The Burnt House. Faye Kellerman

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      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 СКАЧАТЬ