The Burnt House (17 page)

“Now what are you thinking about?” Rina asked him.

“I’m thinking that you are a very bright lady. It’s time I visited a crime scene.”

S
OMETIMES L.A. SUNRISES
were preceded by spectacular, awe-inspiring displays of color—brilliant oranges, royal purples, and shocking pinks. On other occasions, they consisted of an insipid, dishwater-gray light breaking through an overcast sky. Such was the case this morning. June gloom had covered the basin with a layer of lint, and it was chilly and damp: what the locals would describe as just plain yucky.

It didn’t help that Decker was staring into a desolate area—a seven-foot Cyclone fence encircling a pit as if it were a zoo cage under restoration. Inside, several excavators and steel bins of biohazardous material stood inert and ominous. Yellow caution tape flapped in a wind pungent with the odor of charred blackness. He raised the zipper on his bomber jacket and sipped hot coffee from his thermos. Then he checked his watch. It was a little before seven. The crew wasn’t scheduled to be out until ten, and the one person he did manage to reach—an NTSB field officer named Catalina Melendez—was a mother of two school-age children and couldn’t make it down before eight.

That was okay. It gave Decker ample time to look around and absorb what he had neglected. He capped the thermos and laid it on the sidewalk. He grasped the cold metal of the makeshift fencing and peered inside the perimeter.

What had it been like…to have been trapped in that inferno?

Staring into bleakness, he suddenly sensed motion from the corner of his eye. “Hey,” he yelled out. “Hey! Police!”

A shadowed figure pivoted and took off, scaling over the fence and dropping to the ground on the opposite side from where Decker was standing, vanishing within moments. There was no way that Decker could catch up and he let it ride. The person could have been someone homeless camping out, or more likely, it was a vulture, scavenging for coins. Disaster sites were often pilfered for valuables.

Decker scribbled down a few cursory notes, then took out a camera and began snapping pictures. By the time he had taken most of his detailed photographs, it was almost eight. Catalina Melendez showed up twenty minutes later. She was small, with mocha-colored skin, and solidly built. Wisps of curly black hair were blowing about her face and in her mouth. She pulled them from her lips with fingers topped with clipped nails. She wore black slacks, boots, and a black bomber jacket with a yellow
NTSB
emblazoned on back.

“Sorry I’m late.” She pulled out a set of keys and began sorting through them. “My six-year-old had an accident involving a carton of orange juice. How long have you been waiting?”

“Not so long,” Decker lied. “I really appreciate you coming down this early…it’s Officer Melendez, right?”

“Yeah, but call me Cat.” Again, she pulled strands of hair from her mouth. “It looks like we’ve got a little wind and that’s not helpful. It blows the residue around. I hope you have a mask. You don’t want to be breathing in this muck.”

Decker pulled a face mask from his jacket and put it on.

“Here we go.” Cat opened one of the five padlocks that secured the area. “It’s Detective Decker, isn’t it?”

“Pete is fine.”

“You’re from local homicide.”

“Yes…West Valley.”

“And this is regarding the Jane Doe we found about ten days ago.”

“That’s the story. Can you tell me where you found the body?”

“Sure can,” Cat said. “Watch your step and try to stay on the pathway.”

Decker looked down at a well-worn, rutted groove running through the area. He was surprised at how much powdery burned material remained and remarked upon it.

“Yeah, we’re going through it really slowly, not only for the purpose of gathering corroborating evidence for the accident, but to make sure we don’t overlook any biological material. Technically, body parts are the coroner’s responsibility, but we’re much more used to doing this than they are.”

“And technically, anything revolving around Jane Doe is our department because it’s pretty clear that she was a murder victim.”

“Yeah, we all knew that the Jane Doe wasn’t our missing body from the accident—the flight attendant.”

“Roseanne Dresden.”

“Yes, mysterious Roseanne.”

“Any signs that she was on the plane?”

“You’d have to ask the coroner for details, but frankly…” Cat lowered her voice. “I think someone made a mistake…or worse.”

