The Burnt House (8 page)

Finally, Delgado nodded. “Give me a day to poke around and dig through some phone slips, okay?”

“Great.” Marge wrote down her cell number. “Whatever you find out, I’d like to hear about it. For someone to commit fraud and profit from a death is not only pathetic, it’s immoral.”

“I agree, but just look at 9/11.”

“Of course,” Marge said. “You know, your paper should write a story
about that. You know how vultures swoop within minutes of tragedy to find a profitable angle for themselves.”

Delgado considered the idea and found it a good one. He spoke quietly and with a conspiratorial air. “If your investigation turns out to be fraud, I’ll run the whole thing past the desk editor. I’m sure with the right pitch, I can parlay this into some kind of a feature story.”

S
TUDIO CITY HAD
gotten its moniker from its proximity to the major movie corporations and broadcasting systems. It was ten minutes away from Universal, a quick trip across the canyon from Paramount, CBS, and all of old Hollywood, and a speedy fifteen-minute freeway drive from NBC in Burbank. The Greenwich Village of the Valley, it was a section of boutiques, florists, clubs, and coffeehouses, and most important, it had a big bowling alley where the beautiful and young Hollywood elite were often seen spending a recreational night out, just being plain folk.

Arielle Toombs lived in a wood-sided complex that was shaded in the hot, hot summers by dozens of lacy elms and giant sycamores. Each apartment had its own private balcony, but the pools, gym, and the recreation room were communal—enjoyed by anyone with a rent check that didn’t bounce.

Morning fog had given way to a tent of blue above, and as Decker climbed the stairs to Arielle’s third-floor apartment, he was already planning his weekend. Cindy and Koby were coming in for a way-
overdue Friday-night dinner, Saturday would be synagogue and study group in the afternoon, but Sunday would be his to plan, time unscheduled and unfettered by obligations. If Hannah had arranged something with her friends, a very frequent occurrence since she reached her teens, maybe he and Rina would take a spin out to Oxnard, to the kosher winery and restaurant. It had become one of their favorite places.

Decker’s knock was answered by a woman in her thirties: brunette, tall, and lithe. Her eyes were deep green and set off by her clothes—jade-colored, cotton capri pants, and an orange T-shirt. Her hair was pinned back into a ponytail and her feet were housed in flip-flops. “Are you Lieutenant Decker?”

“Yes, I am.” He showed her ID to back up his claim.

She smiled and said, “I suppose I should have asked who it was before I answered the door. But like they say, no harm, no foul. Come in. Would you like something to drink?”

“Water would be great.”

“Still or sparkling?”

Only in L.A
. “Either would be fine,” Decker said.

“Not a problem. Take a seat anywhere. Please excuse the mess.”

The mess consisted of newspapers lying on a mattress-style black sofa. It was low-slung and tufted with buttons, but surprisingly comfortable. Arielle’s living space was open and she had kept the furnishings sparse. Besides the sofa, the area had two side chairs, and a coffee table made out of acrylic. When she came back, she was carrying two glasses of sparkling water. She handed one to Decker, took a sip from her glass, and then sat down. “I don’t know how I can help you. It’s company policy to direct all questions about 1324 to their official task force.”

“I know that. And you should know, though, that the company can’t take away your freedom of speech.”

“It isn’t that,” Arielle said. “It’s just that in a crisis like this, so much misinformation is circulated. WestAir is just trying to keep it to a minimum.” She flipped her ponytail over her shoulder. “The guy over the phone, I forgot his name.”

“Detective Oliver.”

“Yeah, him. He mentioned Roseanne Dresden. That he had a couple of questions about her?”

“Actually, yes. I’d like to talk to you about Roseanne.”

Tears instantly pooled in her eyes. She put down her water and wiped her eyes. “Sure.”

“You knew her well?”

“Since eighth grade.”

“That’s a long time.”

“Yes, it’s a very long time.”

“You’re from Fresno?”

“Born and bred.”

“What brought you down to L.A.?”

“A boyfriend.”

“Did you come before or after Roseanne?”

