“I’ll talk to the airlines … talk to the flight attendants who worked the desk to see if anyone remembers seeing Roseanne board the flight.”
“That’s good because we tried doing that,” Lodestone said. “WestAir wouldn’t return our phone calls.”
Shareen said, “If you could push them hard enough, I’d bet my bottom dollar that you’ll find out she wasn’t scheduled to work San Jose.”
“Maybe it was a last-minute change in schedule.”
“I don’t think so. There’s something fishy going on and WestAir isn’t talking.”
“I’m sure they’re worried about lawsuits,” Decker said.
“They should be worried,” Lodestone told him. “If my plane crashed and killed a bunch of people, I’d be worried, too. They can be worried all they want, but they don’t have to worry about a lawsuit from us ’cause they didn’t kill Rosie. That sumbitch did it and that’s all I have to say.”
THE NEXT MORNING, Decker called in Marge Dunn. She had just come back from a spirited weekend with a man she had declared to be a keeper. Will Barnes was in his late fifties—a detective out of Berkeley who was divorced with no children, but got along well with Marge’s adopted daughter, Vega, now a young adult studying astrophysics at Caltech. For the last six months, Barnes and Dunn had seemed perfectly content with a long-distance relationship. As of a couple of weeks ago, Barnes was telling Marge about an opening in the Santa Barbara Police Department—less pay but about two hundred miles closer to L.A. That meant the relationship would be within commuting distance.
As Decker related his conversation with the Lodestones, Marge nodded in the appropriate places. Today, she had donned a white shirt, olive slacks, and a brown jacket. The neutral coloring would have normally washed out her complexion, but her skin glowed with a deep weekend tan. Her brown eyes sparkled with love.
At the end of the tale, Decker raked his hair and took a sip of water, giving her a moment to absorb everything. As he was summing up the story, he realized how weird the Lodestones’ accusations had been. “Pretty bizarre.”
Marge raised an eyebrow. “Beyond bizarre, Pete. I’d say we’re into the realm of fiction.” She flipped through her notebook. “So let me make sure I have this one down correctly. Roseanne Dresden was a flight attendant for WestAir.”
“Yes.”
“Her husband claimed that Roseanne had made a last-minute schedule change that put her on the doomed WestAir flight 1324.”
“Yes.”
“She was not working flight 1324 but was en route to San Jose to work some WestAir flights up north.”
“Yes.”
“Therefore, because she was on a flight for work, she was not issued a ticket.”
“Yes.”
“Now her stepfather and her mother are insisting that Roseanne’s husband, Ivan … as in Ivan the Terrible … heard about the crash, and suddenly decided that this presented an opportune time to kill his wife.”
“Yes. She was contemplating divorce and he stood to lose financially, according to Farley Lodestone.”
“The stepfather who owns three hardware stores.”
“And every single one of them makes money.”
Marge continued: “So Ivan killed Roseanne once he heard about the crash. Then he called up the newspapers and told them that Roseanne had been on the ill-fated flight, and that her name should be added to the list of crash victims.”
“That about sums it up.”
“And so far, her body has not been recovered.”
“Farley Lodestone made a point of telling me that three times,” Decker said.
“Yes. But as of this morning, there are still bodies that have not been accounted for. So why don’t we wait until the recovery operation is complete?”
“Lodestone is tired of waiting.”
“And we have to capitulate to this man, who probably harbors some irrational grudge against his son-in-law?”
Decker shrugged.
“May I ask why?”
“You may and I will try to answer you because I’ve thought about it myself. If it were just Farley’s accusation, I wouldn’t bother. But there’s something earnest about the mother, Shareen. She knows that Roseanne is dead, so she’s not in denial. I know the smartest thing to do is to stall them until the body is recovered, but these folks are suffering. If months go by and recovery doesn’t locate Roseanne, we’re just that much further away from what actually happened. Things get lost, people move away. If it is a homicide, it would be good to have a jump start.”
“If.”
“I know. The big if.”
Marge smiled. “What do you want me to do, Rabbi?”
“Make a couple of calls to WestAir. See if you can’t get some written confirmation that Roseanne was actually on the flight—a computer printout that showed Roseanne’s work schedule, a memo or a slip of paper: anything that puts Roseanne working in San Jose. The Lodestones were trying to do that on their own, but right now WestAir isn’t directly talking to any of the families.”
“Probably worried about lawsuits.”
“That and also busy trying to figure out what went wrong. If we could find the assignment sheet, maybe we could give the parents some peace of mind.”
“And what if there’s no written record of a schedule change?”
“There has to be, Marge. She couldn’t just show up in uniform and hop a plane.”
“Why not?”
Decker sighed. “Well, maybe she could do it, but why would she do it?”
Marge conceded the point. Roseanne must have gotten the assignment and there must be a record of it. “All right. I have some time in the afternoon. I’ll make a few phone calls.”
“Thanks.”
“If the airline refuses to cooperate, is there anyone else I can talk to who might verify Ivan the Terrible’s account of what happened to his wife?”
“As a matter of fact …” Decker pulled out the list that Shareen Lodestone had given her. “What I have is a list of FORs—friends of Roseanne. For what it’s worth, they told Shareen Lodestone that Ivan the Terrible’s version of what happened was pure horseshit.”
“Have you called anyone?”
“No. I am the lieutenant. You are the sergeant.” He handed her the list. “Now, as the sergeant, you may assign this task to someone else.”
“Who do you have in mind?”
“You choose.”
Marge stepped outside Decker’s office and looked around the squad room. Most of the detectives were already in the field and the few who were loitering around their desks were making a good pretense of looking busy.
All except Scott Oliver.
The thirty-year veteran detective was busy cleaning his nails. He had obviously showered this morning because his face was shaved pink and baby smooth. His black hair was combed straight back and kept in place by gel. His clothes