The Burnt House (40 page)

“In the meantime, he goes south of the border?” Decker said.

“Wanda Bontemps and Lee Wang are watching him.”

“Where is he?” Decker repeated. When the question was met with silence, Decker said, “Scott, call Wanda and find out where Mr. Dresden is currently parking his ass.”

Oliver left wordlessly. Decker looked at Marge. “I take it you’re running the prints through AFIS?”

Marge answered, “George Kasabian is on it, and he’ll call either way.”

“He’s good,” Decker said. “How long has he had the prints?”

“About an hour.”

“Let’s hope he’s contemplating something.” No one spoke for a moment. Then Decker said, “Do you have Kasabian’s number?”

Marge read it off of her cell. Decker put the phone line on speaker and punched in the number. George announced himself after picking up on the fourth ring.

“Hi, George, it’s Pete Decker from West Valley.”

“Welcome back, Lieutenant,” Kasabian told him. “I was just about to call you. Actually, I was just about to call Marge Dunn.”

“I’m right here, George,” Marge answered. “What’s the good word?”

“If you have a pencil, I have a name.”

Two shocked but spontaneous grins. Decker gave his hands a loud clap and said go into the speakerphone.

“The thumbprint belongs to Patricia Childress.” He spelled the last name and gave them Childress’s date of birth. “These particular prints were taken when she was arrested for prostitution seven years ago.”

“God bless vice.” Decker handed the information to Marge. “Dunn is going to feed her information into the computer. Thanks, George. You made my day.”

“I made my own day.”

Decker hung up and rushed over to the computer. Marge had inputted the data and the information on Patricia Childress popped up on the monitor. Two arrests for soliciting, two drunk-and-disorderlies, one misdemeanor drug possession, meaning less than an ounce of weed. At the time of her first arrest, she had been nineteen years of age, five six, 105 pounds, blue eyes, and dark brown hair. Her expression was fear masked by contempt.

“Her last known address isn’t too far from here,” Marge said. “I’ll get a warrant, and if she still lives there, we’ll pay her a visit and bring her in.” She pressed the print button to get copies of her mug shot. Decker picked up one of the sheets and stared at the face. “Who are you, Ms. Childress?”

Oliver walked over to where Marge was working. “According to Wanda Bontemps, Ivan Dresden is eating dinner at Sage with a couple of buddies.” He looked at the monitor and became excited. “George found a match to the bloody fingerprint?”

“He did.” Marge handed him the printed mug shot. “Meet the owner, Ms. Patricia Childress.”

Oliver snapped his head back when he saw the picture. “Patricia Childress?”

Decker said, “You’ve seen her before?”

“I’ve
met
her before. She was using the name of Marina Alfonse. She’s a lap dancer at Leather and Lace. More important, she’s Ivan Dresden’s girlfriend.”

O
LIVER POINTED OUT
a sleek blonde in pasties and a rhinestone-studded thong, grinding away at a customer. “That’s her.”

Marge nodded. “Let’s do it.”

The two of them walked over to Patricia Childress a.k.a. Marina Alfonse and pulled her off the lap of a sweaty bald man in his late fifties. He was incensed but not as mad as she was. “What the fuck?”

Marge flashed her badge. “Police, Ms. Childress. You need to come with us.”

“I’m clean!” she cried. “I swear I’m clean!”

“We believe you,” Marge said. “We’re not from narcotics.”

“Homicide,” Oliver answered.

The owner of the club came rushing over and asked what was going on. Oliver showed him the shield and said, “Hello, Mr. Michelli, nice to see you again. We have a warrant for the arrest of Marina Alfonse—whose real name is Patricia Childress—”

“You!” Recognition of Oliver’s face in the dancer’s eyes. She had turned ashen. “I had nothing to do with it. It was all Ivan’s idea!”

Michelli said, “Can we do this in a more private place?” He regarded the confused look on the customer’s face. “You’ll get every penny back, sir.” To the cops, Michelli said, “This way.”

The detectives followed Michelli, guiding a furious dancer between them, until they stepped into the common makeup and dressing room. The owner waited until after Marge had Mirandized his dancer. Then he said, “You’re fired, Marina. Pack up your things and go.”

“But I swear I didn’t
do
anything, Mr. Michelli!” Patricia cried out.

Michelli glared at the dancer. “Get her out of here!”

By now, Patricia was sobbing. Her makeup was smeared, black streaks of mascara running tracks down her cheeks. She moved slowly, taking off her thong and her pasties until she was stark naked. With effort, she poured herself into her street clothes—a low-cut pink T-shirt, skintight jeans, spike-heel sandals, and a hooded sweater jacket. Since she was still wearing loads of cheap rhinestone jewelry around her neck and arms, she looked like a streetwalker. Patricia had stuffed her working clothes into a giant handbag and looped it over her shoulder. Tears were still washing her face. “It was all
his
idea.”

“You can tell us all about it at the station house.” Oliver grabbed one of Patricia’s arms and Marge grabbed the other. They led her out the back door, into the parking lot, and toward the unmarked car. Oliver let go of her arm to pull out the handcuffs. As soon as he did this, Marge turned Patricia until she was looking at the dancer’s back, pulling one of her arms behind her in anticipation of snapping on cuffs. That’s when something metallic winked at her.