Decker said, “Fraud.”

Cat shrugged. “Insurance detectives are pretty much on the ball, but you can’t catch every liar out there. And the more time that goes by, the harder it is.”

Decker knew it wouldn’t have been the first time that some scamster badass had disappeared after telling the spouse to make a death claim. Afterward, the two of them would ride into the sunset with the insurance money. It was possible that Roseanne and Ivan were in cahoots with the intent of defrauding insurance.

He and Cat walked gingerly around pits and pools of the charred material. Evidence buried under the ruins, not unlike the house in Jerusalem that Rina had been talking about. An occasional wind kicked
up. Swirling cinders encircled their ankles like a swarm of bees. It was a black, barren landscape of fire and smoke, yet healthy shoots of emerald-green plant matter had surfaced and stretched toward the sunlight. Ash was a terrific fertilizer. The only other colors in the lightless painting were provided by wrappers and cups from fast-food chains. Cat bent down and picked up a McDonald’s bag filled with garbage and ants.

“Ick!” She looked around for a designated garbage bag and dropped the refuse inside. “So freaking annoying. It contaminates everything. Lucky for us, we’re almost finished.”

A preliminary conclusion reached by at least the media was that faulty hydraulics were to blame. Decker asked her about it.

“Not for me to say,” Cat answered. “We’ve got zillions of pieces in an airplane hangar. Engineers will sort them out and get to the bottom of it, but it takes about a year. Sometimes longer. Sometimes never.”

Decker said, “You said you knew right away that the body wasn’t a crash victim. How’d you know if you weren’t the one who examined the body?”

“Experience. The remains were too intact. Most of what is pulled up has been scattered and pulverized.”

“Still, you’ve identified everyone else involved in the accident.”

“Yes, the coroner’s office has done an amazing job. Incredible what a good team can do with a single tooth and a femur. Anyway, after you see enough accident sites, you know what belongs and what doesn’t.” Cat checked an electronic compass. “Okay, we found her right about there.” She pointed to small white chalked spot. “I entered the coordinates in my little organizer. I figured that eventually someone from homicide might want to take a look at the spot.”

The area was near the southwest corner of the apartment building. Decker gloved up and squatted down. “Can I take a look?”

Cat squatted next to him. “Sure. Just go slowly.”

Using his fingers, he pushed aside ash and debris, filtering the material through his fingers, attempting to pick up anything that might have been associated with his Jane Doe. “Do you know if she was found under or above the foundation?”

“It’s hard to say because the collapse of the building broke through a lot of the foundation. And when we started digging around, it was hard to separate before and after. I’ll tell you this much. We always recover lots of incidentals at accident sites, especially if the integrity of the building was compromised.”

“Like what?”

“Money, jewelry, drugs, guns…almost anything people want to hide.”

Decker continued sifting. He wasn’t having much luck. Things that appeared solid at first glance disintegrated through the gaps in his fingers. He scooped up more of the cinders and let them fall through his fingers, repeating the process for several minutes as he dug deeper. Abruptly, Decker touched upon something embedded in the soil. His fingers dug around the object until he loosened it from the packed ground. What he pulled up was hard and round and sooty with a hole in the middle. Despite the heat and the fire and what must have been several thousand degrees’ worth of Fahrenheit temperature, the object had managed to retain its original shape.

“What is it?” Cat asked.

Decker wiped the object on his bomber jacket to remove some of the soil and gave it to her.

“A plastic ring,” she said. “Looks like something you’d find in an eight-year-old’s goody bag…or a prize that you’d find in a quarter gumball machine.”

“Can I take a look at that again?”

She handed the ring to him. Even though it had been scorched with dirt, Decker could make out a blue stone or piece of glass in the center. If it had been gold and the glass had been a gem, it would have resembled a cabochon sapphire in the middle of a man’s pinkie ring. He was amazed that the plastic had not melted. Perhaps it had been shielded by the body or had been buried even deeper. He held it up to the strong, midmorning sunlight. As he bathed the object in the warmth of the rays, the stone began to change from dark blue, to ice blue, to pale pink. He let out a chuckle.

