Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 16 Page 6

  Marge whispered, “Cheer up. You’ll probably outlive her by a good thirty years.”

  For the first time, Henson gave a genuine smile. “Do you need your parking validated?”

  “Uh, yes, thanks,” Oliver said.

  “Wait here. I’ll get the stickers.” Henson returned a few minutes later. “Did you get what you needed?”

  “’Fraid not,” Marge said.

  “All we got is the old bureaucratic runaround and a very polite but unhelpful ‘we’ll see what we can do.’” Oliver held up the papers Nancy had given them. “And a bunch of forms to fill out.”

  “This way.” Henson led them back through the carpeted hallway into the lobby. Phones were still beeping but the exotic woman named Elizabeth was nowhere to be seen. The young man dropped his voice. “Look…if you give me your card, I’ll see what I can do.”

  Marge shook her head and whispered back, “Stay out of it. I don’t want you getting in trouble for doing anything illegal.”

  Oliver’s card was already out of his pocket. “However, if you want to ask around, I won’t object.”

  “Detective, if I ask around, I’ll bring attention to myself. Right now I’m the invisible whipping boy.”

  “That’s a bummer,” Marge said.

  “I don’t care. It’s decent pay for a summer job and I can ride my bike.”

  “You go to college?” Marge asked.

  “Cooper Union in New York.”

  “Science or design?” Henson stared at her. Marge said, “My daughter’s at Caltech. She looked at Cooper Union, but wanted to live closer to home.”

  He nodded. “Yeah, I can understand that. New York is a big city.” He pushed the elevator button. Still talking softly, he said, “I’m pretty good with a keyboard, if you know what I mean.”

  “I don’t want to hear this,” Marge said.

  The elevator doors parted and the two detectives stepped inside. As the doors closed, Henson said, “I’ll get back to you within the hour.”

  As they rode down, Marge said, “I sure hope we don’t get the kid into trouble.”

  “C’mon, Margie, did you see the look in his eyes? With a single stroke, he’s morphed from a nerd to Tom Cruise in Mission Impossible.” Oliver smiled. “Good with a keyboard…” He laughed. “The kid’ll have our answer in ten minutes.”

  On the way to the parking lot, Oliver dumped the request forms along with the SASE into the nearest trash can.

  6

  THE COFFEE WAS strong and bad, unlike the news, which was just plain bad. Decker winced as he attempted to down the black mud. Then, placing the mug on his desk, he decided it wasn’t worth the rotgut just to get the caffeine jolt. A computer printout lay on his desk: a list of victims from flight 1324, and Roseanne Dresden’s name wasn’t on it.

  Marge was seated, but Oliver was standing near the door. Both were waiting for his next set of instructions. Decker said, “So then tell me again. What exactly is this?”

  As if his asking would change the picture. Marge said, “This is what we’re assuming is WestAir’s original list of the people aboard flight 1324. Oliver and I checked it against the original newspaper list from the Times. That one had Roseanne’s name on it.”

  “And this came from Henson the Hacker?”

  “Yes.”

  “How reliable is this kid?”

  “I don’t think he made this up, if that’s what you’re asking. I think he retrieved this little nugget somewhere within the bowels of WestAir’s microchips.”

  “So it’s possible that he doesn’t have the entire picture,” Decker said.

  “It’s probable that he doesn’t have the entire picture,” Oliver answered. “This was just the shit he was able to pull up within an hour or so before closing time. There’s probably a slew of material he can’t get access to.”

  Marge said, “You also have to keep in mind that lists change…like when there’s a baby or a toddler that wasn’t ticketed. Roseanne wasn’t ticketed, so it could be something like that.”

  Decker said, “So somewhere between the crash and the printing of the Times edition, Roseanne’s name was added. The question is: Who added the name?” Mutual shrugs answered his question. The crash was still using its long tentacles to give Decker a massive headache. “While Henson the Hacker was doing his mischief, did he happen to find any work order that nails Roseanne being on the flight?”

  Marge shook her head no.

