The Burnt House

17

I T WAS A condo in a neighborhood of block-long condo compounds, all of them refurbished, seventy swinging-singles apartment houses, each building bleeding into the next. The exteriors were fashioned from wood and stucco with balconies for every unit. The sycamores and elms that had been planted three decades ago as little sprouts were now mature trees providing shade and greenery-a good thing because summer temperatures in West Valley often reached one hundred degrees and beyond. Weaving in and out of courtyards abloom with impatiens and azaleas, Dunn and Oliver passed two swimming pools, four Jacuzzis, a glassed-in gym, a recreation room, two resident coffeehouses, and dozens of parking lots, giving the complex the feel of a planned community with suburbia mall overtones.

The Dresden unit was on the third floor of a three-story building. Ivan answered the knock with a scowl on his face. Briefly, Marge studied the man and decided that pictures didn’t do him justice. He had thick black hair, startling blue eyes, and a strong chin, his only imperfection being small pits and dots that landscaped his skin. He was slightly shorter than Marge, around five ten, but he carried himself with an air of haughtiness thanks to a good-looking face and a sculpted body. He wore a black muscle T, long black sweats, with a towel around his neck, though he didn’t look as if he had just worked out. Every hair was in place, not a bead of sweat anywhere.

“Thanks for seeing us, Mr. Dresden,” Marge said.

“Do I have a choice?” he snapped back. “It’s not enough that I have to grieve for my wife, but you people are preventing me from getting my insurance. Money can’t take the place of Roseanne, but I don’t see why I should have to suffer any more than I’m doing.”

They were still standing outside. Oliver said, “Maybe it would be better if we talked indoors, sir?”

Dresden snorted but moved out of the way. The detectives entered the condo and looked around. The furniture was chain store contemporary, but nicely appointed. The place wasn’t a sty, by any means, but it could have used some tidying. There was a week’s worth of newspapers scattered about, and a trash can filled with empty beer cans, take-out Styrofoam cartons, and dozens of torn health-bar wrappers. Plus, the room would have benefited from a woman’s touch-flowers, pictures, candles-because everything was done in stark lines and in pale colors-whites, grays, and pastel blues, except for a lone black leather couch.

“As long as you’re here, you might as well sit down.” Dresden threw some newspapers onto the floor, revealing a sofa cushion. He waited until the detectives sat, then resumed his lament. “Maybe if I smile and say ‘pretty please,’ you’ll let me have what’s rightfully mine.”

“What makes you think we’re withholding anything from you?” Marge asked.

“Oh, c’mon! Do I look like a moron?” He pulled the towel off his neck and snapped it in the air. “I know that insurance companies will do anything not to pay, but it doesn’t help that the police keep asking about a body. Like it’s my fault that the recovery crew is a bunch of incompetent jerks?”

Oliver stepped in. “So you think that your wife died in the crash, Mr. Dresden?”

Dresden became incredulous. “Of course she died in the crash! You have another idea, I’m open to suggestions!”

“I know you’re aggravated.” Oliver crossed and uncrossed his legs. “Insurance hasn’t helped us one iota, either. And WestAir…” He waved his hand. “They’ve been downright obstructionist. So you’re our last hope. We need your help.”

“And if you help us out, we might be able to help you out,” Marge said.

“Mutually beneficial,” Oliver told him. “We’re going to have to ask you a couple of questions, but don’t take it the wrong way. We’re just doing our job.” Dresden made a sour face, but Oliver recognized mollification when he saw it. “When was the last time you heard from Roseanne?”

Dresden scratched his cheek. “These questions…do I need a lawyer?”

“Why would you need a lawyer?” Marge asked.

“Look, Ivan…can I call you Ivan?” Oliver asked. “We’re here to get help. I’m not asking these questions to trip you up. I’m asking questions because we’re trying to get a time line for your wife, which, by the way, is also what insurance needs.”

“We’re trying to re-create her last night before the crash.” Marge held up her notepad. “I got it broken down into hours. Just filling in the blanks.”

“Routine stuff,” Oliver said.

There was silence. Then Dresden said, “Okay. I’ll help you out as long as you tell me that Roseanne’s parents didn’t send you.”

