The Burnt House (16 page)

I
T WAS A
condo in a neighborhood of block-long condo compounds, all of them refurbished, seventy swinging-singles apartment houses, each building bleeding into the next. The exteriors were fashioned from wood and stucco with balconies for every unit. The sycamores and elms that had been planted three decades ago as little sprouts were now mature trees providing shade and greenery—a good thing because summer temperatures in West Valley often reached one hundred degrees and beyond. Weaving in and out of courtyards abloom with impatiens and azaleas, Dunn and Oliver passed two swimming pools, four Jacuzzis, a glassed-in gym, a recreation room, two resident coffeehouses, and dozens of parking lots, giving the complex the feel of a planned community with suburbia mall overtones.

The Dresden unit was on the third floor of a three-story building. Ivan answered the knock with a scowl on his face. Briefly, Marge studied the man and decided that pictures didn’t do him justice. He had thick black hair, startling blue eyes, and a strong chin, his only imperfection being small pits and dots that landscaped his skin. He
was slightly shorter than Marge, around five ten, but he carried himself with an air of haughtiness thanks to a good-looking face and a sculpted body. He wore a black muscle T, long black sweats, with a towel around his neck, though he didn’t look as if he had just worked out. Every hair was in place, not a bead of sweat anywhere.

“Thanks for seeing us, Mr. Dresden,” Marge said.

“Do I have a choice?” he snapped back. “It’s not enough that I have to grieve for my wife, but you people are preventing me from getting my insurance. Money can’t take the place of Roseanne, but I don’t see why I should have to suffer any more than I’m doing.”

They were still standing outside. Oliver said, “Maybe it would be better if we talked indoors, sir?”

Dresden snorted but moved out of the way. The detectives entered the condo and looked around. The furniture was chain store contemporary, but nicely appointed. The place wasn’t a sty, by any means, but it could have used some tidying. There was a week’s worth of newspapers scattered about, and a trash can filled with empty beer cans, take-out Styrofoam cartons, and dozens of torn health-bar wrappers. Plus, the room would have benefited from a woman’s touch—flowers, pictures, candles—because everything was done in stark lines and in pale colors—whites, grays, and pastel blues, except for a lone black leather couch.

“As long as you’re here, you might as well sit down.” Dresden threw some newspapers onto the floor, revealing a sofa cushion. He waited until the detectives sat, then resumed his lament. “Maybe if I smile and say ‘pretty please,’ you’ll let me have what’s rightfully mine.”

“What makes you think we’re withholding anything from you?” Marge asked.

“Oh, c’mon! Do I look like a moron?” He pulled the towel off his neck and snapped it in the air. “I know that insurance companies will do anything not to pay, but it doesn’t help that the police keep asking about a body. Like it’s my fault that the recovery crew is a bunch of incompetent jerks?”

Oliver stepped in. “So you think that your wife died in the crash, Mr. Dresden?”

Dresden became incredulous. “Of course she died in the crash! You have another idea, I’m open to suggestions!”

“I know you’re aggravated.” Oliver crossed and uncrossed his legs. “Insurance hasn’t helped us one iota, either. And WestAir…” He waved his hand. “They’ve been downright obstructionist. So you’re our last hope. We need your help.”

“And if you help us out, we might be able to help you out,” Marge said.

“Mutually beneficial,” Oliver told him. “We’re going to have to ask you a couple of questions, but don’t take it the wrong way. We’re just doing our job.” Dresden made a sour face, but Oliver recognized mollification when he saw it. “When was the last time you heard from Roseanne?”

Dresden scratched his cheek. “These questions…do I need a lawyer?”

“Why would you need a lawyer?” Marge asked.

“Look, Ivan…can I call you Ivan?” Oliver asked. “We’re here to get help. I’m not asking these questions to trip you up. I’m asking questions because we’re trying to get a time line for your wife, which, by the way, is also what insurance needs.”

“We’re trying to re-create her last night before the crash.” Marge held up her notepad. “I got it broken down into hours. Just filling in the blanks.”

“Routine stuff,” Oliver said.

There was silence. Then Dresden said, “Okay. I’ll help you out as long as you tell me that Roseanne’s parents didn’t send you.”

