Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Contents
PROLOGUE
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About the Author
ALSO BY FAYE KELLERMAN
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
THE BURNT HOUSE
FAYE KELLERMAN
To Jonathan, my on-the-spot editor and shrink
And a very special thanks to Bill Kurtis for all his help
Contents
PROLOGUE
AT EIGHT-FIFTEEN IN the morning on a balmy Los Angeles…
1
THE CEREAL SPOON stopped midair. Rina turned to her husband.
2
THE POLICE TOOK eighteen-hour shifts. Somewhere Decker got down enough…
3
IT WAS A hard time for the West San Fernando…
4
THE NEXT MORNING, Decker called in Marge Dunn. She had…
5
AT THE RECEPTION desk, a twentysomething, exotic-looking woman of mixed…
6
THE COFFEE WAS strong and bad, unlike the news, which…
7
MARGE’S EAR WAS hot and sore from being pressed against…
8
STUDIO CITY HAD gotten its moniker from its proximity to…
9
AT THE SOUND of the tentative knock, Decker lifted his…
10
LET ME THINK out loud for a moment.” Decker sat…
11
THE KINDLING OF the candles signified the onset of the…
12
AS A SATELLITE airport, Burbank usually had manageable crowds, which…
13
USUALLY MARGE DROVE, but since they opted to take the…
14
DECKER COULD SMELL the aroma from the driveway, the undeniable…
15
IN THE BACK dressing room, Oliver waded through racks of…
16
THE SQUAD ROOM was two-thirds empty, the majority of the…
17
IT WAS A condo in a neighborhood of block-long condo…
18
MARGE KNOCKED ON the open door to the Loo’s office.
19
SOMETIMES L.A. SUNRISES were preceded by spectacular, awe-inspiring displays of…
20
AS THE THIRD-LARGEST city in California and the tenth largest…
21
AFTER DECKER PULLED away from the curb, Marge asked, “What…
22
WITH A DECENT eye for detail, Holmes had described Christie…
23
AT EIGHT O’CLOCK in the morning, Decker started making phone…
24
IT WAS ONE of those rare moments when he took…
25
DECKER SHIFTED THE phone from one ear to the other.
26
A STRONG SERIES OF raps on the front door produced…
27
LOOKING AT THE replica skull made out of fused paper…
28
SHE HAS A face.” Marge spread the photographs on her…
29
IMMEDIATELY AFTER THE article was published, the tips started pouring…
30
AS THE PLANE descended into Albuquerque, the winds buffeted the…
31
DAYBREAK BROUGHT A crystalline sky against a backdrop of deep…
32
RINA SLIPPED A silver bracelet with turquoise stone inserts onto…
33
THE HOUSE SAT on the edge of the Venice Canals—Abbot…
34
BECAUSE THE COMPUTER lab was on the second floor of…
35
IF RAYMOND HOLMES was worried about his cover being blown,…
36
LED BY CURLY on one side and Kruse on the…
37
OVER THE PHONE, Decker said, “Yes, I still want DNA,…
38
REMEMBERING HOW MUCH Holmes sweated, Decker brought in a box…
39
DUDLEY SAID, “I need time alone with my client.”
40
HELLO, STRANGER.”
41
THE OLD MAN’S memory was suddenly steeped in senility. Decker…
42
WITH A LITTLE shuffling around, Decker managed to secure a…
43
OH GOD!” LINDIE Holmes sat back in the chair and…
44
THE INTERVIEW LASTED close to eight hours. By the time…
45
OLIVER POINTED OUT a sleek blonde in pasties and a…
46
AS IT TURNED out, Patricia Childress a.k.a. Marina Alfonse had…
About the Author
Other Books by Faye Kellerman
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
PROLOGUE
AT EIGHT-FIFTEEN IN the morning on a balmy Los Angeles winter’s day, a 282 Lucent Industry Aircraft, better known as WestAir flight 1324, took off from Burbank Airport holding forty-seven commuters. The ETA to its final destination, San Jose, California, was one hour and six minutes and the ride was expected to be smooth and uneventful. The skies were blue, the wind gentle, and the heavens’ visibility was unobstructed in all directions. Sixty-seven seconds later, with its nose still headed skyward, it inexplicably yawed to the left, did a 360 rotation on its axis, and began to plunge down until it clipped a power line, thundered its last hurrah, and burst into flames, the explosion so great that it was heard five miles away.
The main bulk of the fiery fuselage landed on a three-story apartment house in the Granada Hills section of the West Valley, transferring its inferno to the residential structure. Windows shattered, gas pipes detonated, and electrical wires arced blue lightning through the skies. The eighteen-unit building crafted from stucco and wood was swallowed by flames that spanned every color of the rainbow. The noise was so deafening that it drowned out the human screams. The stench of fire, smoke, and fuel oil that infused the air was toxic and suffocating. Oxygen was choked out of the atmosphere. Flesh burned alongside metal and leather. Debris were scattered and windblown for hundreds of feet. Within a heartbeat of time, a green suburban landscape had been transformed into an unimaginable holocaust of hell.
