was faux leather colored oxblood red. Waitresses wore white uniforms protected by frilly aprons and had little white caps on their heads.

Erika was easy to spot in her WestAir uniform: the white shirt, black skirt, and yellow blazer made her look like a bumblebee. She seemed no older than her late twenties with her ginger hair swirling in a nest of curls. Her eyes were dark brown and tired. “You’re a claims adjuster?” She focused her eyes on Marge’s face. “My father was an adjuster. I worked for him for several summers. I got to know the business very well. There’s good money in insurance. You want to know why I didn’t pursue it?”

“Sure.”

“I got tired of people lying. Idiots padding every claim, trying to suck the company dry because the morons figured that insurance is paying, so why not? The company retaliates by raising rates to exorbitant levels, or worse, by stalling legitimate claims and dragging its heels. Meanwhile, some poor jerk with a totaled car taking the bus to work for months, waiting for the check to finally materialize five years later. It deals with the worst aspects of human beings.”

“Tell me how you really feel,” Marge said. “Don’t hold back.”

Erika’s smile was angry and tight. “Eliot told me you’re looking for the people who worked the gate for flight 1324.”

“Eliot being the Mr. Baine at the check-in counter.”

“Yes, that’s him. He called me because he knew I was across the street, trying to relax and read the paper before I go to work.”

“I’m sorry to disturb you, but you can understand why this is important.”

“I worked the gate,” she admitted. “Normally I wouldn’t talk to you, but if after all this time, someone is still nosing around Roseanne Dresden, I figure it’s time to say my piece.” A deep sigh of regret. “I feel like unloading, and tag, you’re it.”

“I’m open to anything you want to tell me.”

“You don’t know how stressful the last couple of months have been.” She pointed to her chest. “
I
checked in all those people. I feel like I sent them off to die. I know it’s not rational, but…” She shook her head. “Honestly, I’m still in shock. I’m depressed all the time. And angry and listless. And I feel so damn guilty!”

“Things sound very tough at your company and it doesn’t sound like you’re getting any support.”

“None. They don’t even like us to talk about it. Afraid we’ll say something that might inspire more lawsuits. Right now that’s all they’re concerned about. But you didn’t hear that from me.”

“Of course not.”

Erika’s eyes moistened. “So here’s my story, Ms. Dunn. In general, I made good decisions. I took the right job for me…well, up until the incident. I bought a condo when rates were low. I have a wonderful set of friends…but everyone has their downfall.”

“And yours is men,” Marge said automatically.

“It’s that obvious?”

“I’ve been there. Don’t fret. There’s hope in the future.”

“I’d like to think so.” Another sigh. “I liked Roseanne, I really…” Her voice choked up. “I just have this thing for bad boys. I’ve gone to the altar three times and I’m only twenty-eight. Just when I think I’m ready to finally settle down, some wise guy with a sexy smirk winks and worms his way into my heart.”

“Ivan Dresden.”

“Have you ever met him?”

“I’ve seen a picture. He’s good-looking.”

“Gorgeous but a real con artist, but ultimately it was my decision to take off my clothes. I didn’t care that he was married, but I should have cared that he was married to Roseanne. I considered her a friend, and for those six months, I lived in fear that she’d find out.”

“Who finally called it off?”

“I did. You can’t work with someone in a closed environment like the inside of a plane if there’s bad blood. Your life may depend on them.”

“And you’re sure that Roseanne never found out?”

“I’m certain she never knew. Not that I didn’t have a couple of close calls. Once when we were out to lunch she broke down and confessed that she thought Ivan was having an affair. When she muttered those words, time stood still. I almost confessed, but then it was clear that she was railing against another woman. Good thing I was slow to react. Apparently, the creep was two-timing both of us!”

“Do you remember the name of the other woman?”

“Melissa…Miranda…” She shrugged. “No one who worked for WestAir.” She took another sip of coffee. “I have a reason for telling you about my sordid little escapades. What you’re really looking for—if I understood Eliot correctly—is a witness who saw Roseanne board flight 1324.”

