Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 16

by The Burnt House

  “And missed out on talking to me?”

  “Arg!” She sat up and pushed her hair from her eyes. “I have to get dressed now.”

  He saluted and left. In the kitchen, he put on a pot of coffee and poured his daughter a big glass of orange juice, knowing that she’d drink about a third of it. Hannah was tall for her age, no surprise there, and being a typical teenage girl, she hated her body, which consisted of gangly limbs emanating from a thick middle. Actually, her middle wasn’t thick, it was just that the rest of her body hadn’t caught up to it. She was in the throes of puberty, which included the adjectives moody, secretive, and sarcastic. Then there were those other times when she was vulnerable and unbelievably loving.

  His cell rang. The familiar voice on the other end said, “I didn’t wake you, did I?”

  It was Koby. “Not at all,” Decker answered. “I’m assigned chauffeur duty this morning. What’s up, big guy?”

  “After considerable effort, I not only managed to secure a machine but a technician as well. It has to be promptly at five this afternoon or else we lose our technician to happy hour.”

  “Wait a minute, I’m confused.” Decker poured himself a cup of coffee and took a swallow. “What are you talking about?”

  “The computerized tomography machine and technician for your skull.”

  Decker’s brain was awhirl in confusion. “Are you telling me that you’ve got a machine and a technician to do the CT scan on the Jane Doe skull that I’m trying so desperately to identify?”

  “Yes, that is exactly what I am saying.”

  “First of all, thank you very much. I’ll call the morgue and get on it right away. Second of all, this is the first time I’m hearing about the plan. Who called you to set this up?”

  “Our favorite detective, Scott Oliver. I do him a favor because deep down inside, I know he is still pining for my wife. Anyway, I am starting my shift in ten minutes. Cindy tells me that you can come on Sunday to help with the house.”

  “Yes, that’s true. What time?”

  “Cindy is making brunch, so maybe eleven? Rina is doing a landscape design for us. Hannah, of course, is invited as well, but I suspect she’ll have better things to do.”

  “Eleven sounds great, Yaakov, and thanks again. I’m sure you had to jump through hoops to get permission for us.”

  “That is true, but at least the hoops were not on fire.”

  BY THE TIME that Decker had checked off every name on the Seacrest tenants’ list, it was a little past two in the afternoon. Not that he had succeeded in locating everyone. Still unaccounted for were seven women between the ages of twenty-four and fifty who had lived in the apartment building sometime between 1974 and 1983. Adding his seven to the other detectives’ lists of missing females, the total number was a daunting twenty-six. That meant further investigation with the avenues of exploration closing in on them.

  It was imperative to add a face to Jane Doe.

  Thank God for Koby. As the head nurse in neonatology, he had access to everything medical. But it was his persuasive powers that really sealed the deal. The man was the epitome of charm. And it didn’t hurt that the radiation tech was one of his good friends.

  Coincidence or Hashgacha Pratit?

  Right now Decker was too tired to ponder philosophy. He had a caffeine headache and an empty stomach. It was time to satisfy more primal needs. He picked up his jacket and met up with Marge and Oliver in the police parking lot.

  “Welcome back,” he said to Marge.

  “Thank you, thank you. We’ve got a scheduling conflict.”

  “What’s that?”

  “We got hold of Ivan the Terrible,” Oliver said.

  “He wasn’t happy to hear from us,” Marge added.

  “I can imagine. What’s going on with that?”

  “After much cajoling, we got him to agree to meet us at his condo at around six, after he gets off work.”

  “But we found out that he usually leaves around four-thirty, five,” Oliver said.

  Decker said, “He’s going to show up at his condo early and claim you weren’t there on time and he couldn’t wait.”

  “That’s exactly why we’d like to be at his place no later than four,” Oliver said. “Just in case he’s intent on pulling some kind of stunt.”

  “If we’re there by four,” Marge said, “there’s no way we’ll be able to take the skull over to the hospital.”

  “The skull’s still at the morgue?” Decker asked.

  “It was as of four hours ago.”