1
THE CEREAL SPOON stopped midair. Rina turned to her husband. “What was that?”
“I don’t know.” The lights flickered and died along with the TV, the refrigerator, and probably everything in the house electrical. Decker reached over and picked up the portable phone. He punched in one of the landlines but got no response.
Rina lowered the spoon into the cereal bowl. “Dead?”
“Yep.” Decker flicked the light switch on a
nd off, a futile gesture of hope. It was eight in the morning and the kitchen was bathed in eastern light that didn’t require electrical augmentation. “Something blew. Probably a major transformer.” He frowned. “That shouldn’t affect the phone lines, though.” He pulled out his cell and tried to contact someone on a landline at work. With no response coming from the other end, Decker knew that the damage was widespread.
The Los Angeles Police Department’s West Valley substation—Devonshire Division in another age—was a few miles away from where Decker lived. When this kind of thing happened, the place was a madhouse, a switchboard of panicked people with emergency lines ringing off the hook. “I should go to work.”
“You didn’t eat,” Rina said.
“I’ll grab something from the machines.”
“Peter, if it’s just a transformer, there isn’t anything you can do about it. You’ll probably have a long day. I think you should fuel up.”
There was logic to that. Decker sat back down and poured some skim milk into his cereal bowl, already laden with strawberries and bananas. “I suppose the squad room can wait another five minutes.” They ate in silence for two bites. He noticed the wrinkle in Rina’s brow. “You’re concerned about Hannah.”
“A little.”
“I’ll stop by the school on my way to work.”
“I’d appreciate it.” Rina tried to think of something to say to distract both of them. The default conversation was the kids. “Cindy called yesterday. She and Koby are coming over Friday night for dinner.”
“Great.” A pause as Decker finished his cereal. “How are the boys?”
“I talked to Sammy yesterday. He’s fine. Jacob only calls before Shabbos or if he’s upset. Since he hasn’t called, I’m assuming everything’s okay.”
Decker nodded, although his mind was racing through emergency procedure. He stood and tried the land phone again. The machine was still lifeless. “Is the den computer still plugged into a battery pack?”
“I think so.”
“Let me try something.” Decker unplugged the small, portable, kitchen TV and lugged it into the back den. Rina followed and watched her husband drop to the floor and insert the electrical cord into one of the empty sockets. The seven-inch screen sprang to life. Decker tried one of the local stations. The TV was color but showed only images in shades of black and gray.
“What are we looking at?” Rina asked.
“A fire.” As if to underscore Decker’s pronouncement, a billowing cloud of orange flames materialized. His cell jumped to life. “Decker.”
“Strapp here. Where are you?”
For the captain to be calling him on his cell, something was really wrong. “At home. I’m just about to leave—”
“Don’t come into the station. We’ve got a dire situation. Plane crash on Seacrest Drive between Hobart and Macon—”
“Good Lord—”
“What?” Rina asked.
Frantically, Decker waved her off.
“Is it Hannah?”
Decker shook his head while trying to digest the captain’s words. “…took down an apartment building. A few firefighters are already at the scene, but the local units are going to need reinforcements ASAP. All units are being directed to Seacrest and Belarose. We’re planning tactical.”
“I’m ten minutes away.”
“You got a roof light in your vehicle?”
“Yes.”
“Use it!” The captain hung up.
“What?” Rina was pale.
“Plane crash—”
“Oh my God!” Rina gasped.
“It landed on an apartment—” Decker stopped talking, his ears picking up the wail of the background sirens. He glanced back at the TV screen.
“Where?”
“Seacrest—”
“Where on Seacrest?”
“Between Hobart and Macon.”
“Peter, that’s about five minutes from Hannah’s school!”
“Go get the Volvo. I’ll convoy you over with the siren in the unmarked and then go out to the scene.”
Rina’s eyes were still glued to the TV screen. Unceremoniously, Decker turned it off. “You can listen on the radio. Let’s go!”
Rina snapped out of her stupor, realizing the extent of what was to follow. A very long day followed by a very, very long night. She wasn’t going to see him for the next twenty-four hours. But unlike the people on the plane, she would see him again. Her heart started racing, her throat clogged up with emotions, but words escaped her.
Once they were outside, she found her voice. “Be careful, Peter.”
He nodded, but he wasn’t paying attention. He opened the car door for her and she slipped inside. “I love you.”
“Love you, too. And yes, I will be careful.”
“Thank you. I didn’t think you heard me.”
“Normally, I probably wouldn’t have, but right now I could hear a butterfly. That’s what happens when overdrive kicks in. All senses suddenly warp speed to hyperalert.”