“What?” Cat asked.

“I know what this is. It’s a mood ring.” He regarded her face. “You’re too young to remember the original fad; mood rings were really popular in the sixties and seventies. This may have belonged to my Jane Doe. Can I keep it?”

“If you think it might help.”

“It might. Maybe someone remembers a young woman wearing a mood ring.”

Cat stood up and so did Decker. She said, “First, let me take a picture of the ring and categorize it—date, time, and place. We need to make sure it didn’t belong to any of the victims of the accident.”

“Yes, of course.” Decker waited until she was done and then dropped the ring into a small paper evidence bag. He peeked inside. Bereft of light and heat, the stone had paled to something between cold steel and graveyard gray.

IT FELT EERIE
to be taking a flight from Burbank to San Jose on WestAir, sitting in an aircraft identical to the one that had plunged into nothingness just months ago. Decker felt a palpable tension during takeoff, and relief after the plane had reached cruising altitude and a quick beverage service had begun. He checked his watch, first to measure his heartbeat, which was thumping more than normal, then to calculate the time until arrival. It was almost two and they had about forty minutes to go. He glanced at Marge, who was looking over her notes. She had her hair pulled back into a ponytail and wore a white shirt and a black skirt. Black pumps on her feet. Recently she’d started wearing reading glasses. These were small and dark framed. It gave her a sort of sexy, schoolteacher look.

Decker said, “So you found Raymond Holmes to be cooperative?”

“Very.”

“Even though we’re interviewing him about his mistress and he’s married?”

“That was his only request…that we keep the family out of it. I told
him I didn’t see a reason to include the wife and kids, and after that, he was easy.” She took her glasses off, regarded Decker, and raised her eyebrows. “Almost too easy.”

“Glib?”

“I don’t know, Pete. We’ve all been thinking along the same lines, that Roseanne wasn’t on that plane. That means we could be interviewing her murderer.”

“True. But first let’s just find out about their relationship. If he’s involved in her disappearance, at the very least we need him to admit that he saw her the night before she vanished.”

“So how do you want to handle the interview?”

“I guess it depends what we find out from WestAir in San Jose. Were you able to get any cooperation from the corporate honchos or are they still being difficult and referring you to their special task force?”

“Actually, WestAir has seemed to ease up a little. Someone gave me a name—Leslie Bracco. Apparently, she manned the check-in desk for the five
A.M.
flight from San Jose to Burbank. I couldn’t get an interview with her first thing, so we’re talking to her after we talk to Holmes. I made it around five.”

“That’ll work. Let’s handle Holmes like we handled Ivan Dresden. We’re just talking to him to get a timetable of Roseanne’s last movements.”

“Makes total sense.” She leaned to her left and looked out the window. “How long do you think the interview with the flight attendant will take?”

“I don’t know. Could be twenty minutes, could be two hours. Why?”

“Just curious.”

Decker chuckled. “Dinner date?”

“I told Will to make it for eight. I figured that would give me enough time.”

“I would hope so. I’m scheduled to leave on an eight-forty flight back home. When are you getting home?”

She squirmed in her seat. “I’m taking the five-thirty tomorrow morning.”

Decker smiled.

“What?” she protested. “I’m a natural early riser. Why fight mother nature?”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re being technical, Decker.” She punched his shoulder. “One smirk said it all.”

A
S THE THIRD-LARGEST
city in California and the tenth largest in the United States, San Jose didn’t get much respect. Mainly noted from the sixties Hal David and Burt Bacharach song “Do You Know the Way to San Jose?”—a name they used because it fit the lyrics rather than for any other specific purpose—the city wasn’t the sleepy little burg that most people assumed. It was a megalopolis of a million people with skyscrapers, museums, parks, colleges, and lots and lots of high-tech headquarters. San Jose and its burbs of Sunnyvale, Cupertino, and Santa Clara made up the heart of Silicon Valley—the core of everything electronic and technical.