It could have been the jewelry, but Marge didn’t stop to figure out what it was. She threw the woman down to the ground and pounced on top of her.

A .32 Smith & Wesson skittered out of Patricia’s hand, fell to the ground, and discharged, the bullet slicing through the car’s rear passenger tire. Immediately, the car sank off balance. Marge stared at the hapless vehicle.

What was it with her and flat tires at the most inconvenient times?

By now Marge was riding Patricia’s back and had yanked her arms around as Oliver clamped on the manacles.

“That was dumb.” He straightened up and picked up the dancer’s purse. “What else do you have in here, Patricia?”

“My name is Marina and I don’t have anything in there!”

“You have Mace.”

“A girl needs protection!”

“What the hell is this?” Carefully Oliver pulled out a leather sheath. Inside was a seven-inch boning knife. He handled it gingerly, knowing that he could be looking at a murder weapon. “A gun
and
a knife and
Mace
? Are you planning to take on some terrorists?”

“I didn’t
do
anything!”

“Lady, you just tried to
shoot
me!” Marge exclaimed.

“I wasn’t trying to shoot anyone,” Patricia yelled back. “If you wouldn’t have jumped me, the gun wouldn’t have gone off!”

“Oh my God!” Marge’s heart was beating like a hummingbird. She didn’t want to say anything she’d regret, so she kept silent.

Patricia was yelling. “I was just trying to get rid of the gun so I wouldn’t get into trouble.”

Marge got off the dancer’s back and jerked her to her feet. “Guess what, Patricia! It didn’t work!”

DECKER WAS GRATEFUL
that he had gone home instead of straight to work. It had forced him to shower, change, and eat and made him much more presentable for the long hours needed for the upcoming interviews. Patricia Childress a.k.a. Marina Alfonse had been charged with capital murder, ADW, weapons possession, as well as resisting arrest. She wasn’t going anywhere. Ivan Dresden was another story. He had been asked to come in voluntarily to answer a few routine questions about the Beemer, using the pretense that the police were planning to return it shortly.

Decker wanted to see whose story best fit the forensic facts. He figured that both of them were in on the crime. Whoever was deemed the
more reliable would be tapped as the state’s witness against the other. It was possible that neither one would qualify, but he wouldn’t know that until he had heard both sides.

Since Oliver had dealt with Patricia before and since it was likely that Patricia favored men over women, he was elected the primary interviewer of the stripper. Decker would try his luck with Ivan Dresden. He was relieved when Dresden walked into the station house without his lawyer—not likely to remain that way once the questioning got started. It was Decker’s job to put Dresden in a talkative mood.

“Thanks so much for coming in, Mr. Dresden.” He did a quick once-over of his prey. The stockbroker had on a black muscle T, a pair of black jogging pants, and a sweat jacket. Athletic shoes on his feet. His hair was combed back and he was newly shaven. The man appeared comfortable and that was good. To make him even more comfortable, Decker had brought in two cups of coffee with packets of powder and sugar and laid them on the steel table: that along with three steel chairs composed the furniture in the room. He sat down, took a sip from one of the paper cups, then loosened his tie and tried to appear casual. “Just in case you want some coffee.”

“No.” Dresden was dour. “How long is this going to take?”

“How about some water?”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“I know.” Decker grinned. “That’s a police technique we learn at the academy. Never answer questions.”

Dresden wasn’t biting. “When do I get my car back?”

“Aren’t you curious why we took it in the first place?”

Dresden said, “Is that also a technique? To answer a question with a question?”

“You caught me.” Decker pulled out a pad of paper and his pen. “We’re trying to rule out the possibility that you had anything to do with your wife’s disappearance. We checked your condo and that was clean. Next step was the car.”

“Then why did you bother with a warrant?” Dresden sulked. “Why not just ask me? You could have checked the car.”

Decker wrote as he spoke. “We just like to do everything by the book.”

“And what book is that? The comic book?” Dresden shook his head. “You said you had a few questions and then I’d get my car back. I came here without my lawyer. I’m trying to be cooperative, but everyone has a limit.”

“Then I’ll sum things up for you,” Decker said. “We talked to Jimbo Jim Franco at Jim’s upholstery. You had the entire car redone about a month after the crash. I’m curious about that.”

“First of all, I didn’t redo the entire car,” Dresden said. “I changed the carpets and the upholstery. Roseanne had some kind of whitey, creamy color that looked too feminine for my taste.” He looked down at the tabletop. “Also the car reminded me too much of Roseanne. I wanted to keep the car, but I didn’t want a ghost riding around with me. Plus, I sold my own car to pay some debts. So if that’s a crime, sue me.”

“The upholstery was cream but the carpets were black. Why replace black carpets with new black carpets?”

Dresden’s eyes shifted. “Didn’t Jimbo tell you the whole story?”

“Jimbo doesn’t talk a lot. Why don’t you tell me?”

An exasperated sigh and a glance at his watch. “How long is this going to take? Am I under arrest or something?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I mean I can just walk out right now, right?”