LIKE MOST PRIVATE schools, Beth Jacob Hebrew Academy High School—grades nine through twelve—had recently flexed its flaccid muscles against its overindulged adolescent inhabitants. Teachers, tired of beeps, whistles, and ring tones interrupting lessons, complained to the administration that in turn passed a draconian law—according to fourteen-year-old Hannah Decker—that prohibited the possession of any electronic gadgets, the sole exception being calculators for advanced math. The ordinance had gone into effect three weeks prior—a case of poor timing because with the land phones out, the school was frantically trying to reach parents on the limited cell phones that it had.
Most of the parents had an inkling that something was wrong, so by the time Decker and Rina pulled up, there was already a line of SUVs waiting to haul away the children.
Decker got out of the unmarked and walked over to Rina’s Volvo. His nostrils flared at the acrid smell of smoke, his eyes watering from floating ash. He put his hand over his mouth and motioned for her to roll down the window. “How’s our food and water supply in the house?”
“You know me. We have enough for the entire neighborhood.”
“Good. Go home and don’t go out. The air’s horrible and is only going to get worse in the afternoon when the winds pick up. Are you going to be okay?”
“Absolutely,” Rina said. “Go, Peter. And thanks for getting me here so quickly.”
“She’s my daughter, too. Give her a kiss and tell her I love her.”
“I will.”
Decker returned to the unmarked, now sandwiched between Rina’s Volvo and a Lincoln Navigator. He turned on the siren, it squawked, and the car behind him gave him an inch of backup room. A minute later, he was on the boulevard, using his wipers to clear white ash from his windshield. Even with the siren, the normally five-minute drive took much longer. All the traffic signals were out and the roadways were clogged with vehicles. Weaving in and out of the tiny spaces allotted to him by his siren, Decker managed to reach ten blocks from the appointed spot before he espied the yellow police barricade tape. Miraculously, he found a parking space that didn’t block the street or any driveway. The scorched atmosphere was thick with ash falling like rain. Even with the door closed and the windows up, there was a sickening, permeating stink of jet fuel and molten metal and wood that burned his throat.
As a detective lieutenant, Decker was choosy about his field visits when a crime was called in. But he was always prepared, and that meant he had latex gloves and face masks in the console of his car. He slipped on the mask, wishing he had goggles as he opened the door.
Immediately his face was hit by a heavy slap of hot air. The sky billowed with black smoke and the occasional leap of an orange flame. He showed his badge to a uniform, also wearing a face mask, whose assignment was to patrol the borders of the yellow tape. The kid’s eyes were jumpy as Decker stepped over the tape.
God, they made them young these days.
As he edged closer
to the disaster, visibility was reduced to soup, the fire’s roar pounding in his ears like crashing waves. He could make out a plethora of fire trucks: departments of every stripe had been called down to the scene. There were ambulances of all colors and makes. Sirens wailed and strobe lights flashed through the misty darkness. Human figures skittered about like gnats.
When he got within a half block of the rendezvous location, he spotted a trio that could have been anyone, but by their height and shape, Decker surmised that they were Marge Dunn, Scott Oliver, and Wanda Bontemps. With every forward step, the stench grew stronger—fuel oil, charred wood, boiling metal. He could barely hear himself think because of the screech of lapping flames, sirens, and human screams. Trained as a medic in Vietnam, Decker had seen destruction and chaos, but none of his war experiences could have prepared him for this.
When he was within striking distance, Decker saw that his identity assumptions had been correct. Marge Dunn, Scott Oliver, and Wanda Bontemps were sweating under protective gear—slicker coats, mouth masks, and goggles. Marge waved Decker over and handed him a slicker and a pair of goggles. She shouted, “Strapp told me to bring these for you.”
“Smart thinking,” Decker shouted back. “How long have you been here?”
“About three minutes and that’s too long,” Marge hollered. She was a tall woman but seemed bent over and consumptive under the weight of smoke and a heavy protective coat. Her forehead was soaked and dirty.
Decker said, “Does anyone know what crashed?”
“WestAir out of Burbank,” Wanda Bontemps screamed. “A commuter airlines. I heard there were around forty-five aboard?”
“God, that’s awful,” Decker said. “Terrorism or mechanical failure?”
Shrugs all around. Stupid question. How the hell should they know? His mouth was speaking before the brain kicked in. Decker felt a vibration on his chest. His cell was ringing. He shouted into the receiver. “Scream or I won’t be able to hear you.”
It was Strapp, and even though the captain was shouting, Decker could barely make out his words. He plugged up his other ear with his finger. “Okay…will do…I’ve got it.” He returned the cell to his pocket. “He’s stuck in traffic from a tactical meeting. First thing we need to do is evacuate the residential area in an orderly fashion. Let’s work within a ten-block radius outside the yellow tape line. The fire marshals are clearing the area within the barricades.”
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