“Before, I think, but I’m not sure. We weren’t close in high school. We ran in totally different circles. If you would have told me we would have winded up close friends, I would have said you were nuts.”

“Why’s that?”

“She was one of the popular kids and I wasn’t. To tell you the truth, I didn’t like her much back then. I thought she was a snob. We became close when we both started working for WestAir. The crash was horrible on so many different levels, but I can’t tell you how devastated I was when I found out about her. I was shocked that she had been scheduled to work San Jose.”

“Really.” Decker took out his notepad. “Why’s that?”

“I would have thought that she had no use for…anyway. When I thought about it, I figured it made some sense. She was having a hard time at home and maybe she felt it would do some good to get away, and San Jose opened up.”

“I’ve heard she had a rocky marriage.”

“Her husband was cheating on her and wasn’t subtle about it. Still, there must be two sides to every story.”

“What would you say his side was?” Decker asked.

A deep sigh. “I loved Roseanne. I truly did. She was lively, funny, loyal, and would give you the shirt off her back. She had an open heart and time for everyone.”

“But…”

“But every once in a while…” Arielle shook her head. “What can I say? That eighth-grade side of her would materialize and she could be absolutely awful. She could cut a person down with a few well-placed words.”

“A person like her husband?”

Arielle looked at the ceiling. “Roseanne was usually such a sweetie, so if you’d never seen it, it would throw you off guard. But I remember this one specific time that my boyfriend and I were at a dinner party with them—Rosie and Ivan. She was
really
upset with him, and was zinging him all evening. Every once in a while, he’d try to zing her back, but he was clearly out of his league.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah. Exactly! Ivan probably had it coming, but it was still pretty ugly, especially since…” She waved her hand in the air. “Never mind.”

Decker said, “Now’s not the time to play coy, Ms. Toombs. I really need to know what was going on between them.”

Arielle paused. “Why?”

It should have been Decker’s turn to say never mind. Instead, he fed her a little white lie. “We’re investigating the crash for insurance fraud. There seems to have been some dispute as to whom she named as benefactor of her policy. If she and Ivan had been having long-standing problems, it might have some bearing on the claim and counterclaim.”

“Well, if Rosie would have known what was going to happen to her, I’m sure she wouldn’t have left the twit a dime. But I don’t know if she had gotten around to changing her insurance policy.”

“So what were you hesitant to tell me a few moments ago?”

“Oh, golly! It’s just that Roseanne wasn’t such an angel herself.”

“Ah…” Decker nodded.

“But it’s still Ivan’s fault. She didn’t start doing anything until he stepped out on her repeatedly.”

Decker said, “Was she seeing anyone specific?”

“I suppose I should lay all the cards on the table. About six months ago, Rosie broke off a long-standing affair that she was having with a married man. He was in his fifties. I don’t know how rich he was, but I do know he spent a lot on her. Every time we went up to San Jose for work, and we’d have to spend the night there, she’d come back the next day with something shiny on her finger or on her wrists or earlobes. One time he bought her a diamond watch—a Chopard. That’s a very expensive brand.”

“Yes, it is. So maybe that’s why she was planning to work from San Jose.”

“If this had happened six months ago, I would have said of course, that’s the reason.” Arielle took a long gulp of her water. “But she broke it off and was resolved never to see him again. Mr. Married Man began having ideas about the two of them running off into the sunset, and while he was good for a trinket or two, she definitely didn’t want him around permanently. When she broke off the affair, Rosie told me that he was very upset with her. The whole thing ended badly. That’s why I found it so odd that she was on the plane, planning to work in San Jose.”

“Maybe they reconciled.”

“I…honestly don’t think so. She was trying to reconcile with Ivan. They were in counseling together, although it wasn’t working, according to her.”

“I’d like to talk to her ex-lover. I’ll need his name.”

“I can give it to you, but what relevance would it have to her insurance policy?”

“We’re just checking out all kinds of avenues,” Decker said. “Maybe if she was going to marry this guy, she would have changed her policy.”