“They didn’t send us and that’s the truth,” Marge said. “But I’ll be honest. They’ve been calling the station house nonstop for the past two months. They don’t like you.”

“They’re fucking nuts!”

“They’re persistent in their opinions,” Marge said.

“Exactly why I didn’t tell them the truth about the last time I saw Roseanne.” A sigh. “Roseanne and I had a monster fight the day before the crash. She stormed out of the condo around…I guess it was about four in the afternoon.” His expression held a faraway look. “Next morning, I heard about the crash.” His eye watered. “I totally freaked…I…”

He didn’t finish his sentence. Oliver said, “Did you know that she had been assigned to work flight 1324?”

He took a few moments to catch his breath. “I got this phone message from her the night before…that she was subbing for someone and was up in San Jose for the evening. She told me that we’d talk about what happened when she got back the next morning. But then…” He threw up his hands.

“Okay,” Marge said. “What time did she call you?”

“I don’t know really. I got in very late and didn’t call her back.” He shook his head. “I wish I had…you know, talked to her before it happened. We had our issues, but still…you can’t imagine how guilty I feel.” He slapped his hands over his face. “I just can’t think about it. It’s too upsetting.”

Marge said, “I’m sorry to have to intrude like this, but where were you the night before the crash?”

“Not in San Jose. I can tell you that much. I was upset after the fight. I went out and got drunk. Not the smartest thing to do, but…”

“What was the fight about?” Marge asked.

“The usual.” The detectives waited. “Money.”

“Nothing about women?” Oliver didn’t wait for an answer. “We’ve done enough homework to know that things weren’t great between you two. You had your side friends and she was angry about it. But we also heard that she had some friends as well.”

Dresden went silent. Oliver supposed that even though Dresden was fooling around, his wife’s infidelity had wounded his pride. Gently he said, “Was the fight about her infidelity?”

“That wasn’t the core issue. But when we got angry, we both threw around the dirt. We had a more…liberated way of thinking. Anyway, the fight, like most of our fights, was about the almighty buck.”

“We heard she was pretty pissed off about your side friends,” Marge said.

“And I was pissed off about her sugar daddy. But like I said, that wasn’t the main issue.”

“Could she have flown up to San Jose to see him?”

“Doubt it,” Ivan answered too quickly. “That ended a long time ago.”

“How long?” Oliver said.

Then it was clear to see that the lightbulb went off in the husband’s brain.

One, Roseanne was up in San Jose.

Two, the recovery team never found her body.

Ivan became wide-eyed. “You think Roseanne went to see him and something happened to her?”

“We’re investigating everything,” Marge said. “The sooner we find out what happened, the sooner you can get your money.”

“Specifics would help, Ivan, to make sure we’re all on the same page,” Oliver told him. “For the records, who is he?”

“You don’t know?”

“How about a name?”

“Raymond Holmes. When I saw him, I couldn’t believe that Roseanne would sink that low for a Chopard watch.”

Marge said, “Never underestimate the power of jewelry.”

Ivan snorted again. “In answer to your question, sure it’s possible that Roseanne went to see him.”

“But you said that Roseanne told you she was subbing for someone,” Marge said.

“So what? It’s still possible that while she was in San Jose, she saw the fat prick and they had a fight. Roseanne was really good at starting arguments. And she was even better at really pissing you off. I could totally see that asshole losing it.”

“You knew him personally, Ivan?” Oliver asked.

“Nah…never met the dude. Just saw a couple of pictures. He looked like a football player gone to seed.”

“So how could you know if Raymond Holmes had a temper?”

“Even if you didn’t have a temper to start with, a couple months with Roseanne, you’d develop it real quickly. Look, I know that Roseanne broke it off. I finally gave her an ultimatum-him or me. She didn’t have to think too long. I was there when she made the phone call. Still, Mr. Fat Ass has some problems with the word no. He kept calling her. I happened to answer the phone once. I told him to lay off my wife and he got really nasty. I said if I ever saw his ugly face around Roseanne, I’d kill him. He told me that I’d better be quick, otherwise he intended to shoot first.” He looked at Marge. “We never met and nothing ever happened, but even with just the one conversation, I could tell that the guy had a nasty temper.”