“They didn’t send us and that’s the truth,” Marge said. “But I’ll be honest. They’ve been calling the station house nonstop for the past two months. They don’t like you.”

“They’re fucking nuts!”

“They’re persistent in their opinions,” Marge said.

“Exactly why I didn’t tell them the truth about the last time I saw Roseanne.” A sigh. “Roseanne and I had a monster fight the day before the crash. She stormed out of the condo around…I guess it
was about four in the afternoon.” His expression held a faraway look. “Next morning, I heard about the crash.” His eye watered. “I totally freaked…I…”

He didn’t finish his sentence. Oliver said, “Did you know that she had been assigned to work flight 1324?”

He took a few moments to catch his breath. “I got this phone message from her the night before…that she was subbing for someone and was up in San Jose for the evening. She told me that we’d talk about what happened when she got back the next morning. But then…” He threw up his hands.

“Okay,” Marge said. “What time did she call you?”

“I don’t know really. I got in very late and didn’t call her back.” He shook his head. “I wish I had…you know, talked to her before it happened. We had our issues, but still…you can’t imagine how guilty I feel.” He slapped his hands over his face. “I just can’t think about it. It’s too upsetting.”

Marge said, “I’m sorry to have to intrude like this, but where were you the night before the crash?”

“Not in San Jose. I can tell you that much. I was upset after the fight. I went out and got drunk. Not the smartest thing to do, but…”

“What was the fight about?” Marge asked.

“The usual.” The detectives waited. “Money.”

“Nothing about women?” Oliver didn’t wait for an answer. “We’ve done enough homework to know that things weren’t great between you two. You had your side friends and she was angry about it. But we also heard that she had some friends as well.”

Dresden went silent. Oliver supposed that even though Dresden was fooling around, his wife’s infidelity had wounded his pride. Gently he said, “Was the fight about her infidelity?”

“That wasn’t the core issue. But when we got angry, we both threw around the dirt. We had a more…liberated way of thinking. Anyway, the fight, like most of our fights, was about the almighty buck.”

“We heard she was pretty pissed off about your side friends,” Marge said.

“And I was pissed off about her sugar daddy. But like I said, that wasn’t the main issue.”

“Could she have flown up to San Jose to see him?”

“Doubt it,” Ivan answered too quickly. “That ended a long time ago.”

“How long?” Oliver said.

Then it was clear to see that the lightbulb went off in the husband’s brain.

One, Roseanne was up in San Jose.

Two, the recovery team never found her body.

Ivan became wide-eyed. “You think Roseanne went to see him and something happened to her?”

“We’re investigating everything,” Marge said. “The sooner we find out what happened, the sooner you can get your money.”

“Specifics would help, Ivan, to make sure we’re all on the same page,” Oliver told him. “For the records, who is
he
?”

“You don’t know?”

“How about a name?”

“Raymond Holmes. When I saw him, I couldn’t believe that Roseanne would sink that low for a Chopard watch.”

Marge said, “Never underestimate the power of jewelry.”

Ivan snorted again. “In answer to your question, sure it’s possible that Roseanne went to see him.”

“But you said that Roseanne told you she was subbing for someone,” Marge said.

“So what? It’s still possible that while she was in San Jose, she saw the fat prick and they had a fight. Roseanne was really good at starting arguments. And she was even better at really pissing you off. I could totally see that asshole losing it.”

“You knew him personally, Ivan?” Oliver asked.

“Nah…never met the dude. Just saw a couple of pictures. He looked like a football player gone to seed.”

“So how could you know if Raymond Holmes had a temper?”

“Even if you didn’t have a temper to start with, a couple months
with Roseanne, you’d develop it real quickly. Look, I know that Roseanne broke it off. I finally gave her an ultimatum—him or me. She didn’t have to think too long. I was there when she made the phone call. Still, Mr. Fat Ass has some problems with the word
no
. He kept calling her. I happened to answer the phone once. I told him to lay off my wife and he got really nasty. I said if I ever saw his ugly face around Roseanne, I’d kill him. He told me that I’d better be quick, otherwise he intended to shoot first.” He looked at Marge. “We never met and nothing ever happened, but even with just the one conversation, I could tell that the guy had a nasty temper.”