“You don’t want to do that, Ivan.” Decker leaned forward and pushed the coffee in front of him. “Just tell me about your car and we can all go home.”

Reluctantly Ivan picked up the coffee and began to dress it to his liking. It gave him something to do. “I loaned the car to someone who left it out in the rain with the top down. Everything got ruined. Moldy and wet and smelly. That’s why I had it done.”

“Who’d you loan it to?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes, it does. We need names to verify your stories.”

Ivan’s eyes narrowed. “This was precisely why I didn’t want to come
in here. Not only are you hounding me, you’re going to get someone else involved.”

“And you’d rather not get someone else involved?”

“I know why I’m here.” Dresden glared at Decker. “You think I hurt my wife.”

Decker said, “You sound outraged!”

“Of course I’m outraged. Not only did I lose my wife, but you idio—You people think I had something to do with her disappearance.”

“Do you have any idea what happened to her!”

“How many times do I have to tell you? I don’t know what happened to Roseanne!”

“I believe you, Ivan.” Decker leaned in again. “I really do and that’s precisely why I insisted that we call you up and have you come in voluntarily. So you can explain the problem we have.” He paused, giving the words a chance to sink into Dresden’s brain. “We found stuff in the car, Ivan. We need some help with that.”

“What do you mean by stuff?” His eyes got big. “Oh shit! The cops planted drugs—”

“Not drugs, Ivan.” Decker shook his head in earnest. “No drugs whatsoever. We found blood, Ivan. Roseanne’s blood.”

Dresden went white.
“What?”

“We found Roseanne’s blood in the car, Ivan.” Decker sincerely hoped that his words were the truth. He certainly didn’t want to deal with the possibility that the blood was from someone else. “Lots of blood, and that’s troubling. That’s why I brought you in. Out of respect. Because I believe you when you say you don’t know what happened to Roseanne. That’s why
I
have to hear your side of the story.”

Dresden’s eyes went from side to side. “I don’t know
what
you’re talking about.”

“So let me explain the situation to you. We know that nothing bad happened to Roseanne in your condo. We searched it and it looked okay. So right away, we didn’t suspect that
you
did anything bad to her. Are you with me, buddy?”

Dresden nodded.

“But here’s the problem. Roseanne didn’t die in the crash, Ivan. Recovery has unearthed things or remains belonging to everyone involved in the crash
except
Roseanne. Nothing,
nothing,
puts Roseanne at the crash sight. And this is a problem for us. What happened to Roseanne? I assume because she’s your wife, it’s a problem for you, too. I mean not that you’re a ghoul, but you are entitled to insurance money once we clear up her disappearance.”

Decker waited for a response but nothing came.

“I’m sure you would like to put this entire episode behind you. And I’m trying to help you do that.”

“You’re not trying to help me. You’re trying to trap me to say something I shouldn’t say.”

“Then don’t talk for a moment and just listen. I’m thinking to myself that if nothing bad happened to Roseanne in the condo and Roseanne wasn’t in the crash, maybe…just maybe…something bad happened in her car. My detective and I were attacking the problem from every angle we could think of. We’ve been relentless: going back over our notes, knocking on door after door after door, reinterviewing witnesses.”

“What witnesses?”

“I’m getting to that. All I’m saying right now is we’ve been working nonstop on your wife’s disappearance and it finally paid off. We caught a break. On the day of the crash, the day that Roseanne disappeared, we found a witness who saw Roseanne’s car flying out of the condo parking structure at around sevenish in the morning.”

Dresden paled, but remained silent. Decker didn’t know how much longer he had before Dresden lawyered up. He tried not to sound too accusing, but the implication was clear.

“Ivan, this is the kicker. Roseanne wasn’t driving.” He didn’t know that for a fact, but Ivan didn’t have to know that, either. Decker leaned in close. “We did hard-nosed investigating, and we found out that you had the car reupholstered. No big deal concerning that. I accept your explanation. But just for the sake of completion, we learned that you told Jim Franco to throw away the original car mats from Roseanne’s
BMW. I think the words you used were ‘to chuck them in the garbage.’ Do you remember telling Jim Franco that?”

“No.”

“Well, Jimbo remembers you telling him that. He’s willing to swear to it in court.”

Dresden was quiet.

Decker said, “Jimbo’s a businessman, Ivan. He doesn’t like to throw away money. So instead of chucking them, he cleaned them and sold them to someone on e-Bay. I think you know where this is leading.” Decker nodded. “We tracked that person down, found the carpets, and tested them for blood. They tested positive…very, very positive. Once the mats tested positive, that’s when we got a warrant for the car to see if it was just the mats were covered in blood or maybe there had been more blood where that came from. See, I really need to find out what happened to Roseanne. Taxpayers are giving me good money to do my job and I take it seriously. Now, I’m trying to get you out of this mess. So bear with me a moment, okay?”

Again, Dresden didn’t answer. Decker noticed his skin color had turned slightly green. He sipped coffee.

“The next step after we tested the mats was to test the car for blood. We stripped the car down and sprayed it with luminol and it lit up bright blue. That means forensics found lots of blood protein. We also found patterns—blood spurting, blood pooling, blood spraying.”