  “Then the two of you are going to have to go back to WestAir and go through official channels. Find the official list and Roseanne’s work order. Without it, we have nothing.”

  “With it, we’ll have nothing,” Oliver stated.

  Decker became irritated. “Just go back to WestAir and find what we’re looking for, Scott. It seems to me that neither the Times nor WestAir would put her on the official victims list without being able to verify it. It would open them up to lawsuits.”

  “Not if the husband, Ivan the Terrible, called up the airline and told them to do it,” Marge said. “Besides, he’s already suing the airline.”

  Decker said, “This should be easy to settle once we have the work order. Oliver, did any one of Roseanne’s friends call you back?”

  Oliver took a small notebook from his pants pocket. “Two: David Rottiger and Arielle Toombs.”

  “Two out of eight?”

  “Not a terrible batting average considering that all the names on the list work for WestAir, and the airline’s official policy is that anything to do with flight 1324 goes through the flight task force.”

  Marge said, “After having visited the corporate offices, it was probably pretty brave of these two to call back. If management finds out they talked to us, it could be bad for them.”

  “So set up interviews before they change their minds,” Decker said.

  Oliver said, “I’ve already made an appointment with Rottiger. He lives in West Hollywood, and since I’m going into the city tonight, I asked if I could stop by around six. He agreed, but he sounded cautious.”

  “And what about Toombs? Where does she live?”

  “Studio City.”

  “Do you have time to talk to Arielle Toombs tonight?” Decker asked Marge.

  “If I do some rearranging. I was going to meet Vega at six.”

  “The girl’s actually going out on a date—”

  “Scott, you’re not being nice.” Marge looked at Decker for support. “A guy asked her to a party tonight. She wanted to meet me before the party, but I could meet her afterward.”

  “No way, this is a big deal in Vega’s life and you’ve got to be there.”

  “Thanks, Pete. I really appreciate that.”

  It was four in the afternoon. If Decker could set up something with Toombs in the early evening, then he’d take the family out for dinner at Golan. His mouth watered as he thought of shwarma and baba ghanoush with warm pita bread. Even if he couldn’t set something up with Toombs, dinner at the restaurant still sounded good. “Give me Toombs’s phone number and I’ll make an appointment with her.”

  Oliver gave him a set of digits. He looked uncomfortable and Decker asked what was wrong.

  “I don’t know…” A forced exhalation. “Just where are we going with this Dresden thing? Do you really think that her husband heard about the crash and magically decided to bump her off and use the flight as an alibi?”

  “Maybe they had a fight or something,” Marge suggested. “They didn’t get along, according to Roseanne’s parents.”

  “Yes, exactly,” Oliver said. “According to Roseanne’s parents. And we’re going along with their craziness because they’re grieving and in denial?”

  Decker said, “I’m still reserving judgment, Scotty. Find out as much information as you can about Roseanne Dresden and the official WestAir policy about putting flight attendants on planes without tickets. Marge, you call up the Times and see if you can’t find their original list. Then see if it matches the one given to you by Henso
n the Hacker. And if it does, who at the Times added Roseanne’s name to the victims list or was it called in by WestAir. And if it was WestAir, who specifically called it in.”

  “No problem, but I doubt L.A. Times will have anyone there at four in the afternoon.”

  “Then leave your number and do a follow-up call tomorrow. Plus, I want both of you to go back to WestAir to find the work order.”

  “All the airline is going to do is give us forms to fill out.”

  “So fill them out and press for more.”

  “It might hold more weight if you were there with us, Decker,” Oliver said.

  “My shield’s the same color as yours.”

  “But your title’s higher.”

  “That’s true. Which is why at this stage of my career, I don’t do bureaucracies other than LAPD.”

  THE STREET WAS located behind a major supermarket, the address corresponding to a set of bungalows that shared a common lot, the only distinguishing feature between the four structures being the A, B, C, or D tacked onto the address. The outside area was a wee brick square patio hosting a faded teak table and chairs and surrounded by assorted ceramic pots filled with leafy plants and flowers dripping with blooms.