“Sounds like you have one yourself,” Marge said.

Dresden rolled his eyes and looked at Oliver for solace. “I never met the guy in person. I’m just trying to giving you opinions, that’s all.”

“And we’re happy to hear them,” Oliver said. “But we got a problem, Ivan. We think that WestAir never issued a work order for Roseanne for flight 1324. As a matter of fact, we can’t find any work order for Roseanne in San Jose, period.”

The room fell silent. Dresden became irritated. “So maybe I remember the message wrong. Maybe Roseanne just said she was in San Jose and we’ll talk about the fight later and I
assumed
that she had flown up on an assignment. So much has happened between then and now…” His anger suddenly retreated into sorrow. “So much that I want to forget. So you’re just going to have to accept my lapses of memory, all right?”

“Fair enough, Ivan, because we do know that the last call on Roseanne’s phone went through a tower in San Jose to your home phone,” Oliver told him. “So how’d you find out about Raymond Holmes?”

“Roseanne started showing up with things that went way beyond her salary. The last straw was her trying to make me believe that a Chopard watch was a giveaway from her airline, which was one step away from Chapter Eleven.”

Oliver laughed. “Yeah, we’ve heard that WestAir has financial problems.”

“The company was always late with its payroll, so talk about lame
lies. At that point, I pressed her and she confessed.” A bitter laugh. “All those times she was on my case just because I enjoyed a night out with the boys. Meanwhile, she’s boffing a butt-ugly old guy for a fucking watch.”

Oliver raised his eyebrows. “I guess you two really did argue a lot about money.”

“I told you, all the time. Roseanne was always getting on my case because I liked an occasional good time.”

Marge said, “Maybe she got on your case because your occasional good time was costing a hell of a lot more than her occasional good time.”

Dresden’s eyes darkened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means, Ivan, that we’re not idiots and that we’ve checked out a couple of things before we came down to see you,” Marge said.

Oliver said, “Not that I’m making any value judgments, because I’ve been to Leather and Lace myself. But on my salary, I forgo the lap dancing that’s reserved for the honchos that can afford to stick a C-note down a babe’s G-string.”

Dresden was silent.

“Mr. Michelli likes to maintain cordial relationships with the police,” Oliver went on. “We know you paid off an enormous lap-dance bill. You certainly don’t have to answer this question, Ivan, but we are a bit curious. Where’d you get that kind of money?”

“I work, you know.”

“That’s a lot of overtime,” Marge said.

“Fucking-A right about that!”

“How’d you come up with fifteen thousand dollars in one lump payment?”

“Like you said, I don’t have to answer that.”

“Of course not,” Oliver answered. “Although maybe you don’t want to leave us in a curious state. That’s when we start snooping around.”

“Snoop all you want,” Ivan growled. “I have nothing to hide.”

How many times had Marge heard that before?
She said, “We’ll find out if you have a second on the condo.”

“I don’t even officially own the condo,” he spat out. “Until she’s declared legally dead, all of her assets are frozen, for your goddamn information.”

Oliver held up his hands. “Peace, bro, we’re just trying to figure things out.”

“Well, if you want to figure things out, why don’t you ask Raymond Holmes where
he
was the night she phoned me.”

“Absolutely.” Oliver stood up and put his hand on Dresden’s muscled shoulder. “I’m not trying to take you down, bro. I’m just trying to get to the truth. In the long run, it’s good for you, because once we find out what happened to Roseanne—either in the crash or up at San Jose—you can get your money.”

Dresden was still fuming about his exposed personal life. Still, he blurted out, “I sold my car and I’m driving Roseanne’s Beemer. I can’t sell it, but I can sure as hell use it.”

“See how easy that was?” Oliver said.

“I should be taking a vacation in Mexico to clear my mind. Instead I’m working harder than I ever did. I’m also doing overtime.”

“Fifteen thousand dollars must constitute a lot of overtime,” Oliver said.

“Three thousand worth of overtime, ten gees for my old clunker. The rest came from pawning the jewelry given to Roseanne by Mr. Fat Ass. The Chopard watch went for about twenty cents on the dollar. Some lucky babe is going to get a very sweet deal.”

M
ARGE KNOCKED ON
the open door to the Loo’s office. “Have a few minutes?”