“Sounds like you have one yourself,” Marge said.

Dresden rolled his eyes and looked at Oliver for solace. “I never met the guy in person. I’m just trying to giving you opinions, that’s all.”

“And we’re happy to hear them,” Oliver said. “But we got a problem, Ivan. We think that WestAir never issued a work order for Roseanne for flight 1324. As a matter of fact, we can’t find any work order for Roseanne in San Jose, period.”

The room fell silent. Dresden became irritated. “So maybe I remember the message wrong. Maybe Roseanne just said she was in San Jose and we’ll talk about the fight later and I assumed that she had flown up on an assignment. So much has happened between then and now…” His anger suddenly retreated into sorrow. “So much that I want to forget. So you’re just going to have to accept my lapses of memory, all right?”

“Fair enough, Ivan, because we do know that the last call on Roseanne’s phone went through a tower in San Jose to your home phone,” Oliver told him. “So how’d you find out about Raymond Holmes?”

“Roseanne started showing up with things that went way beyond her salary. The last straw was her trying to make me believe that a Chopard watch was a giveaway from her airline, which was one step away from Chapter Eleven.”

Oliver laughed. “Yeah, we’ve heard that WestAir has financial problems.”

“The company was always late with its payroll, so talk about lame lies. At that point, I pressed her and she confessed.” A bitter laugh. “All those times she was on my case just because I enjoyed a night out with the boys. Meanwhile, she’s boffing a butt-ugly old guy for a fucking watch.”

Oliver raised his eyebrows. “I guess you two really did argue a lot about money.”

“I told you, all the time. Roseanne was always getting on my case because I liked an occasional good time.”

Marge said, “Maybe she got on your case because your occasional good time was costing a hell of a lot more than her occasional good time.”

Dresden’s eyes darkened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means, Ivan, that we’re not idiots and that we’ve checked out a couple of things before we came down to see you,” Marge said.

Oliver said, “Not that I’m making any value judgments, because I’ve been to Leather and Lace myself. But on my salary, I forgo the lap dancing that’s reserved for the honchos that can afford to stick a C-note down a babe’s G-string.”

Dresden was silent.

“Mr. Michelli likes to maintain cordial relationships with the police,” Oliver went on. “We know you paid off an enormous lap-dance bill. You certainly don’t have to answer this question, Ivan, but we are a bit curious. Where’d you get that kind of money?”

“I work, you know.”

“That’s a lot of overtime,” Marge said.

“Fucking-A right about that!”

“How’d you come up with fifteen thousand dollars in one lump payment?”

“Like you said, I don’t have to answer that.”

“Of course not,” Oliver answered. “Although maybe you don’t want to leave us in a curious state. That’s when we start snooping around.”

“Snoop all you want,” Ivan growled. “I have nothing to hide.”

How many times had Marge heard that before? She said, “We’ll find out if you have a second on the condo.”

“I don’t even officially own the condo,” he spat out. “Until she’s declared legally dead, all of her assets are frozen, for your goddamn information.”

Oliver held up his hands. “Peace, bro, we’re just trying to figure things out.”

“Well, if you want to figure things out, why don’t you ask Raymond Holmes where he was the night she phoned me.”

“Absolutely.” Oliver stood up and put his hand on Dresden’s muscled shoulder. “I’m not trying to take you down, bro. I’m just trying to get to the truth. In the long run, it’s good for you, because once we find out what happened to Roseanne-either in the crash or up at San Jose-you can get your money.”

Dresden was still fuming about his exposed personal life. Still, he blurted out, “I sold my car and I’m driving Roseanne’s Beemer. I can’t sell it, but I can sure as hell use it.”

“See how easy that was?” Oliver said.

“I should be taking a vacation in Mexico to clear my mind. Instead I’m working harder than I ever did. I’m also doing overtime.”

“Fifteen thousand dollars must constitute a lot of overtime,” Oliver said.

“Three thousand worth of overtime, ten gees for my old clunker. The rest came from pawning the jewelry given to Roseanne by Mr. Fat Ass. The Chopard watch went for about twenty cents on the dollar. Some lucky babe is going to get a very sweet deal.”