The Burnt House. Faye Kellerman

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      “You keep threatening, but for me it’s not a threat. First of all, I love you. Second of all, I’ve been collecting a list of projects that we’ve jawed about over the last four years. I’m ready when you’re ready.”

      He knew what she was referring to. They’d conversed endlessly about adding more space to their eighteen-hundred-square-foot home, although the house had been losing occupants rather than gaining them. For the last few months, they’d been cutting out articles in design magazines. Rina’s pet project was a sumptuous master bathroom. Decker had been saving articles that dealt with media rooms and home theaters. Everything was still in the dream stage, but it made for interesting reading over the weekend.

      Fantasy was the stuff of life.

      AT HIS DESK, Decker sorted through the list of names and numbers. “This should keep me busy for a while.”

      “Why not call a conference for all of them to come in?” Marge asked him.

      “Because I think initial contact should be personal. These people lost loved ones in a horrible way. Besides, it shouldn’t take me all that long to make the phone calls. As the families start dropping off the dental X-rays, we’ll set up a schedule. There needs to be someone manning the desk all the time to deal with the bereaved until we’ve got all the bodies accounted for.”

      “I can do that.”

      “We should also contact several professionals who can offer support.”

      “I’ll call social services and see what they can do for us.”

      “Great.” Decker regarded his favorite detective—over forty and young at heart. They had worked together for over twenty years. As bedraggled as he felt, she looked fresh and alert. “How many hours of sleep did you get?”

      “About five. Why? Do I look that bad?”

      “On the contrary, you look chipper.”

      “It’s the coral blouse,” Marge told him. “All women look good in coral.”

      “What about men?”

      “Men should wear black. It makes them look mysterious. In your case, Pete, black would set off your red hair very nicely.”

      “It’s more gray than red,” Decker grumped.

      “It’s still has plenty of red in it. So does your mustache. And you’ve got a lot of it … head hair. What you really need to look hip is a soul patch.”

      “I’m beyond trying to look hip. All I want is to look appropriate so I don’t embarrass my teenage daughter.”

      “I thought that was the purpose of parents of teenagers, to embarrass them.”

      She had a definite point. Nothing was as much fun as to see his kids squirm at his misbehaviors. “So what’s going on with the graffiti and the looting?”

      “We’ve gotten calls about homes being tagged.”

      “How did that happen with units patrolling the area twenty-four/ seven?”

      “The taggers are wily guys. They’re also not afraid of heights. We found signatures on the 405 Freeway overpass, and a couple of twenty-foot-high billboards. There’s also one on the top of the Parker/Doddard building, which has to be seven stories high.”

      “Criminal Sherpas. Send them out to Everest where they can do some good.”

      “I don’t think we’d like to see their signature in the snow, especially if we think what they might use to write with.”

      Decker let go with a deep laugh. It felt good. “Not a pretty image. So what’s going on with the looting? Who’s reporting the activity?”

      “Anonymous phone calls.” Marge laughed. “Since the residents aren’t back in the area to substantiate the claims, I’m thinking that may be thieves reporting on other thieves.”

      “Any arrests?”

      “A few for burglary, but that hasn’t deterred the felons. You know how it is, Loo. If houses are left unattended, crime is going to happen even with a strong police presence. The bad boys love to take chances. It’s like the tented houses when the owner fumigates for termites. There are always one or two yutzes who think they can beat the system and make it out before poisonous gas renders them unconscious.”

      “How many looting complaints have been called in?”

      “About a dozen.”

      “Okay. Assign someone to call up the owners of the looted houses and have someone meet them there. Do a quick search inside to see if something is missing. That way if something has been stolen, they can contact their insurance agency right away.”

      “I’ll get to it right away.”

      “Thanks, Marge.”

      “Leave the door open?”

      “Absolutely.”

      After she left, Decker looked around his private space. It was small, with used furniture, but it had walls that reached the ceiling and a door that made it an office as opposed to a cubicle. He was even lucky enough to have an outside window, although it didn’t open. It wasn’t big, but it usually let in enough light to add a pinch of cheer. Today the sash framed a gunmetal-gray sky. Ash had collected on the sill. He ran his hands through his gray-yet-still-red-according-to-Marge hair. He was still tired, but didn’t dare bitch about it, not when he looked down at all the message slips.

      His fingers dialed the first number. A young male voice answered the call. Decker introduced himself and asked for Estelle Greenberg. The voice told him to hold on a second and then it called out, “Ma, police are on the phone.”

      The woman who came on the line spoke before he uttered a word. “You found her!”

      “Mrs. Greenberg, this Lieutenant Peter Decker of the Los Angeles Police—”

      “Yes, yes … did you find my daughter?”

      “And your daughter is …”

      “Oh, for heaven’s sake! Why are you calling me if you don’t even know why I called?”

      So much displaced anger. Decker rode with it. “I was just given a message. I’m sorry to upset you. Believe me, that isn’t my intention.”

      “Did you find my daughter?” She was yelling over the phone.

      “We haven’t recovered any bodies from the affected area,” Decker explained. “It’s just too hot and dangerous to search.”

      “Then why are you wasting my time?” The fury in her voice barely overlay her desperation.

      “First of all, I want to tell you how sorry I am. Second, I want to explain why I called you. I’m trying to gather information so that when the investigators do go into the area, they’ll know who they’re looking for. From this conversation, am I correct СКАЧАТЬ