There were about a dozen people who lived in the area who were
not
associated with Apple, IBM, Intel, Adobe, Sun Microsystems, Oracle, Cisco, Hewlett-Packard, etc., etc., and Raymond Holmes was one of them. The man was self-described as a real-estate developer, but his house wasn’t an advertisement for his financial prowess. It was a modest one-story, wood-sided, ranch-style abode—white with green shutters—and sat on a lot of around six thousand square feet. There was a
nice patch of green lawn that ended in an eclectic, multicolored flower bed that was in bloom—impatiens, begonias, daisies, rosemary bushes, azaleas, and purple statis.

Decker parked the rental curbside and killed the motor. He turned to Marge. “If he’s married, why did he ask us to meet him at his house? Even if his wife and kids are out right now, she could come home with an emergency.”

“Beats me,” Marge said. “People do strange things.”

They shrugged simultaneously, got out of the car, and walked up to the front door. Decker rang the bell and Holmes answered it a toe tap later.

He had been described as a big guy and that was no lie. His five-foot-ten-plus frame must have been carrying an extra one hundred pounds of weight, most of it gut hanging over his belt buckle like a muffin top, stretching the fabric of his black polo shirt to the limit. His hips, being much smaller, were housed in baggy khaki pants and his feet were shod in running shoes but no socks. His face was round and smooth with a slight double chin. His eyes were saucers of coal, his nose upturned, and his mouth lined by a gray-and-auburn goatee. White was taking over what had once been a full head of dark hair. Half-style reading glasses were perched on his nose. His eyes were looking over the lenses. “You’re the detectives from Los Angeles?”

“Yes, sir, we are,” Decker answered. “And you are Raymond Holmes, sir?”

He sidestepped the question. “Could I see some identification?”

“Of course.” Decker took out his badge and ID card and Marge followed suit. The big man studied them very carefully then spoke in a reedy voice that belied his size. “Can’t be too sure these days. All this terrorism and identity theft. You never know who’s really who. Come in.”

Marge and Decker stepped into an empty room in a half-finished state of remodeling. The space had been drywalled but not painted, and they were walking on subflooring. Punched-out holes in the walls indicated where outlets and light switches were supposed to go. The area was filled with light from generous windows. Holmes led them
through what was most likely a dining room and into an area that was the kitchen, judging from the rough plumbing. The main attraction was a folding table and four chairs. The contractor indicated for them to have a seat.

“Sorry about the dust, but it was easier to meet here than at my office.”

“You’re in the construction business?” Decker asked.

“Real-estate development,” Holmes told him. “This is one of my many projects.”

Decker looked around. “This is what…1940s vintage?”

Holmes parked himself on a chair, his knees spread apart to allow room for his stomach. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. It wasn’t particularly hot, but it wasn’t unusual for big men to sweat. “Are you interested in real estate, Detective?”

Decker smiled. “My daughter and son-in-law are about to undertake some renovation, so I guess I’m curious. How long have you been in the business?”

“All my life.” He checked his watch. “Listen. I don’t mean to be rude, but I chased away the crew to have some privacy because we’re talking about a…delicate matter. They’re supposed to come back in about forty minutes.”

“Then we should speed things up,” Decker said. “First of all, Mr. Holmes, I want to thank you for seeing us on such short notice.”

“You were a little sketchy on the details,” Holmes said. “Something about Roseanne Dresden. Did she leave me some money or something?”

Marge and Decker exchanged glances. Decker said, “Her estate hasn’t been settled. That’s why we’re here. Recovery hasn’t found her body at the accident site. It’s been a while, so we’re considering Roseanne Dresden as a missing-persons case.”

Holmes pulled out another tissue and mopped his brow. “I don’t want to sound callous or strange, but in these cases, do you always find the body?”

“No,” Decker said, “but there’s usually something that indicates that
the person was on board: personal items or at the very least a ticket. For the flight attendants who don’t have tickets, there’s usually a work assignment. So far, we’ve come up empty.”

