The Burnt House. Faye Kellerman

      The thirty-year veteran detective was busy cleaning his nails. He had obviously showered this morning because his face was shaved pink and baby smooth. His black hair was combed straight back and kept in place by gel. His clothes were meticulous: a gray linen suit, a starch-pressed white shirt and a cherry-red tie, with lizard-skin loafers on his feet.

      But somehow, even with all that morning grooming, he had missed his nails.

      She walked over to his desk.

      “I see you’re busy,” she told him.

      “Qué pasa?” he asked without looking up.

      “I have an assignment for you.”

      “Hit it, babe.”

      “You can either call a list of people or you can call up WestAir and deal with bureaucracy.”

      Oliver looked up and frowned. “How many people on the list?”

      “Around eight.”

      He took the list and scanned the names. “Info, please?”

      “A flight attendant named Roseanne Dresden was listed as one of the people who died on WestAir 1324. Her parents think she wasn’t on the flight, but instead was murdered opportunistically by her husband, Ivan, who then called in her death to the newspapers, saying that she had a last-minute schedule change and was on the flight.”

      Oliver stopped filing his nails, his eyes dazed. “What?”

      “You want to take out a notepad, Scotty. It might help your aging memory.”

      As Oliver put away the manicure set, Marge explained the Lodestones’ theories. When she was done with them, she realized that the story still sounded absurd. “Look, what would help close this out is finding someone who saw Roseanne board the flight or an official work order that says that Roseanne had flown up on 1324. Because she wasn’t issued a ticket.”

      “She wasn’t?”

      “No. If you’re a flight attendant and you’re working the flight, or you’re on your way to work a flight, you don’t have to be issued a ticket. I’m thinking that it shouldn’t take more than an hour to clear up this mess and give the parents some peace of mind.”

      “You think this won’t take more than an hour? Can I quote you on that, Dunn?”

      “No, you may not quote me on that, Oliver, because I’ve been fooled before.”

      PHONE CALLS TO the airlines went nowhere. Marge went from one division to another with no one anxious to talk to her, let alone give her any information.

      “I can’t help you with that. Let me try another department.”

      “I think we have a task force dealing with the crash. I’ll transfer you there.”

      “I have no way of knowing that. You might want to call up human resources.”

      “I wouldn’t have that information. You’ll have to call up Burbank.”

      “Sorry, I can’t give you that information without a written request from the employee.”

      “The employee is dead,” Marge told her.

      “Then I’ll need a written request from the next of kin.”

      Next of kin was Ivan Dresden, who, in Marge’s opinion, might not be inclined to give written consent.

      She was spinning her wheels and that was the problem with the phone. It was hard to be charming and disarming without the visuals. She hung up the receiver and went over to Oliver’s desk.

      “How’s it going with the list?”

      “They’re at work, Dunn. I left messages and kept them vague. If they have something illuminating to tell me about Ivan the Terrible, I don’t want to scare them off. Furthermore, I don’t want it to get back to the husband that we’re looking into his wife’s death. I would surmise that such action would displease him. How’s it coming with you and WestAir?”

      “The phone is good for some things, but not so hot for others. How would you like to come with me and pay a visit to WestAir?”

      “And what makes you think that the company will talk to us?”

      “Our gold shields. They’re very shiny.”

      “Where are the offices?”

      “Burbank.” Marge checked her watch. “We can grab some lunch then attempt to wade through the corporate morass. I have a few names. By the way, the women I spoke with over the phone sounded young and beautiful.”

      “Sure, dangle that carrot in front of me.” But Oliver was already on his feet, straightening his tie. “What the heck. I’m kind of hungry anyway.”

      THE BOB HOPE Airport—formerly Hollywood-Burbank—was one of those smaller, suburban airfields that attempted to drain air traffic from LAX. Originally associated with Lockheed, the Hollywood-Burbank/ Bob Hope was a convenient locale for the residents of the San Fernando Valley. The field was way more Burbank than Hollywood. For years, Burbank’s biggest claim to fame was NBC studios. Recently, the city had been trying to gentrify, with boutique theaters, funky vintage clothing shops, café restaurants, and tree-lined jogging paths. But the strip malls still abounded. So did the car dealerships, the outlets, and the cheap electronic wholesalers dealing out of storefronts.

      Turning onto Hollywood Way, Oliver and Marge passed several business hotels, several franchise restaurants, and a business park of soulless glass structures—all windows but very little light. WestAir corporate offices were located in a bank building on the fifth floor. There was an adjacent parking lot for the structure and Oliver chose to park on the top level, even though there were plenty of spaces on the other three tiers. This was his usual habit. His rationale was that if the big earthquake should hit and the parking structure pancaked, his car, sitting on the top level, would stand a better chance of surviving.

      Just as Marge pushed the elevator button, her cell rang. She looked at the phone’s window and the number staring back startled her.

      It was Vega’s cell.

      Vega, now living in one of Caltech’s dorms, called every night precisely at eight o’clock, come hell or high water. It didn’t matter where she was and it never mattered where Marge was. Vega called at eight because Marge had asked her to call every day. Not necessarily at eight o’clock, but that was Vega—a rule and a schedule for everything.

      So her calling now signaled an emergency.

      “I’ve got to take this,” Marge said.

      Over the line, Vega’s voice was panicked.

      “Oh, Mother Marge, I am so sorry to be bothering you. This is going to sound very silly, but I don’t know what to do.”

      “Tell me, honey.”

      “Mother Marge, I work with a man named Joshua Wong. He’s in my particles class. He’s a very nice man.” She took a deep breath. “He asked me to come with him to a party tonight. I was so shocked that I said yes.”

      A grin stretched Marge’s mouth. “Honey, that’s wonderful.”

      “Mother Marge, I don’t know what to do.”

      “Just have a good time, Vega.”

      “I don’t know how to have a good time. I don’t even know what a good time is.”

      Her voice was one step away from tears. Marge knew her daughter’s radical statements were completely true. Vega had grown up in a cult: all work and absolutely no play. When the cult was raided and destroyed, the teen had been left an orphan. Marge had taken her in and they had developed a special relationship. Most definitely, the girl knew how to love, but no matter how much