The Burnt House. Faye Kellerman

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      MARGE’S EAR WAS hot and sore from being pressed against the receiver for so long. On top of that, she’d made the mistake of wearing the new pearl studs that Will Barnes had given her, making phone work extremely uncomfortable. But they were so pretty and she was so thrilled with the gift that she couldn’t help herself. The voice on the other end of the line was giving her a hard time.

      “Yes, I know that Roseanne Dresden’s name is on the victims list,” Marge explained. “I’m asking you if she had always been on the list or was her name added later because I know that lists are revised when more information is given … no, don’t put me on hold … Shit!” She slammed down the phone.

      Decker happened to be passing by her desk. “Everything all right?”

      “I hate being sent into the electronic void.” She checked her watch. “I’m on lunch hour. I think I’ll pay our illustrious paper a visit.”

      “How’s your afternoon?”

      “Not bad.”

      “In that case, since you’ll be in the area, pay a visit to North Mission Road. It’s been a while since we’ve talked to the recovery team. Find out how many bodies on the list they’ve recovered and/or identified. Also, while you’re there you can ask them if they’ve recovered any artifacts that might have belonged to Roseanne Dresden.”

      Marge had been taking notes. After he stopped talking, she stowed her pad in her purse. “Not a problem. What about you?”

      “I’ve got an appointment with Arielle Toombs, the only person other than Rottiger that returned Oliver’s call. She didn’t sound thrilled, but I got her to commit to a time. Nice earrings, by the way.”

      Marge’s smile was wider than her neck. “Will got them for me.”

      “Will’s a nice guy.”

      Marge picked up her bag and studied her boss and her friend. “You look tired, Pete.”

      “All of a sudden we’ve got another epidemic of burglary reports, mainly from people who had to evacuate their homes when flight 1324 went down.”

      “Yeah, Paul Deloren was talking to me about that. How many of those calls do you think are legit?”

      “Not all of them, that’s for certain. We’re going through them one by one along with the insurance investigators.”

      “I know we’ve had a surge of DUIs this past week.”

      “That and drunk-and-disorderlies, discharging a weapon in a public place, and about twice as many assaults as normal. Bar fights, but domestic violence, too. And higher-than-normal sudden heart attacks.”

      “The aftermath,” Marge said. “You, me, and everyone else are going crazy. At least this time, there’s a reason.”

      THE CITY’S LARGEST and oldest newspaper had set up its headquarters in downtown L.A. over 125 years ago when the area had breathed the air of youth, with its bustling streets, its posh department stores, and the famous Angel’s flight cable car. In its fourth reincarnation, the paper had settled into its current headquarters at Spring and First streets. The structure was a paean to American Art Deco and the WPA artists who fashioned the building, with its bronze bas-relief, friezes, carving, and adornments.

      Once inside, Marge stood in a rotunda, the centerpiece being a rotating globe banded by the signs of the zodiac done in bronze relief. To her right was a brief history of the paper; the left side was manned by a uniformed guard; and straight ahead, through alarmed turnstiles, was a bank of elevators. She had several names and numbers from her phones calls this morning and gave them to the guard, who rang up a couple of extensions. He announced that Mr. Delgado would be with her shortly.

      Twenty-six toe-tapping minutes later—after reading a self-aggrandizing history of the paper—Marge saw a stocky man lumber through the turnstiles. He had jet black hair combed straight back, Dracula style, and dark brows gave a roof over startling pale blue eyes. His skin was tan but without wrinkles, so Marge put his age in the late twenties to early thirties. He wore a white shirt, black slacks, and penny loafers. His blue-and-graystriped tie was loosened at the neckline.

      “Mr. Delgado?” Marge asked.

      “Rusty is fine.” He stuck out his hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name.”

      “Marge Dunn.” She shook his hand. “Thank you very much for seeing me on no notice.”

      “No problem. And this is about …”

      “It’s complicated,” Marge told him. “Is there somewhere we can go that’s more private?”

      “Uh, sure …” Delgado’s voice edged toward the higher side of the male range. He led her into the heart of the paper. If Marge had expected an area overrun with cubs and stringers and editors barking out commands, she was sorely disappointed. The floor was filled with open cubicles and was as quiet as a library. Placards hung from the ceiling—health, real estate, calendar, metro, home: section headings of the Times.

      She tailed him down a foyer where featured photographs and prizewinning articles hung on a wall, passing a display case filled with vintage news cameras, and into a second area of open cubicles. A skeleton wearing a hula skirt and a coconut-shell bra was displayed on a pole.

      “Obits,” Delgado announced.

      “The place is empty.” Marge smiled. “People must be dying to get out.”

      Delgado smiled back. “How can I help you?”

      Marge launched into her prepared spiel, a dodge to keep the young man from asking too many questions. “I work for Ace Insurance Company, which subcontracts for other more recognizable insurance companies. I’ve been assigned to find out about the original victims list from WestAir flight 1324 that was given to your paper for publication by WestAir itself, and compare it to the final list of flight 1324 victims. Originally, Tricia Woodard did the articles on the crash. I thought she СКАЧАТЬ