The Burnt House. Faye Kellerman

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      “Delia Greenberg. Apartment 3C.”

      “I know the next couple of questions are going to sound moronic and insensitive, but I have to ask them anyway. So please forgive me if I upset you. I take it you haven’t heard from Delia since the incident.”

      “No.”

      “Does she have a cell phone?”

      “I tried it a thousand times …” She was weeping. “It goes directly to her voice mail.”

      “Okay. Did Delia live with anyone?”

      “Alone.”

      “So there was no one with her when it happened?”

      “I don’t know! There might have been. She had friends stay over sometimes.”

      “All right. Do you have any names, perhaps?”

      “I don’t know! I can’t think right now!”

      “You’re really helping me a lot, Mrs. Greenberg. Thank you for talking to me. One more thing regarding Delia. Do you think that you could obtain a copy of her dental records for identification purposes?”

      The request was met with a long, long pause. “Probably,” she whispered.

      “They can be sent directly to me or you can bring them in person. You are welcome to come in to the station house at any time or any hour and talk to one of us. There will always be someone here who’ll be familiar with your situation. I’m going to give you my cell number. Feel free to call it at any time.”

      “Thank you,” she said without emotion.

      Decker rattled off several sets of numbers. Whether the woman was writing any of it down was anyone’s guess. “Is there anything you want to ask me?”

      “Who am I talking to again?”

      “Lieutenant Peter Decker.”

      “You’re a lieutenant?”

      “Yes, ma’am.”

      “Your captain couldn’t have given me a call?”

      “He’d be happy to call you, Mrs. Greenberg.”

      “But he didn’t. You did.”

      “Yes. If you want to set up an appointment with Captain Strapp—”

      “Why should I want to set up an appointment if the man doesn’t have the decency to call me?” She was sobbing. “When do you want the X-rays?”

      “How about if I come to your house and we’ll go to the dentist together?”

      The woman didn’t answer. All Decker heard was weeping. Then she said, “All right. Do you know where I live?”

      “No, but I can take down an address.”

      “I don’t live so close to my daughter. She wanted her privacy. I’m all the way in the city.”

      “I have a car, I can drive. What’s the address?”

      She gave him the street address. “When can you come?”

      “How about tomorrow morning around eleven?”

      “Eleven would be all right. What do you look like?”

      “I’m very tall and have red hair.” That’s turning gray very quickly. “I’ll show you ID at your door. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

      “Thank you, Lieutenant. I know you’re trying to be nice. It’s just …”

      She was crying again. Decker could have said, “I know …” Decker could have said, “I understand.” But he didn’t know and he didn’t understand.

      Thank God.

       3

      IT WAS A hard time for the West San Fernando Valley. Even the news that the crash had likely been caused by mechanical failure didn’t stave off the increase in emergency calls, of reported heart attacks, asthma attacks, and fainting spells.

      The week of the crash, Decker had worked on casino time, never seeing the light of day, never knowing what time it was. He never made it to Rina’s parents’ for Friday-night dinner, nor did he make it over the hill for Shabbat Saturday lunch. There was just too much to do. He did manage to cram in a phone call to his married daughter. Cindy was a grand-theft-auto detective over the hill in Hollywood, and had been doing double duty because so many of the uniformed officers had been diverted to the crash area.

      But all things must pass, and eventually the terrible incident that had grabbed headlines in the local papers for two weeks running became old news. Coverage faded and fell to page three, then to page five, then to the back of the front section. Eventually it was relegated to local news until it became yesterday’s news. With the coroner’s investigators working nonstop on the body recoveries, and the NTSB working nonstop on plane and fuselage recovery, the police were permitted to go back to doing police work.

      No one would have definitive answers for many months. Maybe it would even be years before the total puzzle was put back together. The nature of the beast required time and patience. Rina had told him that immediately after the crash, people in the area had seemed to move a bit slower, taking more time to smile and say hello. Traffic had been sparser and much more polite. And despite the initial looting and break-ins that had happened directly after the crash, overall monthly crime had actually taken a drop.

      A temporary aberration it seemed, because the statisticians reported that the following month, life and crime in the San Fernando Valley had returned to their precrash status.

      FORTY-SOX DAYS AFTER the crash, as Decker was looking over the upcoming court cases of his detectives, his extension rang. It was Marissa Kornblatt, one of the three department secretaries who manned the front desk for the squad room. Over the intercom, her voice sounded tentative.

      “Excuse me, Lieutenant. I have someone on the line who is demanding to speak to the head honcho.”

      “Head honcho?”

      “His words, Lieutenant, not mine. His name is Farley Lodestone, and as far as I could make out, he’s ranting about his missing daughter.”

      “How old is his daughter?”

      “Twenty-eight.”

      “Twenty-eight?”

      “I told him our standard policy is thirty-six hours before we file a report, but then he said he’s been waiting over a month and he has had enough.”

      The СКАЧАТЬ