Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 16

by The Burnt House

  “Whatever you think.”

  Lauren pulled out a box of pastels and began to sketch. Twenty minutes later she had concocted a sketch of a young woman with dark eyes, dark hair, but a modified Farrah Fawcett hairdo. An oval-shaped face with a broad forehead; rimmed granny glasses sat on the bridge of her nose. Her lips were stretched into a wide smile that showed teeth. But it was her eyes that gave Decker pause; not the color, but the expression. They connoted someone who was chronically cheerful, an individual who couldn’t possibly conceive of anything ever going wrong.

  The forensic artist regarded her finished product. “Let me try to reproduce this look on our Jane Doe clay model.”

  “How long will that take?”

  “Another half day at least. I’d like to sleep on it overnight. Why don’t you come back tomorrow in the late afternoon?”

  “That sounds like a plan. Let me recap just to get it straight in my head. What you’re going to do is set out all sorts of possibilities for Jane…all kinds of wigs of seventies hairstyles, different eye color, different hair color, different glasses, no glasses, but all the models will be wearing the same pink jacket and the mood ring. Then we’ll take photographs of all the different permutations. Hopefully, we get a couple of them right enough to jolt someone’s memory back into a time warp.”

  Lauren nodded. “What I think everyone wants is for somebody to lift a finger and say, ‘Aha! I know her!’”

  “Exactly,” Decker said. “Someone who’ll finally give Jane the recognition she deserves.”

  28

  SHE HAS A face.” Marge spread the photographs on her desk and sorted them by hairstyle. “Several of them, actually.”

  “Several looks, but the same face.” Decker was standing behind Marge’s back, peering over her shoulder. His jacket was open and he had strapped his gun harness to his chest, but he wasn’t armed. He usually didn’t bother wearing his piece when he was doing desk work. “Lauren did an excellent job.”

  Marge looked back and forth between Lauren’s interpretation of the bones and the computerized face. “Amazing how close the two faces are.”

  “I think the final product was by mutual agreement,” Decker said.

  “Nice detail. One thing that’s for certain: this is not Roseanne Dresden.” Marge looked up from one of the pictures of Jane. This particular one had the brunette Kate Jackson preppy shoulder-length haircut with medium-brown eyes. Wire-rimmed glasses sat on the bridge of a nose. “We need to compare these pictures to women around the same age who went missing thirty years ago. That’s a lot of women, considering we don’t even know the year this gal disappeared.”

  “It’s the one thing that we have control over. Every detective in the squad room has his or her own set of Jane Doe photographs. I’m working on getting a copy for every police officer. Sometimes the craziest things happen on a routine stop.”

  Marge said, “Bontemps and Wang were originally doing MP files. If they’re not in the field, I can assign them to take up where they left off. At least now they have a photograph to check against the missing women.”

  “Perfect,” Decker said. “Next use the power of the post. Have Oliver take his copies of the pictures and run off a bunch of ‘Have You Seen This Person?’ mailers.”

  “How many initial copies?”

  “As many as the department will allow us to print. I’d like to bump this up to a high-profile case. Who did you speak with at the Times?”

  “It was Rusty something. His name’s in the file.”

  “Give him a call and ask to meet with him. See if you can get someone to write a story about Jane. Use the angle that the police were looking for one woman and found another. Convince him that it’s a perfect human-interest piece for the front page. Use your natural and abundant charm and sweep this poor unsuspecting male off his feet.”

  Marge laughed. “Actually, in this case, I won’t even need charm. They have to make amends for erroneously listing Roseanne Dresden’s name in the crash list. I’m sure once I remind the paper of its screwup, someone will be happy to cooperate with L.A.’s Finest.”

  THEY ARRANGED A meeting at one of the ubiquitous Star$, this particular one just west of downtown L.A., not more than fifteen minutes away from the skyscrapers and the paper. Since she arrived early, Marge was nursing some kind of sweet concoction that involved hot milk, chocolate, whipped cream, and a hint of peppermint. It wasn’t coffee by anyone’s definition, but it was sweet, hot, and frothy, and why not splurge with the pocketbook and the calories every blue moon?