  “Okay,” Decker said. “I’ll grab some lunch, go over to the Crypt, and handle the transportation myself.”

  “If you’re in the mood to be a nice guy, you might want to give Mike Hollander a call,” Oliver told him. “I’m sure he’d like a piece of this.”

  “Yeah, Mike’s been working hard, calling up factories all morning long to find that Rapid Prototyping machine.” Marge laughed. “He’s working harder than I ever saw him work when he was at Foothill.”

  “Back then he was talking about retirement,” Decker said. “Be careful what you wish for.”

  “The old guy’s definitely got the fire in his eyes.”

  “I’ll give him a ring,” Decker said. “Actually I wouldn’t mind some company over the hill.” He turned to Oliver. “Thanks for setting things up with Koby, Scott, but how about clueing me in next time?”

  “I was going to tell you this morning, Loo. I had no idea that the kid could pull strings so fast.”

  “Fair enough,” Decker said. “Koby moves fast when he’s motivated.”

  Oliver smiled wistfully. “That is a fact that I’m well aware of.”

  AT 4:10 IN the afternoon, a black Beemer zipped by the unmarked and pulled into the underground parking lot, bass-thumping rap booming from a fortified stereo. As Dresden blithely drove by, Marge sat up in her seat and rolled her shoulders, exchanging glances with Oliver. “How many minutes should we give him before we meet up with him?”

  “If we move now, we’ll probably get to the door around the same time he does.”

  “Let’s do it.”

  They got out of the unmarked and arrived at the condo just as Dresden was inserting the key into the lock. The broker looked confused as his eyes skittered from Oliver’s to Marge’s face. Addled and nervous, Marge thought, like a trapped rat.

  Ivan glanced at his watch. “Wasn’t our appointment at six?”

  “We were in the area and thought we’d take a chance.” Oliver inched sideways until Marge and he were flanking Dresden. “We just have a few questions. You might as well get it over with.”

  “Do you mind if I open my door first?”

  Neither Marge nor Oliver answered the rhetorical question. They continued to crowd him, leaving him little elbow room to open the door. He almost had to sidle in to cross his own threshold. Once he was inside, the two detectives entered without being invited in.

  Ivan threw his briefcase and black suit jacket on the couch and left his car keys on the kitchen countertop. Unknotting his red tie, he let it droop around his neck like a scarf and opened the top button of his blue dress shirt. He opened a cabinet and took out a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue. After pouring himself a few fingers’ worth in a cut-crystal glass and adding the merest hint of water, he took a sip, smacked his lips, and smiled. “So…what do you want?”

  Oliver said, “Mind if we sit down?”

  “Why bother if you’re only going to ask a few questions.”

  “You’ve got a point.”

  “A good one. What do you want?”

  Neither detective answered right away. Marge’s focus drifted from the stockbroker’s face to the walls of the condo. Evidence spoke volumes. It said that Roseanne had flown back to Burbank from San Jose. However, it was silent about Roseanne being in the plane crash. Meaning if she made it back to Burbank and she wasn’t on flight 1324, she had to have made it home.

  Somewhere in the condo was her story.
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  Where were you, Roseanne?

  She lowered her eyes to the floor, scanning for bits of blood spray still clinging to the baseboard or stain in the grout between the tiles. Her eyes also swept over the pristine white carpet hoping to find something—a little blob of biological matter that didn’t quite clean out. Doing it as fast and as naturally as she could while Oliver occupied Dresden with conversation.

  “The thing is, Mr. Dresden, that there are a few inconsistencies with the story you told us—”

  “It wasn’t a story,” Dresden protested. “A story is fiction. What I told you was the truth, so let’s get that straight, okay?”

  “Sorry, sir,” Oliver apologized. “I don’t mean to belittle your honesty or anything like that. I’m just trying to get the facts straight.”

  “I don’t know how I could be any clearer.” Dresden took another sip of scotch. “I’m not trying to make myself look good. Otherwise I wouldn’t admit to a fight.”