“No, you’re on the wrong track. She had no intent of marrying Ray. Raymond Holmes. He’s five ten, two-seventy, and like I said, in his fifties. He was a builder. I found him as dull as dry toast. Roseanne would never marry him.”

“Why not? He could certainly give her the security that Ivan wasn’t giving her.”

“Roseanne never cared about security. Her father has money and she was earning a good living. Roseanne was interested in a shoulder to cry on and Ray was perfect for that…although I’m sure the jewelry didn’t hurt.”

“Tell me something, Ms. Toombs. How did Roseanne…with all her attributes…hook up with a loser like Ivan Dresden?”

“Have you ever met Ivan?”

Decker shook his head.

“He’s
really
good-looking. It’s his best asset. It’s his
only
asset. If he would have just been a slacker, and a spendthrift, I think Roseanne would have tolerated him because he’s great arm candy. It was the affairs. They made her look small. Even though she had her own fling, her heart wasn’t into it. She was planning on leaving him, but like I told you before, I don’t know if she got around to changing her insurance policy.”

If there was ever a convenient time for Ivan to whack her, it would have been then. Yet now that Decker had found out about Roseanne’s lover, her being on the flight to San Jose made a lot more sense, despite Arielle’s insistence that the relationship was over. Decker said, “I’ll take Raymond Holmes’s phone number and address now.”

“I’ll give you what I have, but it may not be current.”

“That’s not a problem. I’m sure he’s listed, at least professionally.”

“Yeah, according to Roseanne, he owns a successful contracting company.”

“According to Roseanne,” Decker repeated.

“I believe her. Roseanne was a lot of things, but she wasn’t a liar.”

“She was cheating on her husband. Isn’t that lying?”

Arielle thought about that. “More like lies of omission rather than lies of commission. I don’t know if she ever told Ivan about the affair. And I doubt that Ivan cared enough to ever ask.”

DECKER’S CELL PHONE
displayed a new message: Marge, and there was urgency in her voice. He called her back immediately and she picked up on the third ring.

“Where are you?” Decker asked.

“On my way back to the station house from the Crypt. We can put the brakes on the Dresden mystery. A female body just showed up on a slab from recovery.”

“Roseanne?”

“Nothing definitive, but who else would it be? Roseanne was the only female in the crash unaccounted for. The body is badly burned and badly decayed. The skeleton is extremely fragile. It took them almost four hours to transport it to the Crypt.”

“Do they have the jaw for dental records?”

“They have the entire skeleton, Pete. The problem is that it’s going to take a while to X-ray the teeth. Every time they touch something, a piece crumbles. Except for one area that was relatively unscathed.”

“Which area is that?”

“Back spine.”

“And the pathologist is pretty sure it’s her.”

There was a pause. “You don’t want to let go of this, do you?”

“I guess I just don’t like spinning my wheels. My fault. I made the assignments before recovery was done. I’m sure she’ll be identified and that will be that. I’ll call up the Lodestones and let them know the news.”

Marge said, “Even if the dentals aren’t perfect, we caught another break. We found some intact fabric and there was discernible writing on it…like a message T-shirt. Pink. We can go back and check if Roseanne owned a T-shirt like that one, maybe there’s even a photograph with her in it.”

“Great.” Still, Decker felt oddly disappointed. Some aspect of him had bought into the Lodestones’ fantasy idea that Roseanne hadn’t been on the plane. “Well, we’ll get some kind of identity soon enough, so it certainly doesn’t pay to put any more time into the case.”

“I wish I would have known about it earlier in the day. Save me a trip to the paper bullshitting with a reporter and pretending I was an insurance agent…although I must say I pulled it off nicely.”

“I used an insurance dodge, too.”

“Great minds think alike.”

“Call up Oliver and tell him to put the case in storage until further notice. I’ll meet you back at the station house and we’ll see what other mayhem the residents of the West Valley have cooked up for us.”

A
T THE SOUND
of the tentative knock, Decker lifted his head from his paperwork. It was Marissa Kornblatt, the squad room secretary, and her expression was as reluctant as her entrance. “So sorry, Lieutenant. I tried the intercom but your phone’s not working.”