  She wore a lightweight navy-blue suit over a cream-colored top, with simple black flats on her feet. Her hair was now long enough to be pulled into a ponytail, although she elected to wear it loose. She had given her cheeks a stroke of blush, had lined the bottom of her eyes with the stub of a makeup pencil. A single pearl stud rested in each earlobe. She could have been the poster girl for middle management—bank clerk, paralegal, bookkeeper, insurance agent: anyone with a white-collar job who had a title but was grossly underpaid.

  Her table had a beeline view of the doorway, and when the young man stepped across the threshold, Marge checked her watch. He was five minutes early; the boy would go far. Marge stood and waved and Rusty Delgado waved back. He wore a pair of khaki pants, a blue chambray shirt, and an ill-fitting double-breasted jacket that was way too low for his short, stocky frame. They shook hands and she handed him a five-dollar bill. “Not a bribe, just a friendly gesture to get yourself some poison.”

  “I thought coffee was good for you in moderation.”

  “Coffee isn’t the culprit. It’s all the other stuff that you put in the coffee.”

  Delgado smiled. “I’ll be right back.”

  Marge sat back down. She had learned that Delgado’s boss was still Tricia Woodard, but because Tricia had never bothered to call back and talk about the WestAir list, Marge didn’t feel the need to talk with her. Delgado, on the other hand, had been cooperative. It made more sense to deal with a known subordinate than an unknown boss. Delgado came back with a large steaming cup of something frothy and sat down, staring at her with eager blue eyes.

  She said, “I’ve got a good story for you to pitch to your boss.”

  “WestAir fraud?”

  “Fraud possibly, but something even better. Murder.”

  “The missing flight attendant?” Immediately Rusty took out his notebook, but Marge put her hand over the pad.

  “Hear me out first, then take your notes. First of all, Rusty, I’m not an insurance agent.”

  “You’re an undercover cop.”

  “No, I’m a plainclothes detective sergeant, but I mostly work homicide. Originally we were looking for confirmation that Roseanne Dresden perished in flight 1324, but then things got very complicated. Another body was found at the crash site.” She gave him as succinct a summary as she could. Toward the end of her recitation, Marge extracted the pictures of Jane Doe from her purse and laid them down on the table for Delgado to look at.

  “This is the forensic artist’s interpretation of our unidentified body that has been rotting underneath the apartment building for the last thirty years. It took us forever just to get a usable skull because the original one was in terrible condition. How we managed to get a replica to use forensically is an article in and of itself.”

  “Why do you think she died thirty years ago?”

  “We dated the sweatshirt she was wearing.” Marge pointed to a photograph. “This one is the Farrah Fawcett look. As you can see, we have others.”

  “I’ve seen pictures of my aunts…they wore their hair exactly like this. Amazing that such a white-bread girl made fashion inroads into the Latino community.”

  “Celebrity trumps all.” Marge took a sip of her coffee. “Rusty, someone got away with murder. You can tell we are anxious to bring a killer to a long overdue justice. We need the public’s help and you’re the perfect person to spread the word.”

  “What happened to the flight
attendant?”

  “Roseanne Dresden is still officially missing.”

  “And you don’t think that this woman could be Roseanne?”

  “No. The forensic artist’s rendition looks nothing like Roseanne Dresden. More importantly the dental records don’t match.” She leaned forward and looked earnestly into Delgado’s eyes. “Your paper messed up by printing Roseanne Dresden on the deceased list. You didn’t do it, but your boss did.”

  “But you’re still not one hundred percent certain that Roseanne didn’t perish in the crash.”

  “No, not one hundred percent. But the more days that pass without Roseanne’s body, the more it looks like foul play. When her name was printed the investigation took a step backward and we lost days that could have been spent looking for Roseanne instead of digging around.”

  Delgado said nothing.