  Out of the corner of his eyes, Oliver saw Marge walking around, scrutinizing the place. He needed to keep Dresden’s attention off of her. “The thing is, sir, we don’t think that your wife died in the airplane crash.”

  “So you’ve told me before. Just because they haven’t found her doesn’t mean she wasn’t there.”

  “Mr. Dresden, we know that Roseanne came back from San Jose to Burbank the morning of the accident. We know that because we have gone up to San Jose and we have talked to people who put her on the flight back to Bob Hope Airport. We also know that she wasn’t working the early-morning flight. We know that because we’ve talked to people who worked for WestAir who said she wasn’t assigned that route and she had been dressed in civilian clothes. Are you with me so far?”

  Dresden was silent, nursing his drink. Oliver realized his hands were shaking.

  He said, “What we’re all wondering is why Roseanne would go back to San Jose when she just arrived from there if she wasn’t working the route?”

  “How would I know?” Dresden’s eyes darkened. “Maybe she got a call from her boyfriend.”

  “Who are we talking about? Holmes?”

  “Who else? Maybe the rich bastard made her an offer that she couldn’t refuse. Ever think of that?”

  Marge spoke from across the room. “As a matter of fact, sir, we did. We interviewed Holmes. He hadn’t spoken to her for the last three months of her life.”

  Dresden sneered. “And you believed him?”

  “No, we didn’t believe him. That’s why we asked if he would take a polygraph test for us.”

  “That’s a lie-detector test—”

  “I goddamn know what a polygraph is!”

  “So we were kind of wondering,” Oliver said. “Maybe you would do the same thing.”

  “Take a polygraph?” Dresden tried to sound incredulous. “For what reason?”

  “Just to clear yourself.”

  “Of what? First of all, those stupid tests are notoriously unreliable. You know they can’t be used in court.”

  Oliver smiled benignly. “Of course. But when a person passes them, well…we like that.”

  “I told you before and I’ll tell you again. Roseanne and I had a terrible fight. She stormed out of the house and that was the last time I saw her.”

  “Yeah, what time did you and she fight again?” Oliver asked.

  “What?” Dresden asked.

  “When did the terrible fight take place?”

  “Around eight in the morning.”

  “Eight in the morning?” Oliver questioned him.

  “Yeah, something like that. I already told you that. Don’t you guys take notes?”

  “As a matter of fact we do. That’s why I’m puzzled. The first time we spoke to you, you told us that you two had fought around four in the afternoon.”

  “I did?”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “No, you must have made a mistake,” Dresden insisted. “It was the morning. We fought right before I went to work. Roseanne just woke up on the wrong side of the bed. She started in on me, blasting me without any provocation. I was stupid, I was lazy, I wasn’t any good…just insulting the shit out of me. I couldn’t figure out what I did other than say ‘good morning.’ Maybe I didn’t say it with enough feeling. Maybe she had her period. Maybe she was just in the mood to be a bitch. As long as I live, I will never understand women.”

  Welcome to the club, Oliver thought. “Why did you initially tell us that you fought around four in the afternoon?”

  “I don’t remember telling you that, Detective.” Dresden shrugged. “I mean, if you say I did, I believe you, but I don’t know why I would tell you we fought in the afternoon when it was the morning. What would be the purpose of that?”

  Oliver noticed that his hands were no longer shaking. Either the booze was making him relax or he felt more comfortable with the questioning. “Well, then that clears up one inconsistency we had. But we still have a problem and it’s a biggie. Where did Roseanne go once she landed in Burbank?”

  “I have no idea,” Dresden said. “Everyone has been telling me that Roseanne died in the accident. You two are the only ones who seem to think that she didn’t die in the accident…” He turned his attention to Marge, who was writing furiously in her notepad. “What are you doing?”

  “Just making some observations…trying to get a feel for your wife’s life.”

  “Yeah, well, I think I’ve answered enough of your questions. You can leave now.”

  Marge dropped her pen. “Oops.” She fell to her knees and looked under the rim of the couch. “Where did that sucker go?”