  A man in jeans, a gray T-shirt, and flip-flops held a steel watering can, bending low as rivulets poured out the spout and rained down on bright red begonias in a terra-cotta container. He was medium height, and just a smidge short of stocky. His hair was deep red and his complexion was a map of freckles. His demeanor suggested that he was unbothered by Oliver’s presence.

  “Excuse me,” Oliver said. “I’m looking for David Rottiger.”

  The man continued to water his plants. “I’m David.” He finally looked up with eyes round and brown. “Is it Detective Oliver or Detective Scott?”

  “It’s Scott Oliver. Either one is okay. And thanks for agreeing to talk to me.”

  “I’ll probably get fired in the process.”

  “I certainly hope not.”

  “I don’t even care anymore. You can’t imagine how tense the atmosphere has been since it happened.”

  “I’m sure it’s been very unpleasant.”

  “Unpleasant doesn’t cover the range of emotions that you feel when your friends die and you know in your heart of hearts it could have been you.” His lip trembled. “Where are my manners? Can I get you some water or a cup of coffee? Something stronger?”

  “Whatever you’re drinking, Mr. Rottiger, sounds fine to me.”

  “I have a wonderful Syrah that I opened last night. Have a seat, then. I’ll be right back.”

  “Take your time. It’s beautiful out here.”

  “Isn’t it, though? My one refuge is gardening, but it’s a good one.” A few minutes later he came back carrying two red-wine glasses filled almost to the brim. He handed one to Scott and the two men drank in silence.

  Oliver said, “Excellent texture. Very smooth. Do you mind if we talk some inside, where it’s little more private?”

  “It’s fine with me, but you know that I’m not allowed to talk about flight 1324. We’ve been instructed to refer all questions to the task force or to WestAir’s lawyers. So anything about the flight is off-limits.”

  “I understand,” Oliver answered. “Actually, I’d like to talk to you about Roseanne Dresden.” He stood up. “Which unit is yours?”

  “C as in crash.” He gave off a weak smile. “Morbid humor. It helps to get you through the day.”

  “I’ve used it many times myself.”

  Rottiger opened the unlocked front door. The place couldn’t have been more than six hundred square feet, but it was done up to perfection: high ceilings with crossbeams, gleaming bamboo floors, and lots of light. The walls were painted pale green and were hung with Japanese scrolls and minimalist pen-and-ink abstracts. Since the unit had only one bedroom and one bath, the double-wide couch made for comfortable sleeping quarters for guests, Rottiger explained. A black granite counter separated the living room from the kitchen. It was a stark surface except for an obsidian vase of bloodred roses. One of the kitchen cabinets was open, exposing a thirty-inch plasma TV. Oliver was impressed…especially with the TV.

  “Is that HD?”

  “But of course. When I watch baseball, I can see the players spit chaw in 3-D.” Rottiger pulled out a bar stool from under the counter and sat down. “So what can I do for you?”

  “I’m sure this is going to sound a little funny, but Roseanne’s parents have contacted us. They don’t believe that she was actually on flight 1324.”

  Rottiger stared out the window while sipping wine.

  Oliver said, “What do you think about that?”

  “I think it’s hard for them to accept some things.”

  “So you think Roseanne was on the flight?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “On a small plane like flight 1324, are there enough jump seats for working flight attendants plus an extra like Roseanne?” Oliver asked.

  “I’m sorry, Detective, but these are technical questions. You really should be discussing these issues with the WestAir lawyers or the task force. I can’t discuss policy with you.”

  “WestAir doesn’t seem to want to talk to us.”

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t talk to the police. If it gets back to management, I’ll lose my job.” He took a long sip of wine. “The only reason I’m talking to you at all is curiosity. Why is a homicide detective interested in Roseanne? Surely you don’t believe Mrs. Lodestone’s story, do you?”

  “I understand you were very good friends with Roseanne. What was she like?”

  “Are you profiling Roseanne?”

