The Burnt House. Faye Kellerman

not thinking anything, I’m just verifying.” Marge placed a hand on his shoulder. “Could you do me a favor, Mr. Delgado? Could you find out the name of the person at WestAir who called in Roseanne’s name as one of the official dead? And if it was a third party, who fact-checked her name with WestAir? If you keep me in the loop, I’ll keep you in the loop.”

      Delgado ran his fingers through his hair. “I wouldn’t want Tricia to get into trouble because of this.”

      “I can appreciate that, sir, but you wouldn’t want your paper looking like a bunch of boobs. And you certainly wouldn’t want Roseanne or anyone getting away with fraud. I don’t think we have to get Tricia involved. All I want is verification that it was WestAir and not a greedy relative who phoned in Roseanne as a victim.”

      “I take it Roseanne Dresden’s body hasn’t been identified. Otherwise why would you be bothering with this?”

      The guy was sharp. Marge said, “The recovery efforts are still ongoing, but no, she hasn’t been officially ID’d. How about if we both keep that fact a secret? The fewer people who know what I’m doing, the better off we are.”

      Finally, Delgado nodded. “Give me a day to poke around and dig through some phone slips, okay?”

      “Great.” Marge wrote down her cell number. “Whatever you find out, I’d like to hear about it. For someone to commit fraud and profit from a death is not only pathetic, it’s immoral.”

      “I agree, but just look at 9/11.”

      “Of course,” Marge said. “You know, your paper should write a story about that. You know how vultures swoop within minutes of tragedy to find a profitable angle for themselves.”

      Delgado considered the idea and found it a good one. He spoke quietly and with a conspiratorial air. “If your investigation turns out to be fraud, I’ll run the whole thing past the desk editor. I’m sure with the right pitch, I can parlay this into some kind of a feature story.”

       8

      STUDIO CITY HAD gotten its moniker from its proximity to the major movie corporations and broadcasting systems. It was ten minutes away from Universal, a quick trip across the canyon from Paramount, CBS, and all of old Hollywood, and a speedy fifteen-minute freeway drive from NBC in Burbank. The Greenwich Village of the Valley, it was a section of boutiques, florists, clubs, and coffeehouses, and most important, it had a big bowling alley where the beautiful and young Hollywood elite were often seen spending a recreational night out, just being plain folk.

      Arielle Toombs lived in a wood-sided complex that was shaded in the hot, hot summers by dozens of lacy elms and giant sycamores. Each apartment had its own private balcony, but the pools, gym, and the recreation room were communal—enjoyed by anyone with a rent check that didn’t bounce.

      Morning fog had given way to a tent of blue above, and as Decker climbed the stairs to Arielle’s third-floor apartment, he was already planning his weekend. Cindy and Koby were coming in for a wayoverdue Friday-night dinner, Saturday would be synagogue and study group in the afternoon, but Sunday would be his to plan, time unscheduled and unfettered by obligations. If Hannah had arranged something with her friends, a very frequent occurrence since she reached her teens, maybe he and Rina would take a spin out to Oxnard, to the kosher winery and restaurant. It had become one of their favorite places.

      Decker’s knock was answered by a woman in her thirties: brunette, tall, and lithe. Her eyes were deep green and set off by her clothes—jade-colored, cotton capri pants, and an orange T-shirt. Her hair was pinned back into a ponytail and her feet were housed in flip-flops. “Are you Lieutenant Decker?”

      “Yes, I am.” He showed her ID to back up his claim.

      She smiled and said, “I suppose I should have asked who it was before I answered the door. But like they say, no harm, no foul. Come in. Would you like something to drink?”

      “Water would be great.”

      “Still or sparkling?”

      Only in L.A. “Either would be fine,” Decker said.

      “Not a problem. Take a seat anywhere. Please excuse the mess.”

      The mess consisted of newspapers lying on a mattress-style black sofa. It was low-slung and tufted with buttons, but surprisingly comfortable. Arielle’s living space was open and she had kept the furnishings sparse. Besides the sofa, the area had two side chairs, and a coffee table made out of acrylic. When she came back, she was carrying two glasses of sparkling water. She handed one to Decker, took a sip from her glass, and then sat down. “I don’t know how I can help you. It’s company policy to direct all questions about 1324 to their official task force.”

      “I know that. And you should know, though, that the company can’t take away your freedom of speech.”

      “It isn’t that,” Arielle said. “It’s just that in a crisis like this, so much misinformation is circulated. WestAir is just trying to keep it to a minimum.” She flipped her ponytail over her shoulder. “The guy over the phone, I forgot his name.”

      “Detective Oliver.”

      “Yeah, him. He mentioned Roseanne Dresden. That he had a couple of questions about her?”

      “Actually, yes. I’d like to talk to you about Roseanne.”

      Tears instantly pooled in her eyes. She put down her water and wiped her eyes. “Sure.”

      “You knew her well?”

      “Since eighth grade.”

      “That’s a long time.”

      “Yes, it’s a very long time.”

      “You’re from Fresno?”

      “Born and bred.”

      “What brought you down to L.A.?”

      “A boyfriend.”

      “Did you come before or after Roseanne?”

      “Before, I think, but I’m not sure. We weren’t close in high school. We ran in totally different circles. If you would have told me we would have winded up close friends, I would have said you were nuts.”

      “Why’s that?”

      “She was one of the popular kids and I wasn’t. To tell you the truth, I didn’t like her much back then. I thought she was a snob. We became close when we both started working for WestAir. The crash was horrible on so many different levels, but I can’t tell you how devastated I was when I found out about her. I was shocked that she had been scheduled to work San Jose.”

      “Really.” Decker took out his notepad. “Why’s that?”

      “I would have thought that she had no use for … anyway. When I thought about it, I figured it made some sense. She was having a hard time at home and maybe she felt it would do some good to get away, and San Jose opened up.”

      “I’ve heard she had a rocky marriage.”

      “Her husband was cheating on her and wasn’t subtle about it. Still, there must be two sides to every story.”

      “What would you say his side was?” Decker asked.

      A deep sigh. “I loved Roseanne. I truly did. She was lively, funny, loyal, and would give you the shirt off her back. She had an open heart and time for everyone.”

      “But …”

      “But every once in a while …” Arielle shook her head. “What can I say? That eighth-grade side of her would materialize and she could be absolutely awful. She could cut a person down with a few well-placed words.”