“I unplugged it. Otherwise, I can’t get anything done. What’s going on?”

She handed him a thick pile of pink message slips. “These were last hour’s calls, but that’s not the issue. Farley Lodestone is on line three, and in typical fashion, he won’t take no for an answer.”

It was the seventh time the bereaved stepfather had called in two weeks. It was getting to be a morning ritual. He wasn’t taking the recent news well.

Hello, Farley
—they were on first-name basis now.

No, they haven’t positively ID’d the body yet, but they’re working on it. Yes, I’m so sorry it’s taking this long, but we all want to do the best possible job. The coroner and I will call you when we’ve got something definite to tell you.

Decker picked up the phone. “Hello, Farley. Pete Decker, here.”

“You must be sick of me calling.”

“Not at all. I just wish I had something to tell you. I haven’t heard from the coroner’s office yet, but it’s only eleven in the morning.”

“I just got off the phone with them, Decker. Not with the whole office. With Cesar Darwin. You ever talk to the man?”

“Several times. He’s a very competent doctor.”

“Good to hear, specially ’cause he talks with an accent.”

“He’s originally from Cuba. Is he the one doing the identification for the recovery?”

“He’s the one, and that’s why I’m calling you. When I talked to him, he sounded cagey.”

“Cagey?” Decker raked his fingers through his hair. “In what way, Farley?”

“Like he knew somethin’ and didn’t want to tell me. Call him up for me and find out what’s going on. If you call me back and tell me I’m bein’ paranoid, I’ll believe you. But I want you to be damn straight with me, Decker, if you also think that he sounds fishy.”

“Fishy?”

“I asked him if he got to Roseanne’s autopsy—a straight yes-or-no question. The problem is he didn’t give me a straight yes-or-no answer. What I got was doctor-talking, jumbled-up bird crap. I come to trust you, and I suppose that’s a compliment of sorts ’cause I don’t trust no one. So do me the favor, Decker. Call him up and see if your bullshit detector is as finely tuned as mine.”

THE CALL TO
Dr. Darwin was quick, but the answer wasn’t at all to Decker’s liking.

“I think this might be better if we meet in person,” he answered.

Cesar Darwin had been in the country for twenty-five years, but his accent was still thick and he was hard to understand over the phone. Decker thought it was because Cesar had been holed up in the Crypt talking to corpses instead of seeing patients with beating hearts. He probably didn’t get a lot of auditory feedback.

A face-to-face meeting was probably a good idea.

“It’s complicated?” Decker asked him.

“Yes.”

“What time works for you?”

“I have another autopsy. How about two? I’ll be done and I’ll be hungry. I know a great Cuban place not too far from here. Unless you want to meet at the Crypt.”

Decker thought back to his prekosher, Floridian days. Cuban cuisine offered very little in the way of pure vegetarian entrées. Even the rice and beans were often mixed with lard. On the other hand, the Cubans made a great cup of strong coffee. Besides, anything was better than the stench of dead bodies. “Cuban sounds fine. Give me the address and we’ll meet you there.”

“We?”

“I’m bringing along Detectives Dunn and Oliver. I fear that I might need them.”

WHILE DECKER NURSED
his coffee, Oliver, Dunn, and Darwin gorged on
pastelitos
—little puff pastries of ham, chicken, pork, and a Cuban specialty,
pacadillos
, a spicy ground beef. In addition to the savory tarts, there was a pot of pork adobo. Sides included fried black beans and fluffy white rice. The day was mild, which was convenient because the East L.A. storefront restaurant had no air-conditioning. The sidewalks were humming with activity, some of it legal, some of it otherwise, but it wasn’t Decker’s district and he wasn’t in the mood to look for trouble. Even though Decker couldn’t eat the food, he could smell it and the aromas had aroused his taste buds. Thank goodness he kept kosher. It helped keep his weight down.

There must have been considerable spice in the food because Marge was sweating even after taking off her sweater and rolling up the sleeves of her white blouse.

“Really good.” Oliver had shed his suit jacket and was now in the
process of loosening his tie and rolling up his own long sleeves. “How’s the coffee, Loo?”