Marge felt her heart jump. “You saw her board the aircraft.”

“No, I didn’t see her board the aircraft and that’s the whole point. Since I had an affair with Roseanne’s husband, I made it a point to notice Roseanne so I can prepare myself. I have to do that…prepare myself mentally. I’m fair and I blush easily. I didn’t want her asking questions like ‘What’s wrong?’”

“Aha.”

“If Roseanne would have passed through those gates, I would have noticed her. But I didn’t see her. That means she wasn’t there.”

“Could she have boarded the aircraft before you got to the gate?”

“No, because I was already at the gate checking people in when the aircraft came in from an early morning flight from San Jose.”

“Could Roseanne have been on the flight coming in from San Jose and not have gotten off the plane?”

Erika gave the question some thought. “It’s possible. Sometimes the flight attendants don’t deplane, but usually they do. We prefer to freshen up in facilities that are bigger than a bread box. Anyway, that wasn’t the story, was it? The story was she boarded the plane here in Burbank and sat in a jump seat.”

“But it is possible that her husband got Roseanne’s flights all mixed up. He could have been listening to his wife with half an ear and jumped at the opportunity to get rid of her so he could call up one of his many girlfriends.”

“Can I ask why you, as an insurance adjuster, have delved into Ivan Dresden’s bad habits?” Erika narrowed her eyes. “You know you haven’t shown me a lick of identification. Insurance adjusters do that routinely. So why don’t you tell me who you really are since I was forthright with you?”

Marge gauged her hard eyes. Erika was hostile, but she was also in pain. There had probably been times in the heat of the affair when she had wished Roseanne dead. Now she was carrying around an irrational guilt that her wish had come true. Marge dug into her purse and pulled out her badge and ID card.

“Police?” Erika was genuinely surprised. “Why are the police involved?”

“Because Roseanne’s body hasn’t turned up, so officially she’s a missing person. It’s been over two months since anyone heard from her, so it’s very likely that she’s dead…and it’s starting to look like she didn’t die in the crash. That’s where I come in. I’m from homicide.”

“You think she was
murdered
?”

“Right now I’m trying to rule out murder. Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to do that.”

“You think it was Ivan?” Erika kneaded her hands. “Don’t answer that. I don’t want to know.”

“I couldn’t answer you even if I knew. But I’m being honest when I tell you that I don’t even know
if
she was murdered. That’s why I need to talk to everyone who was involved with the crash. So far, your company has been making things very difficult. But you have been very helpful.”

“Don’t make me regret it.”

“You won’t regret it. You’re bringing justice to a friend.”

“That’s a nice way of putting it.”

“One more question and then I’m done,” Marge said. “Was anyone else working the gate with you, Ms. Lessing?”

The woman didn’t answer. She stopped playing with her hands, took a final sip of her custom coffee, and stood. “Sara McKeel. But you didn’t get the name from me.”

THE NUMBER OF
missing women who fit the physical forensics of Jane Doe’s charred body was staggering. Decker had pulled up over a decade’s worth of missing-persons files—from 1971 when the building went up through 1981—when Marge knocked on the door frame to his office.

“Come in, sit down, and tell me some good news,” Decker said. “Because from where I’m sitting, things are sucking big-time.”

“Why’s that?” Marge pulled up a chair and sat across from the lieutenant.

“One hundred and seventeen women and girls went missing between ’71 and ’81 in the Valley alone. Some were probably custody cases, some may have resolved without our knowing it, but some have to be open files. A few of you unlucky souls are going to be assigned the nasty task of announcing heartbreak to families who may have felt they were finally moving on with their lives.”

“I think we should let Wanda and Julius do the calling. Both of them have nice phone voices.”

Decker handed her a bunch of stacks. “You’re a sergeant. Make the assignments as you see fit.”

“I love my rank.” Marge took the paperwork and sat it on her lap. “I wanted to bring you up-to-date with Roseanne Dresden.”