  “Not that this has anything to do with you. You’ve been helpful, Rusty, and I appreciate that. That’s why I came to you first. You, Rusty, and not your boss.”

  “I appreciate your confidence in me.” He looked worried. “But…either I tell my boss about you or I go over her head. Neither one is a good option.”

  “Handle it however you want. We all have our crosses to bear. At this moment, Rusty, you’ve got a great story.” Marge swept her hand across the air to imitate a headline banner. “‘The Search for a Missing Flight Attendant’s Body Leads Homicide Detectives into a Baffling, Thirty-Year-Old Murder.’ It’s complicated, it’s got twists, it’s got pathos, and it’s got mystery. All we’re asking for is that the paper print these photographs and solicit the public’s help in identifying her.”

  “It’s a thirty-year-old case. The guy responsible for her murder could be dead.”

  “More likely he’s in his fifties and is feeling very smug,” Marge told him. “Look into the future, Delgado. If we find the killer, think of the arrest and the trial. Who else is going to give you such a big opportunity?”

  “It is absolutely the big break everyone in my position hopes for.” The young man licked his lips. “Of course I’m going to pitch it. I just hope that Tricia doesn’t screw it up for me.”

  “You tell whoever you have to that I talk to you, not to Tricia.”

  Delgado shook his head. “Why are you doing this for me?”

  “Because you were there when I needed you. So here’s your chance, Delgado; don’t blow it.”

  He threw up his hands. “Of course I’m in. Can we go over the case again more slowly? I want to figure out exactly how to present this to the feature editor.”

  “I’m happy to give you a little more time just as long as you run the photographs of our Jane Doe.”

  “Absolutely, Sergeant. Our readers love pictures. Sometimes I think that the captions are the only thing they’re reading. The Internet wouldn’t survive without illustrations and videos. No one has the patience to sift through a detailed article.”

  “We’re a short-attention-span society.”

  “We were raised on Sesame Street, computers, and instantaneous communication, Sergeant. We did it to ourselves.”

  29

  IMMEDIATELY AFTER THE article was published, the tips started pouring in, requiring someone to manage the phones full-time. The calls were vast and varied. It was someone’s long-lost daughter, it was someone’s long-lost sister, it was a friend of a friend who moved to France and disappeared, it was Aunt Janice or Cousin Ellie. The names were duly written down and checked out. Sometimes Aunt Janice was alive and well. Just as many times, Cousin Ellie could not be located and was put on a checklist.

  Do you have a picture of her?

  A photograph was sent via e-mail. Receiving the image, the detective in charge would immediately notice that the two people looked nothing alike and that there was a thirty-year age difference.

  I don’t think this is your cousin Ellie, but we’ll certainly keep it in mind.

  Then there were the kooks. Jane Doe was actually Gamma-Globulin Moonbeam, an alien from outer space who was sent from Alpha Centauri to infiltrate Earth. The best one that Wanda got was that Jane Doe was a reincarnation of Gucci, a woman’s beloved pet Maltese who had met her untimely demise by running across the street just as a Porsche Boxster turned the corner and ran a stop sign.

  All the press attention focused on Jane Doe did a fine job riling up Farley Lodestone.

  “You got a woman who’s been dead for thirty years getting more paper space than my daughter, who’s only been missing for a few months,” he yelled at Decker.

  “Farley, no one has forgotten about Roseanne—”

  “That’s damn well only because I call you all the time!”

  “No, it’s because we’re committed to the investigation of your daughter,” Decker said. “We’re not just sitting with our hands under our butts, we’ve gone through her phone and credit-card records at least a half-dozen times. We’ve called everyone she’s called up in the last year. We went up to San Jose and talked to people she knew up there—”

  “San Jose is a total waste of time. You know that bastard did it.”

  “Farley, we pulled a search warrant and inspected every wall, floor, and fiber in your daughter’s condo. If something happened to Roseanne, it didn’t happen there. We spent days tracking down Ivan’s old car and went over that forensically inside and out and we didn’t find anything. We’re reinterviewing people at the condo to see if they suddenly remember something. We’re going over our notes. So far, we don’t have the smoking gun, we don’t have circumstantial evidence, we don’t even have a crime scene. Even so, we’re not giving up.”

