Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 16

by The Burnt House

  “Dark, good-looking, in his thirties. Some kind of finance guy.”

  “That describes ninety percent of the clientele.”

  Oliver was still looking at the stage, specifically at a blonde with size triple E hooters. She was pixieish, around five five, with a pug nose and long hair, and wide eyes. Her boobs were very nice to look at but way out of proportion to her body. It was a wonder that she didn’t fall forward whenever she took a step. “The man I’m looking for had a wife who perished in a plane crash a couple of months ago.”

  Dante didn’t even have to think about it. “Jell-O.”

  Oliver laughed. “Excuse me?”

  “Sweet and jiggly in all the right places.” Dante regarded Oliver and grinned, showing perfectly shaped, yellow-stained teeth. “One of Jell-O’s regulars was getting too far behind in his tab. I was getting a little antsy, but he recently paid it off.”

  “How big was the bill?”

  “Fifteen grand.”

  “Wow,” Oliver exclaimed. “That’s a lot of lap dancing.”

  “That’s nothing,” Michelli said. “We have guys that run up that kind a bill in a single evening. But there was something about this dude I didn’t trust. I told Jell-O to take care of it…get some kind of ante into the pot. A week later, he paid it off in full.”

  “Credit card, check, or cash?”

  “Cash. That’s when Jell-O told me that the customer was always yakking about his wife dying in a plane crash. Not that he cared about the woman, just that he expected to come into lots of cash very soon, waiting for insurance to pay off.” Michelli took a fistful of peanuts from the nut dish and popped them into his mouth. “That true?”

  “If she did perish in the crash, yes, that would be true.”

  “But you think he bumped his old lady off or something.”

  “I’m investigating a case, Mr. Michelli. Right now all I want to do is talk to the girl.”

  “You’re looking at her,” Dante said.

  “The blonde with the ginormous ones?”

  “That’s her. I told you she was sweet and jiggled in all the right places.”

  15

  IN THE BACK dressing room, Oliver waded through racks of costumes, trying not to ogle the women in various stages of nudity. The back wall was a full-length mirror harshly lit with makeup bulbs, and bisected width-wise by a countertop obliterated by creams, powders, ointments, glosses, brushes, and makeup of all textures, colors, and sizes. There were several occupied bar stools, but most of the women stood as they painted their faces like warrior chiefs.

  Jell-O’s given name wasn’t Melissa or Miranda, but it was Marina Alfonse and Oliver imagined her for a moment in a sailor’s suit and hat doing a hornpipe. She was in the corner, dressed in civilian clothes, and in the process of taking off her makeup. He went over and introduced himself, producing his gold shield for validation. “Marina Alfonse?”

  She gave it a steely glance. “Yeah?”

  “Dante Michelli said you wouldn’t mind talking to me.”

  That gave her a moment of pause. “Yeah?”

  “I’d like to talk to you about one of your customers.”

  “Who?”

  “Ivan Dresden.”

  She didn’t answer, but her eyes lowered to the floor. A moment later she lifted them back to the mirror and continued to examine her reflection. Each time she removed a layer of face paint, she looked younger, until she was milkmaid fresh, with startling blue eyes and dimples in her cheeks. Dressed in a black wife-beater and jeans and low-heeled sandals, she looked sexier than she had an hour ago, gyrating for an audience.

  “Why are the police interested in Ivan?” Marina’s voice tried for casual but fell several notches short.

  “We’re just dotting our t’s and crossing our i’s.”

  “Isn’t it the other way around?”

  “It was a joke,” Oliver said.

  “Ha ha.” The girl was about twenty-five, with the cynicism of an old man. “David Rottiger gave me your card. If I wanted to talk to you, I would have called you.”

  She was pissed and Oliver wondered why. Rottiger had claimed Marina wasn’t interested in Ivan, but a good-paying customer can generate interest. “Just trying to get a little information.”

  “If you’re interested in Ivan, ask Ivan.”