“Sure, have a seat.” Decker looked up from the list, noticing that Marge and Oliver were smiling. “How’d it go with Ivan Dresden?”

After relating the bulk of the conversation, Marge said, “He told us Roseanne had left a message on the answering machine. She said she was up in San Jose.”

“And that was about the only part he got right,” Oliver said.

Marge said, “The first time he told us about Roseanne’s message, he said that she was subbing for someone in San Jose. After we adroitly pointed out that WestAir hadn’t assigned Roseanne a shift in San Jose, he changed the line and said that she was up in San Jose, but he didn’t know why she was there.”

“So why
was
she there?” Decker said.

“Dresden pointed to the obvious, that she went up north to visit Raymond Holmes.”

“Yeah, he was also quick to tell us that Raymond Holmes has a temper,” Oliver said.

“Dresden met Holmes?” Decker asked.

Marge said, “No, he never met him, although he claimed he talked to the guy on the phone. From what we gathered, they got into a verbal pissing contest, but that was as far as it went.”

Decker said, “Do we know where Ivan Dresden was when his wife was in San Jose?”

“He was out for the evening, but didn’t say where,” Marge said.

“My guess is Leather and Lace,” Oliver said. “I think he’d like to keep his proclivities quiet until he gets his insurance money.”

Decker said, “If Roseanne was planning to come home from San Jose the next morning to talk over the fight, she probably took the five
A.M.
WestAir flight from San Jose to Burbank. So there’s a possibility that someone on that flight might have remembered her.”

“I thought about that,” Marge said. “The flight attendants and pilots who worked the five
A.M.
WestAir flight also worked flight 1324. Ergo, those WestAir employees are no longer alive to identify her.”

“The passengers from the five o’clock flight made it out alive.” Decker wondered how they felt, dodging the speeding bullet. “Maybe we can hunt down a passenger list and see if any of them remembers Roseanne.”

Oliver said, “Even if no one remembers her, she still could have been on the five o’clock flight.”

“Of course.” Decker thought a moment. “If Ivan’s telling the truth about Roseanne’s last words, that she said she was coming home in the
morning
to talk about the fight, why didn’t she deplane from the five
A.M.
flight at Burbank and just go home?”

Marge said, “One: She never made it back to Burbank. Two: She made it back to Burbank, deplaned before Erika Lessing came into work, and that was the last anyone ever saw of her again. Three: She got a last-minute assignment shift and was on flight 1324. Recovery just hasn’t found her body.”

Oliver said, “Option one points to her being bumped off in San Jose,
option two means she was bumped off in Burbank, option three, she died in the crash. Or, there is an option four—she’s alive and kicking under a new identity.”

Marge said, “Since the last phone call on her cell came from a tower in San Jose, we’re thinking we need to talk to Raymond Holmes.”

“When did you want to do this?” Decker asked.

“I’ve got a light schedule tomorrow,” Marge said.

“Can’t make it tomorrow,” Oliver said. “What about Thursday?”

“Thursday, I’m jammed,” Marge said. “I can do it myself, Scott.”

“Someone call up Raymond Holmes and make an appointment to interview him,” Decker told them. “If it’s tomorrow, I’ll go up with Marge. If it’s Thursday, I’ll go up with Scott. I want to talk to him personally. Roseanne’s parents have been calling me specifically, and I feel I owe them something.”

Marge said, “I’ll give Holmes a ring and let you know.”

“Great. By the way, before you two leave…” Decker handed them each a stapled packet of papers. “Here’s your homework: the complete list of the tenants from the destroyed Seacrest apartment house from 1974 to the present. I’ve taken 1974 to 1983. Scott, you take ’84 to ’94, and, Marge, you’ve got ’94 to the present.”

“What do you want us to do?” Oliver said, scanning the sheaves of paper.

“Go down the list and verify that all the names in your years are accounted for—either alive or dead with a death certificate. If you find a name that you can’t verify—there’s bound to be some of those—check them against our burned-up Jane Doe to see if any are potential candidates.”

“There’re a lot of people on my list,” Oliver said.

“There are a lot of people on my list as well,” Decker said.