  Lodestone didn’t answer.

  “Are you still there?” Decker asked.

  “Yeah, I’m here. It just pisses me off that you’re spending all your time looking into a corpse instead of looking for my daughter.”

  Roseanne wasn’t Decker’s only case. Neither was Jane Doe. At the moment, he was juggling thirty detectives and hundreds of cases. What could Decker say to convince the man that he doing the best he could?

  The answer was nothing.

  And if he, God forbid, was in the same situation as Farley Lodestone, he’d probably feel the same way.

  “Farley, all I can tell you is I’m doing whatever I can.”

  “Well, it ain’t enough!”

  “I hear you, Farley. I know you’re frustrated—”

  “I’m pissed!”

  “I can’t say that I blame you. I wish I had more news to tell you—”

  Lodestone hung up on him.

  Decker rolled his eyes and slammed the phone back into the cradle. He was doing all he could, but Farley was right. It wasn’t enough.

  Failure sucked.

  DAY SEVEN AFTER Rusty Delgado’s article was published, Marge took a phone call regarding Jane Doe that sounded like something more than hope. She snapped her fingers and got Scott Oliver’s attention, mouthing, “Get Decker.” A minute later the lieutenant was on the line. He introduced himself and Marge told the caller to repeat her story.

  “Like I told the sergeant, my name is Cathie Alvarez and I’m calling about the Jane Doe in the paper.”

  Decker said, “Thanks for calling, Ms. Alvarez. What would you like to tell me?”

  “Well, now, this is a long time ago. But I have to tell you that it looks pretty much like my older cousin Beth.”

  “Okay. How so?”

  “The picture in the paper, the one with the granny glasses and the Farrah Fawcett-Majors hairdo. Beth used to wear her hair like that except it was dark, but so did everyone else. Beth had glasses just like that, but so did everyone else. Mostly, it was the mood ring. Beth always wore a mood ring. Not that she needed it. Beth was such a positive person. She was always smiling.”

  Decker became very excited and pulled out his notepad. Lauren had thought that the Jane Doe might be Latina and Alvarez fit that category. “Would you have a picture of Beth?”

  “No, I’m sorry, I don’t have one on me. But
I mailed the article to my mother—Beth’s aunt. Mom and I talked about the picture for over an hour. She agrees with me. We both think it’s Beth, but neither one of us has told my aunt or uncle. If it isn’t Beth, well, you can imagine how terrible we’d feel, stirring up such heartbreak.”

  “And may I ask who your aunt and uncle are?”

  “Sandra and Peter Devargas. They’re in their seventies, but still strong. They have five other children, and lots of grandchildren, but that doesn’t take the place of Beth.”

  “Of course not.”

  “I’m sure they’d like to know…give her a proper burial if it is…”

  The voice on the other end choked up.

  “I’m sorry. I’m sure you’ve had dozens of calls, all of them thinking that the picture is a loved one.”

  “We have, but we take each phone call seriously. What happened to your cousin?”

  “She and her husband vanished into thin air thirty-two years ago.”

  “Do you have the date, month, or year?”

  “June of 1976.”

  Finally something concrete. Hallelujah. “Where were they living at the time, Mrs. Alvarez?”

  “Please call me Cathie. They were living in Los Angeles…somewhere in the San Fernando Valley, but I don’t know the exact address. I’ve lived in Long Beach for the last fifteen years. My family is from Santa Fe, New Mexico.”

  Again Decker felt as if he were talking to the right person. Santa Fe had lots of Native Americans. “And you say Beth’s parents are Peter and Sandra Devargas?”

  “Yes. They live in Santa Fe right near the Plaza. Do you know Santa Fe?”

  “Uh…Sergeant Dunn, are you still on the extension?”

  “I am.”

  “Sergeant, do you know where the Plaza is in Santa Fe?”

  “It’s the center of town.”