  Oliver took an educated guess. “Sweetheart, there’s a lot of insurance money at stake. If you want to help him out, just answer my questions.” That shut her up and he continued. “David Rottiger said when you first met him, you didn’t like Ivan. So what changed?”

  “Ivan’s okay. He’s a steady customer, a big tipper, and I don’t want to piss him off.”

  “No one has to know we talked.”

  She shrugged.

  Meaning she was going to call the guy as soon as Oliver left. Marge had already gotten the warrants for Roseanne’s phone and credit card receipts, so Ivan couldn’t put a monkey wrench in that. Still, it was more desirable for Ivan to be kept in the dark. Oliver needed leverage to use against her.

  “Why didn’t you like him when you first met him?”

  “I thought he was a jerk,” Marina said. “I don’t care about a married man flirting with me, but not in front of his wife. That wasn’t cool.”

  “Did you know Roseanne?”

  “When I met her, she seemed cold. Ivan tells me she was frigid. ’Course he was flirting with me all evening, so it’s natural that she wasn’t going to like me.”

  “Do you date Ivan?”

  “It’s against the rules.”

  “Rules are meant to be broken.”

  “Mr. Michelli is a good boss and runs a clean place here. That’s all I have to say.”

  “Look, honey, I don’t care what you do on the side. I’m just trying to get some handle on Ivan Dresden. He’s supposed to come into lots of money if his wife’s body is ever recovered. Until insurance finds the corpse, Dresden is going to be looked into by insurance and by the police. If you have something going on, we’re going to find out.”

  Marina addressed him with a tight mouth and hard eyes. “He buys me dinner and I hear about his problems. That’s it.”

  “Sex?”

  “You like hearing nasty details, don’t you?”

  Oliver rolled his eyes. “Let’s talk theoretically, Marina. Say you were having an affair with Dresden when he was married. And now his wife is missing because we can’t find her body. That means someone’s going to come after you. Now, that someone could be me…or that someone could be my hard-ass female sergeant partner, who won’t give a solitary shit if your bra size is triple J.”

  “As opposed to you, who does give a shit about my bra size?” She ended the sentence with a sweet smile.

  “I’m taking the fifth on that one,” Oliver answered. “How did Ivan pay down fifteen gees on his lap-dancing tab?”

  “He’s got a job. He’s got stuff.”

  “What kind of stuff?”

  “He’s got the condo now that Roseanne is dead. Maybe he took out a loan on it.”

  “Maybe or you know for certain?”

  “Look, all I know is that he paid off Mr. Michelli, so now everyone’s happy. Besides, Ivan’s got muscle with the banks because he has insurance money coming.”

  “Maybe he has money coming…maybe not.”

  She started biting her thumbnail. “He makes it sound like it’s a go.”

  “Insurance is going to scour through Ivan’s personal records before the company releases a red cent. So if the clever Mr. Dresden is counting on a windfall, he may want to rethink his position. Were you having an affair with Ivan?”

  She shrugged. “None of your business.”

  “Marina, we’ve got warrants for paperwork.” They did have warrants, only it was for Roseanne’s paper not Ivan’s. “Hotels, motels, gifts, dinners…everything is going to show up on credit-card receipts. I’m personally going to check them out, flashing your picture to hotel clerks and maître d’s. Som
eone is bound to recognize you. So tell me your side of the story.”

  She appraised him very carefully. He wasn’t going away. “Nothing to tell. Boys and girls have been doing the nasty for years. So what?”

  “What I really want to know is did you fuck him before or after Roseanne died?”

  Another shrug.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  “She was fucking around, too, you know.”

  Oliver acted as if the news was a surprise. “Tell me about it.”

  Marina’s eyes widened enthusiastically as she shunted the blame of their sordid affair onto Roseanne. “Ivan told me she had lots of one-night stands. She was a flight attendant. You know how they are!”

  Most of the female flight attendants Oliver knew were hardworking, married women. “Uh-huh. Did Ivan ever mention any names?”

  “No. Just that she was doing it with some rich old guy up in San Jose.”