Marge said, “No one remembers seeing her boarding the plane.”

“Matter of fact we have the opposite,” Decker said. “The desk clerk who was working the gate at Burbank swears that Roseanne didn’t board the plane.”

“So that’s why at this point, we’re considering it a missing persons,” Marge said.

Decker said, “If something is recovered from the accident site that puts Roseanne on the flight, then of course this discussion is moot. But since no one has seen or heard from Roseanne, we’re investigating her disappearance.”

“I thought that I read that they found her body. Like a couple of weeks ago.”

Decker said, “Recovery found a body, but it wasn’t Roseanne.”

Holmes dabbed his brow. “Who was it?”

“We don’t know.”

“So how do you know it’s not Roseanne?”

“From our forensic odontologist. The teeth don’t match.”

“And that’s what they’re basing it on?” Holmes blinked several times in rapid succession. “Teeth?”

“Yes, sir, enamel is the hardest substance in the human body. Often teeth do survive when everything else is burned up.”

“So let me tell you why we’re here,” Marge said. “The last phone call on Roseanne’s cell went through a San Jose tower.”

Holmes didn’t respond.

Marge gave him the date of the call. “We’re just trying to locate Roseanne’s final movements before she disappeared. The call was from San Jose, you live in San Jose, you have a relationship with the deceased—”

“
Had
, Detectives,” Holmes said. “Past tense. I
had
a relationship with her. We broke up about eight months ago and I haven’t seen her since.”

The detectives were silent. Decker counted to six before Holmes spoke.

“I’m sorry I can’t help. If you would have just said something on the phone, you wouldn’t have had to come up here and waste your time.”

“As long as we are here, we’d like to ask you a few questions,” Decker said.

“Just to get a little background on Roseanne,” Marge added.

Again, the big man looked at his watch. “You got about thirty minutes.”

Decker said, “Could you tell me the last time you saw Roseanne?”

“I don’t remember the exact date, but I can look it up in my old calendar book. It’d be there because we went to Percivil’s and I made a reservation.” His jaw began to chew something imaginary. “It was her favorite spot.” Chew, chew. “She got all teary-eyed and I knew it was over. She said she was going to try to work it out with that rat husband of hers. Nothing I said would change her mind.”

“And you never heard from her again?”

“No.”

Decker said, “So if I were to check out the date, which you said can be easily verified, and then check Roseanne’s cell number, I wouldn’t find any calls from you to her after your evening at Percivil’s.”

This time his jaw muscle froze in a gigantic bulge as if it were a solid tumor. “What I meant to say is I never
saw
her again. I think I called her a couple of times.”

“What were the phone calls to her about?” Marge asked.

Holmes said, “I was trying to get her to change her mind. It didn’t work. That’s that and I’ve moved on. End of Roseanne, end of discussion.”

Decker smiled. “How about giving us a few more minutes?”

Marge said, “Just indulge us, Mr. Holmes. It makes you look better.”

When the big man turned quiet, Decker took that as a signal to continue. “I’m sorry to have to ask you this, Mr. Holmes, but where were you the night before the crash?” He gave him the specific date.

“I don’t remember.” He stared at the detectives, wiping perspiration from his face. “If you write down the date—and any other dates you want—I’ll let you know if I was anywhere except home.”

“The specific call was made around midnight,” Decker said.

“If it was midnight, I was probably home sleeping. I get up early in the morning.”

“Well, maybe you could just tell us what you did that night,” Marge said.

“Or even what you did during the day,” Decker said.

“Like I said, I’ll check the calendar and give you a call.” Holmes blinked again. “I’ll even xerox you the page. Any other dates you want to know about? Get it all out. That way, you don’t have to keep asking me where I was.”

Marge and Decker exchanged quick glances. Decker said, “How about xeroxing that entire week?”

“Sure.”

“When can we expect it to arrive?” Marge said.

Decker said, “How about tomorrow? I’ll give you a FedEx number.”