“All that phone calling…” Oliver shook his head. “Carpal tunnel has wreaked serious havoc these days. It’s grounds for disability, you know.”

Decker reached inside a desk drawer and pulled out a bandage. “Here you go.”

“How’s that gonna help carpal tunnel?”

“It won’t. But if you put it across your mouth, it’ll stifle your bitchin’.”

FEELING HIS EYES
close, Decker sensed the papers slipping from his fingers, and wondered if he should give into that blissful sensation of nothingness. The alternative—to snap open the lids in an attempt to squeeze out a little more work before nodding off—seemed like a colossal waste of time and energy.”

“Do you want me to save you the puzzle?” Rina said.

Decker opened his eyes and took in a deep breath. “You can do it if you want.”

Rina took the papers that had landed on his lap and chucked them onto the floor. “Turn off the light and let’s go to sleep.”

No sense arguing with logic. Decker reached over to his nightstand table lamp and turned it off. He slithered under the sheets and slapped his forearm over his brow. “What time is it?”

Rina plumped up her pillow before settling down into bed. “A little past eleven.”

“You’re married to an old man.”

“I know. I was dying to go clubbing and you spoiled everything.” She stroked his arm. “What fascinating tidbit of police-science reading had you so captivated?”

Decker smiled in the dark and took his arm off his eyes. “I was going over a list of tenants that had resided in the now-destroyed Seacrest apartment from 1974 to 1983.”

“You’re trying to find your Jane Doe among those names?”

“Exactly. I’ve verified about half the people on my roster. I was just going over the rest of the names to see if something jumped out at me.”

“Like what?”

“A familiar person from an old high-profile case of long ago.”

“Were you with LAPD as far back as ’74?”

“Yes I was, but not homicide. Juvenile and sex crimes.” Again, he smiled. “As you may recall.”

“Yes, I recall something about that.” She rolled next to him and snuggled against his arm. “Wow. It seems like ages ago that we met.”

He put his arm around her shoulder and drew her close to his chest. “What a glorious day it was. I was doing my best Jack Webb and you didn’t appreciate it.”

“I did so. I thought you were very handsome and charming.”

“Really?” Decker shrugged. “I couldn’t tell.”

“You weren’t supposed to be able to tell. I would have died of embarrassment.”

“Then thank God I was dense.”

Rina said, “Did any names on the list ring a bell?”

“About a half-dozen names seemed vaguely familiar. I’ve checked those off and I’ll look them up in the police files first thing in the morning. Maybe I’ll get lucky, but I’m not harboring great hopes.”

“And you don’t have any other way of identifying the bones?”

“Did I tell you I spoke to Mike Hollander today?”

“No, you didn’t.” Rina propped herself up on her elbows. “How’s he doing?”

“Good, actually.” Decker sat up as well. “He looks the same only a bit grayer and older. I’m sure I looked the same way to him.”

“You haven’t aged at all,” Rina said.

“Spoken like a true wife.”

“Did you show him the plans?”

“Yeah, yeah, Mike was great. He told me he’ll make it a priority and get some numbers back to Cindy and Koby right away. But that’s not why I mentioned him. We got to talking about the Jane Doe and our inability to reconstruct a face directly on the bones because they’re too fragile. Anyway, he said that he saw something on a
Cold Case File
that he thought might work.”

“What?”

“Something about a computer-generated process that replicates a skull in wood or plastic. The upshot is that a forensic artist can create a
face because the bony landmarks are visible in the model. I was a little confused about the process and so was he. The problem is that the tape of the episode is no longer for sale and we can’t seem to locate a copy.”

“Does Mike remember the case?”

“No, and that’s the problem. There was a little trailer for the episode, but it just hinted at the forensics and didn’t mention anything specific, except that the case took place in Wisconsin.”

“I’m sure the tape exists somewhere.”

“Hollander said the same thing. He’s trying to hunt it down. In the meantime, I have Wanda Bontemps looking up high-profile cases in Wisconsin.” Decker threw his head back and blew out air. “We’re not at desperation time yet, but we’re getting there.”

“It’ll work out.”

“Sometimes it does, and sometimes it doesn’t.”

“Maybe you should take a breather from trying to identify the victim and instead concentrate on the apartment house.”

