The Burnt House. Faye Kellerman

nor WestAir would put her on the official victims list without being able to verify it. It would open them up to lawsuits.”

      “Not if the husband, Ivan the Terrible, called up the airline and told them to do it,” Marge said. “Besides, he’s already suing the airline.”

      Decker said, “This should be easy to settle once we have the work order. Oliver, did any one of Roseanne’s friends call you back?”

      Oliver took a small notebook from his pants pocket. “Two: David Rottiger and Arielle Toombs.”

      “Two out of eight?”

      “Not a terrible batting average considering that all the names on the list work for WestAir, and the airline’s official policy is that anything to do with flight 1324 goes through the flight task force.”

      Marge said, “After having visited the corporate offices, it was probably pretty brave of these two to call back. If management finds out they talked to us, it could be bad for them.”

      “So set up interviews before they change their minds,” Decker said.

      Oliver said, “I’ve already made an appointment with Rottiger. He lives in West Hollywood, and since I’m going into the city tonight, I asked if I could stop by around six. He agreed, but he sounded cautious.”

      “And what about Toombs? Where does she live?”

      “Studio City.”

      “Do you have time to talk to Arielle Toombs tonight?” Decker asked Marge.

      “If I do some rearranging. I was going to meet Vega at six.”

      “The girl’s actually going out on a date—”

      “Scott, you’re not being nice.” Marge looked at Decker for support. “A guy asked her to a party tonight. She wanted to meet me before the party, but I could meet her afterward.”

      “No way, this is a big deal in Vega’s life and you’ve got to be there.”

      “Thanks, Pete. I really appreciate that.”

      It was four in the afternoon. If Decker could set up something with Toombs in the early evening, then he’d take the family out for dinner at Golan. His mouth watered as he thought of shwarma and baba ghanoush with warm pita bread. Even if he couldn’t set something up with Toombs, dinner at the restaurant still sounded good. “Give me Toombs’s phone number and I’ll make an appointment with her.”

      Oliver gave him a set of digits. He looked uncomfortable and Decker asked what was wrong.

      “I don’t know …” A forced exhalation. “Just where are we going with this Dresden thing? Do you really think that her husband heard about the crash and magically decided to bump her off and use the flight as an alibi?”

      “Maybe they had a fight or something,” Marge suggested. “They didn’t get along, according to Roseanne’s parents.”

      “Yes, exactly,” Oliver said. “According to Roseanne’s parents. And we’re going along with their craziness because they’re grieving and in denial?”

      Decker said, “I’m still reserving judgment, Scotty. Find out as much information as you can about Roseanne Dresden and the official WestAir policy about putting flight attendants on planes without tickets. Marge, you call up the Times and see if you can’t find their original list. Then see if it matches the one given to you by Henson the Hacker. And if it does, who at the Times added Roseanne’s name to the victims list or was it called in by WestAir. And if it was WestAir, who specifically called it in.”

      “No problem, but I doubt L.A. Times will have anyone there at four in the afternoon.”

      “Then leave your number and do a follow-up call tomorrow. Plus, I want both of you to go back to WestAir to find the work order.”

      “All the airline is going to do is give us forms to fill out.”

      “So fill them out and press for more.”

      “It might hold more weight if you were there with us, Decker,” Oliver said.

      “My shield’s the same color as yours.”

      “But your title’s higher.”

      “That’s true. Which is why at this stage of my career, I don’t do bureaucracies other than LAPD.”

      THE STREET WAS located behind a major supermarket, the address corresponding to a set of bungalows that shared a common lot, the only distinguishing feature between the four structures being the A, B, C, or D tacked onto the address. The outside area was a wee brick square patio hosting a faded teak table and chairs and surrounded by assorted ceramic pots filled with leafy plants and flowers dripping with blooms.

      A man in jeans, a gray T-shirt, and flip-flops held a steel watering can, bending low as rivulets poured out the spout and rained down on bright red begonias in a terra-cotta container. He was medium height, and just a smidge short of stocky. His hair was deep red and his complexion was a map of freckles. His demeanor suggested that he was unbothered by Oliver’s presence.

      “Excuse me,” Oliver said. “I’m looking for David Rottiger.”

      The man continued to water his plants. “I’m David.” He finally looked up with eyes round and brown. “Is it Detective Oliver or Detective Scott?”

      “It’s Scott Oliver. Either one is okay. And thanks for agreeing to talk to me.”

      “I’ll probably get fired in the process.”

      “I certainly hope not.”

      “I don’t even care anymore. You can’t imagine how tense the atmosphere has been since it happened.”

      “I’m sure it’s been very unpleasant.”

      “Unpleasant doesn’t cover the range of emotions that you feel when your friends die and you know in your heart of hearts it could have been you.” His lip trembled. “Where are my manners? Can I get you some water or a cup of coffee? Something stronger?”

      “Whatever you’re drinking, Mr. Rottiger, sounds fine to me.”

      “I have a wonderful Syrah that I opened last night. Have a seat, then. I’ll be right back.”

      “Take your time. It’s beautiful out here.”

      “Isn’t it, though? My one refuge is gardening, but it’s a good one.” A few minutes later he came back carrying two red-wine glasses filled almost to the brim. He handed one to Scott and the two men drank in silence.

      Oliver said, “Excellent texture. Very smooth. Do you mind if we talk some inside, where it’s little more private?”

      “It’s fine with me, but you know that I’m not allowed to talk about flight 1324. We’ve been instructed to refer all questions to the task force or to WestAir’s lawyers. So anything about the flight is off-limits.”

      “I understand,” Oliver answered. “Actually, I’d like to talk to you about Roseanne Dresden.” He stood up. “Which unit is yours?”

      “C as in crash.” He gave off a weak smile. “Morbid humor. It helps to get you through the day.”

      “I’ve used it many times myself.”

      Rottiger opened the unlocked front door. The place couldn’t have been more than six hundred square feet, but it was done up to perfection: high ceilings with crossbeams, gleaming bamboo floors, and lots of light. The walls were painted pale green and were hung with Japanese scrolls and minimalist pen-and-ink abstracts. Since the unit had only one bedroom and one bath, the double-wide couch made for comfortable sleeping quarters for guests, Rottiger explained. A black granite counter separated the living room from the kitchen. It was a stark surface except for an obsidian vase of bloodred roses. One of the kitchen cabinets was open,