The Burnt House. Faye Kellerman

only going to refer you to the task force,” Oliver said.

      “Maybe woman-to-woman, I can get some information. Now that Roseanne’s been missing for so long, I’d like to take one more crack at it.”

      Decker said, “I think it’s a good idea. So we’ve got some strategies mapped out with Roseanne. Let’s move on to problem number two—our skeletal Jane Doe, who was probably a homicide. We need to identify the body and we can’t put a face on the bones because the bones are too delicate to mess with. So what can we do? We can find out when the apartment building went up. We can also locate someone involved with Priscilla and the Major to see if we can date the jacket.”

      “Wanda Bontemps is on the computer trying to get a bead on the singing duo,” Marge said. “I did manage to Google them right before the meeting. Over five hundred thousand references, but no official Web site. How old would either of them be?”

      “Sixties.” Not all that far from his age, Decker thought. “While Wanda is tracking down the duo, somebody needs to go down to building and safety and find out when the apartment building went up. Let’s go with Lee Wang and Jules Chatham. Both of them are good with bureaucracy, paper shuffling, and details.”

      “Chatham is on vacation,” Marge said. “I think Lee is at his desk. I’ll talk to him.”

      Oliver said, “You’re talking about a twenty-five-maybe thirty-year-old building. That’s a lot of tenants, Loo.”

      “Someone must have a record of everyone who rented there for tax purposes. Talk to the current owners and work backward. I’ll draw up an assignment schedule. We can confer again tomorrow morning. Maybe by then Wanda will have found a location for Priscilla and the Major.”

      “Are you going to wait until the morning to call Lodestone?” Oliver asked.

      “No, I’m going to call Lodestone as soon as you leave. Then I’m going to go home and forget about all this stuff. It’s Shabbos tonight and that means I get a day of rest. And even if I don’t get my day of rest, I’m at least entitled to a last supper.”

      MUNCHING A PEANUT-BUTTER-AND-BANANA sandwich, Wanda was still at the computer when Oliver and Marge came out of Decker’s office. She didn’t bother to look up from the screen as she spoke. “The wonders of modern technology. Almost everyone in the universe is just a click away.”

      Oliver said, “What have you found out about them?”

      “First off, the original duo is a thing of the past. The original Major—Huntley Barrett—has been dead for twelve years. Priscilla used to perform with another guy, Kendrick Springer, but the fans and the reviewers didn’t like him at all. You should read the comments.” She shook her head in dismay. “Passions ran very high about Huntley’s replacement.”

      “Does Priscilla still perform?” Marge asked.

      Bontemps shrugged. “That’s an interesting question. She doesn’t have an official Web site, but she does have an agent. I can’t find any current concert dates for her. Last one I found was seven years ago.” She looked at her notepad, tore off the top sheet of paper, and gave it to Oliver. “Her agent.”

      Oliver glanced at the slip of paper. Miles Marlowe with a phone number. It was after six and Marlowe was probably gone, but he’d leave a phone message. “Anything else?”

      She handed him a four-inch stack of paper. “Everything I’ve pulled up and thought worth printing, I printed for you.”

      “Jeez, I feel a little guilty.” Oliver hefted the pile. “Like I just nuked a forest or something.”

      Bontemps smiled. “Sir, don’t take this wrong, but I would have never thought you to be the environmentally conscious type.”

      “Don’t tell anyone, Wanda, but I even recycle.”

      PRISCILLA AND THE Major’s last top-ten song had been recorded over twenty-eight years ago, but they had left behind a rich legacy of blogs, K-Right (order by toll-free number, only available through this TV offer) boxed-set CDs, and a host of sixtysomething fans wishing nostalgically for singable melodies and clean lyrics. As Oliver read through the stack of computer information, he discovered that though the couple had divorced, they had remained friendly up to the day the Major had died. Priscilla had moved to Florida specifically to minister to him during the final months of his life. As a result, the Major, the business brains behind the duo’s success, had left her his very sizable estate, including a collection of sixty vintage guitars, most of which Priscilla had auctioned off. There had been a daughter and it had been big news when Priscilla had given birth, but what happened to the girl was anyone’s guess.

      After going through the material, Oliver stored the sheaves of paper in the newly created Jane Doe folder, and was just turning the key to his desk’s lone file cabinet when his cell rang. The window displayed a number that looked familiar, although he had no idea who was on the line. Since it was his cell and not the desk phone, he answered it by the regular hello rather than “Oliver.”

      “I’m looking for a … a Detective Scott Olivier.”

      Pronouncing it like the great, late actor. Oliver liked that. It gave him gravitas. “This is Detective Oliver. Who am I talking to?”

      “Miles Marlowe. Uh, it’s says here on my message that you called regarding Priscilla Barrett?”

      “I did—”

      “Well, she isn’t interested in taking on any partners.”

      “That’s good because I’m not interested in being her partner.” Oliver held back a laugh. “Where’d you get that idea?”

      “Because you called yourself detective.”

      “That’s because I am a detective.”

      “A real one?”

      This time Oliver let go with a chuckle. The man sounded old and feisty. “Yes, a real one, Mr. Marlowe. I’m with Los Angeles Police Department and—”

      “Well, you’ve got to understand what I’m dealing with,” Marlowe interrupted. “All sorts of wannabes calling me to partner with Priscilla and they all got titles. I’ve had sergeants, I’ve had captains, colonels, and lieutenants. I’ve even had some royalty: two princes and one duke. I thought you were one of those. You know … remaking my lady into Priscilla and the Detective.” A couple of quick, short breaths—a smoker or emphysema. “Not a bad ring, but it sounds more like a TV show than a singing duo. Anyway, what do you want with my lady?”

      “I’d like to talk to her, sir.”

      “Why?”

      “It’s part of an ongoing investigation. I only need a little bit of Priscilla’s time.”

      “Nothing grisly in the investigation, I hope. She’s a delicate soul.”

      “Nothing grisly at all,” Oliver lied. “I’ve been doing some homework on her. Last I checked, she was living in Vegas.”

      “She was in Vegas for a while. Drew really big crowds, but she decided it wasn’t for her. Like I told you, she’s a delicate soul.”

      “Understood, sir. Anyway, being an old fan as well as a detective, I thought I could talk to her—”

      “I thought there was an ulterior motive. The woman still has the ‘it’ factor.”

      “I’m sure she does,” Oliver said, “but I assure you I have no ulterior motive—”

      “Well, this is what I’m gonna do for you. I’ll give her this number. She’ll call you when she’s ready.”

      “I think I’m going to need a face-to-face, sir, and the sooner the better. If you want, I’ll be happy to call her up directly.”

      “You want to talk to Priscilla,