Decker scratched his head. “Excuse me, I’m confused. There is no apartment house.”

“There is an apartment house, albeit crushed and burned. Walls talk, Peter, even burned ones.”

“Sure, I have long conversations with walls all the time, especially when I’m talking to idiots.”

“You mock, but it’s true.”

“I’m not mocking.” Decker turned off the sarcasm. Rina didn’t offer advice that often, so it paid to listen when she did. “What do you mean?”

Rina said, “Just because concrete, ash, and wood are inanimate objects doesn’t mean that they have nothing to say. In Judaism, we have a definite concept of walls being harbingers of messages.”

Decker smiled. “The writing on the wall.”

“That was literal. The Mene from the book of Daniel. In that case, the message was cryptic and volumes have been written on what it meant. But the messages are not always so mystical. Look at the laws of Tzarat…leprosy…not the bacterial kind of leprosy that we see today.
Instead, it’s a spiritual leprosy. One contracts Tzarat when one does
lashon harah
—gossips against his fellowman. It is manifested by sores all over the body.”

“Like when Miriam spoke against Moshe in the Bible.”

“She wasn’t talking badly about her baby brother. She just thought he should spend more time at home with his wife. But G-d took umbrage. In that case, she was immediately stricken by Tzarat, because Miriam was a prophetess and a holy woman should not be gossiping about her brother even if it was with good intentions. There’s usually a warning system with Tzarat. First the walls of the home contract the disease as a visible sign to its inhabitants to change their ways. If these writings on the walls are ignored, the disease progresses until Tzarat is contracted corporeally by the occupants.”

“Okay,” Decker said. “Next time I find a Jane Doe, I’ll look for sores on the walls of her living room.”

Rina kissed her husband’s hand. “You scoff, Lieutenant, but that’s exactly what you do as a detective. You scour a crime scene to help you solve a murder.”

“Good point, Rina, except in this case, the crime scene was destroyed.”

“Nothing is ever fully destroyed,” Rina pointed out. “Look at Jerusalem, Peter. Anytime someone excavates in the ground—like for an archaeological dig or even just to build a new foundation for a building—something is always left behind. It could be anything from modern-day trash to old coins and relics and water jugs. About ten years ago, someone discovered an ancient tomb from the Second Temple era right in the middle of the suburban area of Rahavia. Just because something was destroyed on top doesn’t mean that the underneath has no story to tell.”

“I’m not saying that
everything
was destroyed. Obviously recovery has unearthed hundreds of body parts and personal effects. All I’m claiming is that the original crime scene was blasted into oblivion and the ground is basically an ashtray.”

“Sometimes ash is a great preserver,” Rina insisted. “If you take one
of those tunnel tours underneath the Western Wall, you can actually see where the Romans dismantled original stones from the Second Temple. They knocked down almost the entire structure and burned what they didn’t smash into smithereens. And they’re still finding a lot of stuff had been preserved.”

“Jerusalem’s a lot older than Canoga Park.”

“But L.A. has its own relics. Look at the La Brea Tar Pits…and all the stuff we’ve unearthed from the Chumash Indians.”

“So if I find a saber-toothed tiger, I’ll concede defeat,” Decker answered.

“Now you’re being sarcastic again.”

Decker smiled. “Look, sweetheart, I understand what you’re saying. And I know Jerusalem is filled with history despite all the destruction. But the Second Temple area was a lot bigger than the apartment house on Seacrest. So it stands to reason that more of it would have survived.”

“Okay, that’s true,” Rina admitted. “But it doesn’t have to be a massive structure to tell a story. Look at the Burnt House in Jerusalem. In the early seventies, archaeologists unearthed a Roman house from the Second Temple that had been burned down. Much of was preserved by ash. Not just the structure, Peter, but also they dug up a lot of ancient artifacts. And that house wasn’t nearly as big as the apartment building on Seacrest. So what do you have to say to that?”

Decker smoothed his mustache. “Point well taken.”

And it was true. At a crime scene, he often wound up looking through piles of detritus to locate that one crucial nugget of evidence. Because of his conversation with Rina, he realized that he had neglected a very important aspect of the investigation. No one had actually gone down to the original crime scene—the place where recovery had found the Jane Doe—and checked it out for forensic material in person.