  Her hand slipped underneath. One spot of the carpet felt stiff, indicating that it had once been covered with something sticky. It could have been blood, but that wasn’t what she was after. Something small and metallic pink had winked at her. She reeled the object in with her fingers: rectangular and flat and about the size of a packet of cigarettes.

  A cell phone—a metallic pink that abounded with small daisies. She flipped it over. On the back were the block letters R.D. She held it up for Ivan to see. “What’s this?”

  “That’s mine.” Ivan leaped across the room to wrest it from Marge’s grip. His skin had turned sunburn red. “You can go now!”

  “Yours?” Marge asked. “You have a pink cell phone with the initials R.D. on the back?”

  “Get out!”

  Dresden’s cell started to chime. Without thinking, he reached into his pocket and abruptly stopped. Too late: he’d given himself away.

  Oliver held up his mobile. “I just called your cell, Mr. Dresden.” He pointed to the pink case. “That baby isn’t ringing, but your pocket is.”

  “So what the fuck does that prove? I lost my phone months ago. You found it for me. Thanks. Now get the hell out of here or I’m not only calling my lawyer, I’m calling the cops!”

  Oliver held up his hands. “Peace, bro. We’re going.”

  Dresden jerked the door open and screamed, “Don’t come back unless you have a warrant!” He was flushed, with shaking hands that rattled the ice in his scotch.

  Marge and Oliver crossed over the living room carpet as they made their way to the open door.

  They took their sweet time.

  25

  DECKER SHIFTED THE phone from one ear to the other. “Run that by me again.”

  “I dropped a pen in Dresden’s apartment,” Marge said. “When I bent down to retrieve it under the couch, by accident, I pulled out a pink cell phone. Dresden claimed it was his, but when Oliver called Dresden’s cell-phone number, his pocket rang…not the phone that I found.”

  “Okay.”

  “Then he claimed that this pink cell phone—with daisies all over it and the initials R.D. on the back—was his lost cell phone.”

  “Okay. So what are we trying to do—hold on a sec.” Hollander had emerged from the bowels of the Crypt. Decker checked his watch. “What’s going on?”

  “They’ll be packed up and read
y to roll in ten minutes.”

  “It’s almost five.”

  “I called Koby. The tech agreed to wait, but I think it’s going to cost the LAPD a gourmet dinner.”

  “We can manage that. So we’re still okay with the hospital to use the machine?”

  “That I haven’t asked because I don’t want to know the answer.”

  Decker raked his hands through his hair and exhaled. “How long does it take to pack up a friggin’ skull?”

  “Patience, Loo.” Hollander smiled and played with the curled ends of his mustache. “You don’t want to lose evidence, do you?”

  Decker rolled his eyes and returned to his phone conversation. “Sorry, Marge, I’m back. So what’s going on here?”

  Marge said, “In short, both Oliver and I are convinced that I found Roseanne Dresden’s phone. If she died on the plane crash, what was her phone doing under the couch?”

  “You just happened to find her phone?”

  “Yep,” Marge fibbed. “I dropped my pen and found the phone. Simple as that.”

  “You weren’t hunting around for anything.”

  “I was taking notes around the condo, but I wasn’t hunting for anything other than my dropped pen.”

  “No opening drawers or closets or—”

  “No, nothing like that. I dropped my pen and I found the phone.”

  “And now Dresden’s claiming that it’s his phone?”

  “No, he’s claiming that it’s a phone that he lost months ago.”

  “And how are we going to disprove that?”

  “It was in a pink case with daisies and has the initials R.D. on the back.”

  “It still could be his phone.”

  “I know.” She thought a moment. “The easiest thing is to find out where Roseanne purchased the phone and see if it matches the invoice. Then we could find out if Dresden ever purchased a phone like that.”

  “Even if we found out where Roseanne bought the phone, which I don’t see how we can do that, it won’t prove anything. Dresden could say she bought it for him. Or he could just deny that you even found her phone. How would you prove otherwise?”