Holmes blinked and wiped sweat off from his brow. “If it gets you guys off my back, why not. Tomorrow by three o’clock via FedEx. What’s the account?”

Decker gave him the number. “Thank you for cooperating so fully with our investigation.”

“Sure. You know, I have mourned Roseanne’s death for a long time even before she actually died, know what I’m saying?”

“I think so,” Decker answered.

“Then we’re done here?”

Marge said, “Not quite yet. And we really thank you for cooperating in such a delicate matter. If you hadn’t talked to Roseanne for a while, how did you hear about her being on the doomed WestAir flight?”

Holmes gave Marge a condescending look. “The crash made front-page news because the plane was going to San Jose. Locals died, Sergeant. It was a very big deal.”

“But how did you find out about Roseanne specifically?”

“From the victims list.” He rocked his chair until the two front legs came up a few inches. The chair tipped, but he caught himself before he fell backward. “I was devastated! I had no idea she was still flying this
route.” He licked his lips. “I still had feelings for her. I didn’t make it to work that morning, I was so upset.” He patted his forehead dry. “I don’t think I fully accepted our breakup until that day. And now you tell me she wasn’t on the flight…God, I don’t know what to think…what to feel.”

“She
may
have been on the flight,” Marge said. “We just don’t know.”

“Would you also xerox the week of the crash for us?” Decker asked. When he received a sour look, he said, “Might as well get it all done with.”

“Okay,” Holmes snorted. “Are we done?”

Marge said, “Some of the people that we talked to implied that you had a hard time accepting that the relationship was over.”

“What do you mean?”

“Ivan Dresden said that you two had words,” Decker said.

Holmes’s jaw muscles tightened. “So?”

“He told us you threatened him.”

“Not before he threatened me.” The big man leaned forward. “Look, we were both talking out of anger and frustration. Roseanne could be a real frustrating woman.” He threw up his hands. “Hey, it’s all water under the bridge. I’ve moved on. I’m sure the bastard has moved on as well…unless, of course, he’s the reason why Roseanne is missing.”

“You think he murdered her?” Marge asked him outright.

“I wouldn’t put it past him. He was a real asshole. Did he also happen to tell you how many women he was fucking while they were married?”

“I understand that he played around,” Marge said.

“The man was a dog!” Holmes bellowed. “He was spending all of her money on lap dancers, and then he has the nerve to get outraged because Roseanne wanted a little attention.”

“How’d you meet Roseanne?” Decker asked.

“I had a business meeting in Los Angeles and was coming home. She was the flight attendant. She looked a little sad and I asked her about it. She denied anything was wrong. It wouldn’t have been professional for her to talk about her personal life with a passenger. Later,
by sheer coincidence, I ran into her at her hotel bar. At first, I could tell that she thought I was just an old fat guy looking for a quick lay. But after we talked awhile…we clicked. I mean we really clicked.” His face darkened. “We spent six months together before we went to bed. We had something special, although I’m sure you find that hard to believe.”

“Not at all,” Marge said.

Holmes checked his watch, placed his hands on his knees, and hoisted himself up. “I’m sorry, but you two really need to leave now. The crew’s coming back very soon and all this talk has opened up wounds. I need a few minutes to compose myself.” He was breathing hard. “I’ll FedEx the calendar pages for you. Then we’re done here.”

Decker stood and gave him his business card. Marge gave him one as well. She said, “One last question, Mr. Holmes. Do you have any idea why Roseanne was in San Jose if she hadn’t been assigned to work here?”

“I couldn’t even hazard a guess,” Holmes said.

“Hazard one,” Decker insisted.

A big sigh. “C’mon, I’ll walk you out.”

Decker didn’t move.

Holmes said, “It might be flattery, but maybe she finally got fed up with Ivan and was thinking about seeing me.”

“But she didn’t visit you.”

“No, she didn’t. Maybe once she got up here, she changed her mind. Or maybe she was visiting some friends. She worked the San Jose route for a while. She had some friends here, you know.”