  “Name?”

  “Roy something. I think that’s what Ivan said.”

  “Could it have been Ray?”

  “Sure.”

  Consistent with the information given to Decker by Arielle Toombs. “Anything else you know about him?”

  “Just that he and Roseanne were involved for more than just a one-night stand. Ivan said he bought her gifts. He found a diamond watch. When he asked her about it, Roseanne told him it was Christmas present from WestAir. She told him the diamonds weren’t real.” A sarcastic laugh escaped from her lips. “He said that the brand was Chopin and that’s a very expensive watch brand. So he knew she was lying.”

  “Chopard?” Oliver asked.

  “Maybe that was it. Anyway, I don’t see WestAir giving out diamond watches as Christmas presents.”

  “That’s true. How long have you been sleeping with him?”

  “None of your business. Believe me, I’m discreet. Otherwise Ivan would stop coming here to see me.” A nervous laugh. “Gotta keep them wanting more. Please don’t tell Mr. Michelli. It’s against the rules and I need this job!”

  So now Oliver had the leverage he needed. He said, “I’m always interested in a fair trade. If you don’t talk to Ivan, I don’t see why I should say anything to Dante Michelli. And we both know that I’ll find out if you talked to Ivan. Do you get my drift?”

  Marina nodded slowly. “I know how to keep my mouth shut.”

  “And so do I.” Oliver handed her a card. “Call if you think of something you’d like to tell me. Any little detail is fine. Even if you think it isn’t important, it might be.”

  Marina swept her foot along the floor. “So when do you think the insurance company will pay out?”

  “First we need a body, Marina. Nothing’s going to happen until then.”

  “Okay.” She tapped her toe on the ground. “Ivan told me they were kaput, you know. Roseanne was going to divorce him and take him to the cleaners.”

  “That part was probably true.”

  “Just lucky for him that she died before she could divorce him.”

  Oliver’s smile was slow and wide.

  Sometimes people make their own luck.

  SAME MIKE HOLLANDER but older: the man looked his full seventy years, with a ruddy round face, a big, bulbous nose, and a mop of snowy hair. A thick white walrus mustache obscured the top of his lip, and now he had added a goatee. With just a little bit more facial hair, Mike was Santa Claus incarnate. He wore glasses and a hearing aid, both new since the last time they had met. Maybe hiring his crew and him wasn’t one of Decker’s finest moments of planning. Not that he looked feeble, but he showed his age. At least his handshake was firm.

  “Great to see you, Pete.”

  “Likewise, Mike, you’re looking good.”

  “I’m looking old, but that’s better than looking fine in a coffin.”

  “C’mon, you’re not ready for that.”

  “Not if I can help it, but God may have other plans.”

  “You sound like my wife.”

  “That’s good. Rina was always wise.”

  They were sitting in a booth at a local coffee shop, halfway between Devonshire and Foothill. Mike had retired in the district he had served for over thirty-five years. The waitress—a fifty-plus woman with a bouffant hairdo—seemed to know Hollander by taking his order as “the usual.” Decker asked for a salad and coffee.

  Mike may have looked elderly, but he looked happy. Decker told him that.

  “Finally doing what I want to do,” Mike answered. “You know I always like working with my hands. Now I get to do that and help people out. Problem is we’re getting too successful. I’m busier than I’d like to be.” He sipped his coffee. “But being busy never killed anyone.”

  “How many people do you have working on a crew?”

  “Anywhere from twenty to thirty.”

  Decker was taken aback. “That’s a huge amount of people.”

  “I know lots of seniors with time on their hands…retired men who drive their wives crazy. You don’t know how many pies I get from grateful women. We may work a little slower, but because there are so many hands, the job moves faster than traditional contractors. You’ve got the plans for your daughter’s house?”

  “I do.” Decker brought them out of his briefcase and spread them across the tabletop. Hollander adjusted his glasses and studied the drawings silently. After a few minutes, he took out a pad of paper and began to make notes. He didn’t speak for the next ten minutes, and when he did, he was all business.

