The Burnt House. Faye Kellerman

At the sound of heels clicking onto the floor, Marge looked down the long hallway to see a woman approaching. Tall and big-boned, with clipped blond hair, she appeared to be in her forties and wore a black suit, white shirt, and sensible pumps. The two detectives stood, and when she was within greeting distance, she held out her hand. “Nancy Pratt. Elizabeth tells me you’re from homicide.”

      “Yes, ma’am, we are.” Marge introduced the two of them. “Is there a place we can talk privately?”

      “Absolutely. Come this way.” She led them down a black granite corridor, and opened a door that connected to another hallway, except this one had Berber carpeting. The foyer had cubicles on one side and offices on the other, hushed except for the occasional shuffling of papers or fingers clicking against a keyboard. The insides of WestAir looked like Corporate Office, U.S.A.

      Nancy Pratt turned the handles of several locked doors until she found one that was open. The room was small and sterile, with a single table and four chairs. It was also frigid, with air-conditioning that roared as it escaped the vent. She motioned for them to sit, then took a chair, folded her hands, and waited for one of them to talk.

      “Actually, we’re not sure who to contact, but we figured human resources is a good start,” Oliver said.

      Nancy looked pleased. “So how can I help?”

      “Our needs are simple,” Oliver said. “Which department assigns the work schedules for WestAir flight attendants?”

      Nancy’s smile was patronizing. “Before I can direct you to the right department, maybe you can tell me what you want?”

      “All we need is a copy of the work schedule for one of your flight attendants.”

      Pratt clucked her tongue. “I’m sure you know that I can’t give you that.”

      Marge said, “The employee in question is deceased. Roseanne Dresden. She was on flight 1324 and, apparently, WestAir had assigned her to work San Jose field just that morning. All we’re looking for is verification of that assign—”

      Pratt held up her palm as a stop sign. “I’m sorry, Detectives, but I can’t help you with that or anything about Roseanne Dresden. All questions about flight 1324 must be directed to the flight 1324 task force.”

      “Look, Ms. Pratt, I know that’s the company policy and I know you have to worry about lawsuits, but what we’re asking for is a very simple thing. We just want some kind of written verification that Roseanne Dresden was on the flight because she wasn’t officially working the flight. But she wasn’t issued a ticket, either, which means she had to be on assignment, correct?”

      “Detective …” A sigh. “It sounds simple to you, but it isn’t simple. Anything with regard to flight 1324 must be handled by the task force, period.”

      All right.” Marge gave up. “Where can we find the task force and who should we speak with?”

      Nancy Pratt was already on her feet. “If you could wait here for a moment, I’ll see if anyone’s available to help you. It may take a few moments.”

      “No problem,” Marge said. “My throat’s a little dry. Would you happen to have a glass of water?”

      Nancy’s expression matched the arctic temperature in the room. “I’ll see what I can do.”

      After she left the room, Oliver said, “I don’t think she likes us.”

      “I don’t think WestAir likes anyone poking around in their business.”

      “You know we’re not going to get anywhere without warrants. And we have no cause to get warrants. This is a total waste of time.”

      “Let’s just play it out and say we tried.”

      Neither of them spoke for a minute, Oliver shaking his leg, Marge rubbing her arms. The knock at the door was a welcome distraction. A young man came inside holding a paper cup and a plastic bottle. He was slight in build, with blue-black eyes, zits and pits on his cheeks, and a tentative attitude. Marge surmised that this was his first job and he was trying really hard not to screw it up.

      “Excuse me, but someone wanted water?”

      “That would be me,” Marge said. “Thank you very much.”

      “You’re welcome. Anything else?”

      “Not really,” Oliver answered, “unless you want to break into some files for us.”

      The boyish man looked aghast.

      “I’m kidding,” Oliver said. “I’m from the police. Think I’d have you do something illegal?”

      “I wouldn’t answer that if I were you,” Marge told him. She opened the bottle of water and poured half of it in the cup. “It could only work against you.”

      The kid gave a small smile. Being one of the gang seemed like a new experience for him, so Marge took a big chance. “Relax, sir. You don’t want to end up like your boss, do you?”

      “You mean Ms. Pratt?”

      “She seems a little humorless.” She drank the cup dry then moved on to the rest of the bottle. “Or maybe it’s just that WestAir has been under tremendous tension.”

      “That’s for certain.”

      Oliver joined in. “And when everyone gets testy, I bet I know who they take it out on.”

      The blue-black eyes became wary. “Anything else I can do for you?”

      “What’s your name?” Oliver asked.

      “Henson.”

      “Okay, Mr. Henson. I’m Detective Oliver and this is Detective Sergeant Dunn. Now we’re officially introduced.”

      “Nice to meet you, but my first name is Henson. Henson Manning. My mother was a big Muppets fan and had a whacky sense of humor, ha ha.”

      Poor kid, Oliver thought. Not only was he saddled with no muscle and bad acne, but he also had a weird name.

      Marge gave him her most sincere smile. “Henson, thank you very much for the water. You’re the first smile we’ve seen all day.”

      Henson nodded. “You polished that off pretty quickly. Can I get you another bottle?”

      “No, I’m fine, thanks,” Marge said. “But you look like you want to ask me something. Are you wondering why the police are here?”

      Henson’s shrug was noncommittal, so Marge had to talk fast. “We’re looking for the work assignment schedule for a flight attendant named Roseanne Dresden. Supposedly, she was on flight 1324 but wasn’t is sued a ticket.”

      Oliver added, “Any ideas?”

      “Flight attendants aren’t issued tickets.”

      Marge said, “She wasn’t officially working the flight but was en route to work in San Jose.”

      Oliver said, “All we need is her work schedule and we’re out of WestAir’s life.”

      “Can I ask why?”

      “Insurance fraud,” Oliver lied.

      “I thought you were from homicide,” Henson countered.

      “Slow week for murder, we’re moonlighting,” Oliver said. “The point is we tried getting the paper faxed to us, but no one can seem to find Roseanne Dresden’s work schedule.”

      “Or doesn’t want to find it,” Marge said. “Did you ever meet Roseanne?”

      “No.”

      “Shame. I hear she was a lovely person.”

      He stood guard by the door, looking sideways as he talked to the detectives out of the corner of his mouth. “Company policy is that if anyone asks us about flight 1324,