  “In a way. Tell me about her.”

  “Have you ever seen a picture of her?”

  Oliver shook his head no. Rottiger held up a finger and came back a few minutes later with a photograph of eight WestAir flight attendants. He pointed to a tall willowy blonde in the middle. “That’s her.”

  Oliver whistled. “Beautiful woman.”

  “Yes, she was. It’s amazing that she was so naive about men.”

  “How so?”

  “She grew up in a small town up north, with Bible parents in a Bible community.”

  “She was religious?”

  “No, she gave all that up. But she still carried that farm-girl innocence. Her faith in her husband defied credulity. It took her catching him in the act for it to finally sink in what a shit he was. Even then, she agreed to therapy and mediation.”

  “How was that working out?”

  “Not well.” He turned to Oliver. “You don’t think she was on flight 1324, do you? You think that bastard did her in and blamed it on the flight.”

  Oliver scratched his cheek. “Right now I’m just getting information, sir. And when you’re doing that, you’ve got to keep an open mind. What do you think?”

  “Put it this way. The condo they were living in was in her name. So was the bank account, the car, the furniture, and just about everything of value that they owned. After catching him red-handed, Roseanne started talking about divorce. Poor little Ivan. Now how was he going to pay his lap dancers if he had to make rent and car payments, too?”

  “Lap dancers?”

  “Ever heard of Leather and Lace?”

  Oliver faked naïveté.

  “It’s a ‘gentleman’s’ club.” Rottiger made quotes with his fingers. “I have a good friend who works there as an exotic dancer.” When the man saw Oliver’s facial expression, he said, “It’s not like you think. She’s only doing it for the money.”

  “That’s usually why girls lap dance,” Oliver said. “Anyway, what about her?”

  “She met Rosie and Ivan at one of my famous patio parties.” A look of disgust washed over his face. “When Roseanne wasn’t looking, Ivan came on to her.”

  “Does your lap-dancer friend have a name?”

  “She does but I’m not comfortable giving it to you, right now. Especially after what happened with Ivan
. I work very hard at putting my parties together. I don’t need idiots like Ivan making my friends feel uncomfortable. But there’s a punch line to this.”

  “Go on.”

  “Two weeks later Ivan shows up at Leather and Lace, stuffing twenties into my friend’s thong.”

  “And did the relationship between the two of them…uh, improve?”

  “That isn’t the point!” Rottiger bristled. “The point is he was spending lots of money on his bad habits. Roseanne’s money, no doubt. She finally had enough!”

  “So Roseanne was contemplating divorce.”

  “Yes. Finally.”

  “And where was Roseanne living while she thought about divorce?”

  “In her condo.”

  “And Ivan? Where was he living?”

  “They were still living together, but I think she was about to kick him out. She told me if anyone was going to temporarily move out, it was going to be him.”

  “Because the condo was in her name.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Didn’t her husband have a job?”

  “Some kind of low-level job in finance. I know they were living off Roseanne’s money as a flight attendant because Rosie complained about it.”

  Oliver thought that it would be helpful to get into Roseanne’s bank accounts to see whose signatures were on the household expense checks. Maybe Ivan was skimming money from his wife’s bank account and that was the last straw. So far, the only thing working against Ivan the Terrible was bad behavior. And if that was a crime, Oliver was in deep, deep shit.

  Rottiger said, “You know that the bastard is going to get a lot of insurance money now that Rosie’s dead. She had a life insurance policy from the company, and on top of that, I’m sure he’ll get a settlement from the airline. She was worth a lot more to him dead than alive.”

  Oliver said, “I know that, but I can’t arrest Ivan for getting a windfall from his dead wife. What I need to know as a homicide detective is simply this: Was Roseanne Dresden on that plane or not?”

  “I don’t know,” Rottiger said, “and that’s the truth.”

  Oliver checked his watch. He had just enough time to clean up and make it to the restaurant. He set his wineglass down on the sleek bar and then handed his card to Rottiger. “You’ve been very helpful.”