  “The architect did a good job. Thorough. The plans aren’t that complicated and he specked out several options depending on how much they want to spend. I also know discount places for appliances, flooring, hardware, granite, marble…fit-and-finish materials. If your daughter can call me and tell me what she has in mind, I could probably price this out for you in a couple of weeks.”

  “Any idea of the cost?”

  “You’re adding about eight hundred square feet, including a new kitchen and two and a half bathrooms. Hmm…depending on material…oh, anywhere between sixty and one-twenty.”

  “That’s quite a range.”

  “Depending on materials. You’re not going to get lower than sixty. If you do, the guy’s a crook.”

  Decker knew that was true. “That price is doable.”

  “You’re paying for it?”

  “I’m going to offer to help them out. My son-in-law is going to do some of the demolition himself.”

  “That’ll save some money. You know I’ll give you the best price I can, but these people gotta come away with some money in their pockets.”

  “Absolutely. Thanks for looking at the plans. I’ll have Cindy call you as soon as she can.”

  “Great.” Hollander slipped the prints in his briefcase. “So enough about me. Tell me what’s happening in the wonderful world of detective work.”

  The waitress arrived with their food just as Mike had asked the question. She looked at Decker. “You’re a cop?”

  Hollander said, “Best detective I ever worked with. Now he’s a lieutenant. If he had acted more politico, he could have made captain.”

  “I blush,” Decker said.

  “We like cops coming in here,” she said. “They keep an eye on the riffraff.”

  The restaurant skirted the edges of Devonshire’s border. Decker gave the waitress his card. “If you have problems, give me a call.”

  “’Preciate it. Enjoy the meal. It’s on the house.”

  The men nodded. Hollander said, “So what’s been taking up your time other than bureaucracy?”

  “Actually, we’ve got a couple of interesting ones in homicide.” Decker told him about the body in the flight’s wreckage that turned out not to be the body they were looking for.

  “The flight attendant is still missing,” Decker told him.

  “And you have no idea who the unidentified body is?”

  “Not a clue. Sometimes in these kinds of crash scenarios you find extra ID. I’ve never heard
of anyone finding an unexplained body.”

  “Maybe it was a stowaway hiding in the baggage.”

  “You know, I thought about that. Three things militate against it. First of all, there are really tough security measures now, so I don’t see her slipping through. Second, she had a nice-size bash on her skull. Third, she was wearing a very old jacket that was probably manufactured around 1974. If the body was in better shape, we could have had a forensic artist slap a face onto the facial bones. But the biological material is so delicate that the D.A. refuses to let the artist make a cast of the skull and face. If the bones crumble, we lose forensic evidence.”

  “The bash mark on the skull.”

  “Exactly. We’re thinking about doing some computer forensics but it’s never as good as putting a face on the bones.”

  Hollander sat back in his chair and stroked his goatee. He looked very wise. “This is ringing a bell. It’s going to take me a second or so to bring it up.” He took a bite of his hamburger, ketchup dribbling onto his goatee. He dabbed it with a napkin but the hair still looked pink. “Good food for a coffee shop and they serve turkey burgers. Red meat for me nowadays is a no-no…ah, I got it.”

  He put down his sandwich.

  “I confess to missing my old profession now and then. You ever watch those true detective shows on TV?”

  “What ones? Like that private detective on cable?”

  “No, no, like Forensic Files or Cold Case Files or The New Detectives?”

  “Occasionally one of them will catch my interest.”

  “Yeah, most of the time it’s just dogged detective work and the bad guy confessing, or today it’s all DNA. But I saw something on one of the shows that was a similar situation to your case. The fingers had been removed or acid-washed and the skin of the face had been flayed off, leaving only the face muscles.”

  “No way to ID the body.”

  “Yep, that was the culprit’s plan. And it almost worked because the forensic artist couldn’t create a forensic face. She didn’t have the usual bony landmarks to work with and the D.A. wouldn’t let the police remove the muscle because it was forensic evidence.”