“Good. And I should know. I’ve had four cups.”

“Caffeinated?” Marge asked.

“According to my heart, yes.”

Darwin summoned a local girl of about fifteen. She had chocolate, curly hair and gang insignia tattoos inked across her arms, neck, and back—everything from snakes and tigers to butterflies. The artwork was intricately done, which meant a lot of needles and a fair amount of pain. She wore a denim miniskirt and a black wife-beater T. Her toenails were painted black and her feet were shod in flip-flops. Lazily, she got up from her chair and took out a pad. The doctor had explained to them that her father owned the place and this was her employment since she dropped out of school.

“Coffee, Dr. Cesar?”

“For the table, Marta.”

She turned to Decker. “I think you had enough coffee.”

“You’re right. I’ll take water.”

“You don’t like Cuban food?”

“I had an enormous breakfast,” he answered her in Spanish. “I’m just not hungry.”

Marta wrinkled her nose. “You talk the talk, but you don’t walk the walk. I bring you some dessert, okay?”

“What kind of dessert?”

“Does it matter?”

“I don’t eat anything baked with lard.”

She harrumphed and turned tail. A few minutes later she was back with the coffees and a plate of sizzling hot fritters. “Vegetable oil only.”

Decker smiled and picked up the fried concoction. It melted in his mouth. “Oh, man, this is good. But it requires coffee.”

“I’ll bring you decaf.”

The better part of an hour had passed, and it was time for the discussions to begin in earnest. Decker turned to Darwin. “I’m sure my
fellow detectives are grateful for the meal, but that’s not why we’re here. What’s going on, Doc?”

“Ah, yes, the reason I called you down.” The doctor ate a fritter and blotted his lips on a paper napkin. “This is a very perplexing case, yes, and a most difficult autopsy. The skeleton has been thoroughly charred, everything reduced to bones and, unfortunately, ashes. We hope to make a definite identification through the teeth. We do have an intact skull, but it is very delicate. Since we don’t want to damage forensic evidence, we have been treating it quite gingerly. As a result, it has been hard to get the exact angle to match the dentition in the radiographs given to us by Roseanne’s dentist. The jaw is thicker in bone mass, so it is a bit sturdier and easier to position. But I must emphasize, what we are working with is very fragile.” Darwin stopped talking, taking a sip of his coffee. “I’ve had three forensic odontologists compare and contrast the pre-and postmortem radiographs. We all agree that the skull does not belong to Roseanne Dresden.”

The table fell silent. Oliver coped with the news by eating three fritters in a row.

Darwin said, “As you well know, the recovery team has accounted for all the missing females involved in the crash except Roseanne Dresden. So this unexplained female body poses a problem.”

“You’re sure it’s female?” Marge asked.

“The pelvic bones, by the angle and appearance, are almost certainly female,” the doctor answered. “But even if it was a small male or an adolescent boy, we’d still have a problem. Still unaccounted for from the crash are two male bodies: an old man in his seventies and another man in his forties. We do not have the pelvis of an old man or a man in his forties. It is most certainly a woman, and I would say probably a young woman. But an
old
young woman, meaning I think the body predated the crash. Once the mandible did not match up with Roseanne Dresden’s radiograph, we began to study the bones more carefully. On the top of the skull there is a well-formed depression.”

“Blunt-force trauma,” Decker said. “Homicide.”

“Probably that would be my ruling if the body was in better shape.
Right now I’m going with inconclusive because of all the extenuating circumstances.”

“How long has the body been lying there?” Oliver was up to number five in the fritter department. Last one, he swore to himself.

“If it would have been discovered before the fire, I would have had a much better idea. Now it is almost impossible for me to say.”

Decker twirled the ends of his mustache. He did that in order to prevent his hands from taking more dessert. “Can you at least tell us a race?”

“Possibly Caucasian, possibly Hispanic.”

Oliver said, “Well, in L.A., that’ll narrow it down to a few gazillion people.”

“Was she inside the wreckage of the building or was she found in the ground under the building?” Decker inquired.

