The Burnt House

5

A T THE RECEPTION desk, a twentysomething, exotic-looking woman of mixed race scrutinized the badges presented to her while ignoring the ringing phone lines. She peeled her eyes away from the shields, looking up at their faces, then flipped a sheet of black hair over her shoulders and checked her log. “And your appointment is with…”

Oliver said, “It’s not down there?”

“I don’t see it.” Exotic Woman shook her head. “Hold on a moment.” She pushed a button. “WestAir. How may I direct your call? One moment.” She depressed a buzzer and mumbled softly into her headset. Then she looked at Oliver.

“Who was your appointment with?”

“Jeez, I forgot the name.” Oliver tapped his forehead. “Someone in human resources. If you name a couple of names, I’m sure I could recognize-”

“The director is Melvin O’Leary and he’s not in right now.” Down went another blinking button. “WestAir. How may I direct your call?”

Marge spoke up. “Someone must be working in human resources. Can you give the department a call and tell them that Detectives Du

“In a minute.” Another line. “WestAir. How may I direct your call?”

“Hey!” Marge shouted.

Shocked brown eyes beelined toward her face. “Excuse me?”

“We’re investigating a homicide, ma’am, and you’re impeding it! Do you want to help us out or do you want to cause WestAir more bad publicity?”

Pissed but nonetheless chastised, Twentysomething regarded a directory. “I’ll see if Nancy Pratt is able to help you.”

“Thank you.”

She shoved down a button and asked for Ms. Pratt. When she spoke into her headset, her voice was barely above a whisper. She regarded Oliver, not daring to make eye contact with Marge. “Your names, please?”

Marge reiterated slowly, “Homicide Detectives Du

“Thank you.” Mumbling into the headset. “Ms. Pratt will be with you in just a moment. You can take a seat.” Back to her phone lines. “WestAir, how may I direct your call?”

The two detectives sat on sling-back chairs. Oliver leaned over and whispered, “What’s the game plan?”

“Maybe Pratt can direct us to the right department.”

“Hope so. Be nice to get Dresden’s work schedule and be done with this silly case. It’s a waste of our time.”

“I agree.”

“So why are we doing this?”

“I think Decker felt sorry for the parents and the story had just enough intrigue that he wants to make sure that she was on the plane.”

“Is there any doubt?”

“Oliver, it doesn’t pay to get ahead of ourselves.” At the sound of heels clicking onto the floor, Marge looked down the long hallway to see a woman approaching. Tall and big-boned, with clipped blond hair, she appeared to be in her forties and wore a black suit, white shirt, and sensible pumps. The two detectives stood, and when she was within greeting distance, she held out her hand. “Nancy Pratt. Elizabeth tells me you’re from homicide.”

“Yes, ma’am, we are.” Marge introduced the two of them. “Is there a place we can talk privately?”

“Absolutely. Come this way.” She led them down a black granite corridor, and opened a door that co

Nancy Pratt turned the handles of several locked doors until she found one that was open. The room was small and sterile, with a single table and four chairs. It was also frigid, with air-conditioning that roared as it escaped the vent. She motioned for them to sit, then took a chair, folded her hands, and waited for one of them to talk.

“Actually, we’re not sure who to contact, but we figured human resources is a good start,” Oliver said.

Nancy looked pleased. “So how can I help?”

“Our needs are simple,” Oliver said. “Which department assigns the work schedules for WestAir flight attendants?”

Nancy’s smile was patronizing. “Before I can direct you to the right department, maybe you can tell me what you want?”

“All we need is a copy of the work schedule for one of your flight attendants.”

Pratt clucked her tongue. “I’m sure you know that I can’t give you that.”

Marge said, “The employee in question is deceased. Rosea

Pratt held up her palm as a stop sign. “I’m sorry, Detectives, but I can’t help you with that or anything about Rosea

“Look, Ms. Pratt, I know that’s the company policy and I know you have to worry about lawsuits, but what we’re asking for is a very simple thing. We just want some kind of written verification that Rosea

“Detective…” A sigh. “It sounds simple to you, but it isn’t simple. Anything with regard to flight 1324 must be handled by the task force, period.”

All right.” Marge gave up. “Where can we find the task force and who should we speak with?”

Nancy Pratt was already on her feet. “If you could wait here for a moment, I’ll see if anyone’s available to help you. It may take a few moments.”

“No problem,” Marge said. “My throat’s a little dry. Would you happen to have a glass of water?”

Nancy’s expression matched the arctic temperature in the room. “I’ll see what I can do.”

After she left the room, Oliver said, “I don’t think she likes us.”

“I don’t think WestAir likes anyone poking around in their business.”

“You know we’re not going to get anywhere without warrants. And we have no cause to get warrants. This is a total waste of time.”

“Let’s just play it out and say we tried.”

Neither of them spoke for a minute, Oliver shaking his leg, Marge rubbing her arms. The knock at the door was a welcome distraction. A young man came inside holding a paper cup and a plastic bottle. He was slight in build, with blue-black eyes, zits and pits on his cheeks, and a tentative attitude. Marge surmised that this was his first job and he was trying really hard not to screw it up.

“Excuse me, but someone wanted water?”

“That would be me,” Marge said. “Thank you very much.”

“You’re welcome. Anything else?”

“Not really,” Oliver answered, “unless you want to break into some files for us.”

The boyish man looked aghast.

“I’m kidding,” Oliver said. “I’m from the police. Think I’d have you do something illegal?”

“I wouldn’t answer that if I were you,” Marge told him. She opened the bottle of water and poured half of it in the cup. “It could only work against you.”

The kid gave a small smile. Being one of the gang seemed like a new experience for him, so Marge took a big chance. “Relax, sir. You don’t want to end up like your boss, do you?”

“You mean Ms. Pratt?”

“She seems a little humorless.” She drank the cup dry then moved on to the rest of the bottle. “Or maybe it’s just that WestAir has been under tremendous tension.”

“That’s for certain.”

Oliver joined in. “And when everyone gets testy, I bet I know who they take it out on.”

The blue-black eyes became wary. “Anything else I can do for you?”

“What’s your name?” Oliver asked.

“Henson.”

“Okay, Mr. Henson. I’m Detective Oliver and this is Detective Sergeant Du

“Nice to meet you, but my first name is Henson. Henson Ma