“You’ll have to ask recovery, but I think there is still quite a bit of foundation left from the building. I can’t imagine why anyone would dig under the foundation and discover a body.”

“If she was found in the wreckage and not under the foundation, her death can’t be any older than the building,” Decker surmised. “So let’s find out when the building went up. Then we’ll go through the missing persons from that time forward. I’d like to send the skull out to a forensic reconstructionist and put a face on the bones.”

“The bones are too delicate. They would break under the impression material needed to make a cast of the skull. Then you would lose any forensic evidence that the original skull might produce.”

“This is a nightmare,” Marge said. “We finally find a missing body, but it isn’t Roseanne. Instead of one possible homicide, we now have two.”

Inwardly, Decker groaned. He hated cold homicides and this one was in deep freeze. But his main concern was dealing with Farley Lodestone. “Is there anything you can do to help us pinpoint a time of murder?”

“From the skeleton, no. But I think we have tremendous good luck in one regard.”

“The clothing!” Marge said.

“Yes, the clothing.” Darwin ate the last fritter and called for the check. “A chunk remained remarkably intact. No label but it seems that Jane Doe was wearing a shirt with lettering on the back. It was preserved because she was buried faceup and the shirt material was synthetic and not as prone to decay. I have it enclosed in a protective plastic bag. We can go back to my office and examine it under a microscope.”

Marta, the tattooed teenager, handed the bill to Darwin, but her eyes were on Decker. “Dessert okay?”

“Delicious.”

“Next time you come here, Germando can fix you up real good. No problem if you’re a vegetarian. We can do somethin’ for you.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Yeah, we get all kinds of requests nowadays. No this, no that, no this, no that…man, even the
cholos
are picky. Everyone’s tryin’ to cut down on the fat.”

THE L.A. COUNTY
Coroner’s Office was on North Mission Road in the once-notorious Ramparts district, northeast of downtown L.A. The police substation was now squeaky-clean, but though the mark of Cain was fading, it wasn’t entirely gone.

The morgue was two buildings separated by a walkway, offices to the right, the Crypt on the left. A perennial swarm of black flies welcomed the visitor at the front doors. After the detectives signed in and donned protective garb, including shoe covers and face masks, Darwin took them down to the Crypt, the smell in the elevator growing stronger with every inch of descent. No matter how many times Decker had dropped by, it was the stink that always got to him.

The corridor was quiet, the doors of the foyer leading to the glassed-in autopsy rooms and the refrigeration area used for the storage of the bodies. Because of the tremendous glut of corpses, there were cadavers on gurneys in the hallways, most wrapped in plastic sheeting, but others were more visible, skin gray and growing mold.

The pathologist’s office was off the main hallway, set up like a galley-style kitchen with cabinets above and below, and stainless-steel countertops that spilled over with instruments of the trade—microscopes of various intensities along with scales, calipers, scalpels, tweezers, and camera equipment. There were seven jars containing body parts that floated in unnamed scientific liquids, mostly digits being rehydrated for fingerprinting. Darwin’s desk was tucked into a corner and was piled high with papers. The office provided adequate space for one person, but was crowded for four adults.

The activity centered around a microscope, the doctor and the detectives taking turns as they tried to make out details on a sullied piece of cloth. The swatch was roughly a six-inch square, most of it mud-colored. With the aid of the lens, Decker could see individual threads that still carried some of the original pink dye. Darwin reduced the magnification in order to make out the lettering, the clearest section directly in the middle of the fabric. The paint was rapidly flaking off.

Decker peered into the eyepieces. “Takes a little getting used to.”

“Yes, it does,” Darwin agreed. “But you can make out words.”

“I can make out letters.”

“What letters?” Marge took out her notepad.

“V-e-s…”
A pause. “It looks like
v-e-s-t-o-n
.”

Marge wrote it down. “What else?”

“Underneath the
v-e-s-t-o-n
is
d-i-a-n
. Underneath that is
a-p-o-l
and underneath that is…” He let out a short breath. “I think it’s
p-e-k…
” He peered at the area with intensity. “Everything else is smudgy.”