“One more question and then I’m done,” Marge said. “Was anyone else working the gate with you, Ms. Lessing?”

The woman didn’t answer. She stopped playing with her hands, took a final sip of her custom coffee, and stood. “Sara McKeel. But you didn’t get the name from me.”

THE NUMBER OF missing women who fit the physical forensics of Jane Doe’s charred body was staggering. Decker had pulled up over a decade’s worth of missing-persons files-from 1971 when the building went up through 1981-when Marge knocked on the door frame to his office.

“Come in, sit down, and tell me some good news,” Decker said. “Because from where I’m sitting, things are sucking big-time.”

“Why’s that?” Marge pulled up a chair and sat across from the lieutenant.

“One hundred and seventeen women and girls went missing between ’71 and ’81 in the Valley alone. Some were probably custody cases, some may have resolved without our knowing it, but some have to be open files. A few of you unlucky souls are going to be assigned the nasty task of announcing heartbreak to families who may have felt they were finally moving on with their lives.”

“I think we should let Wanda and Julius do the calling. Both of them have nice phone voices.”

Decker handed her a bunch of stacks. “You’re a sergeant. Make the assignments as you see fit.”

“I love my rank.” Marge took the paperwork and sat it on her lap. “I wanted to bring you up-to-date with Roseanne Dresden.”

“Good or bad?”

“Illuminating. I had two interviews with the women who worked the desk for flight 1324. Neither remembers Roseanne boarding the aircraft. One of the flight attendants-Sara McKeel-wouldn’t swear that Roseanne didn’t board, but she didn’t recall seeing Roseanne that morning. The other flight attendant was a woman named Erika Lessing and she told a different story.” Marge recapped the conversation. “Erika swears up and down that she would have noticed if Roseanne had boarded the plane. She had an acute madar-mistress radar.”

Decker nodded. “But Lessing didn’t know if Roseanne was on the previous flight from San Jose and had stayed on board.”

“No, she couldn’t tell me that. So I guess the next thing to do would be to call up San Jose and ask them if Roseanne boarded 1324 from their location.”

Scott Oliver knocked then walked into Decker’s office, looking very Casual Friday. Navy crewneck sweater with a blue oxford-weave shirt underneath, and black chino pants. Sneakers on his feet. Decker said, “Who gave you the day off?”

“We’re interviewing Priscilla Huntley in about forty minutes. If we’re going to take a trip down memory lane, I thought I’d look the part.”

Marge said, “You look way more fifties than seventies, Scott.”

“First of all, I can’t come to work in torn jeans and a tie-dye shirt, stinking of tobacco and weed, unless I’m doing narcotics, which-thank God-I’m not.”

“You did narcotics?” Marge asked.

“About a zillion years ago when I was young, invincible, and hookers had diseases that could be controlled by antibiotics. But let us not digress. While my dress might not be in sync with those patronizing a Zeppelin concert, I think I would have melded very nicely with the Priscilla and the Major crowd, even back then.”

“Explanation accepted,” Decker said.

Oliver said, “We’ve got to go, Margie. Her agent is waiting for us. He absolutely refuses to let us interview her without him being there.”

“Why’s that?”

“He’s protective of Priscilla, but more than that, he’s madly in love with her. He doesn’t want a stud like myself horning in on his territory.”

“Uh-huh-”

“What uh-huh! Some women find me utterly charming.” A pause. “Some women find me ludicrous. So what? I’m too egotistical to believe them, and even if I did, I’m too old to care.”

U SUALLY MARGE DROVE, but since they opted to take the Cruiser-Scott’s Venetian-red Chrysler hot rod, not a police car-Oliver was behind the wheel. He was annoyed for several reasons. From the moment Marge sat down in the passenger seat, she started in with the cell phone, yakking to her daughter nonstop. He was also pissed because he was following Miles Marlowe-Priscilla’s aged agent-who was in an old Buick, tooling along at the speed of ten miles per hour.

Marge spoke into her cell. “So go to the movies and then study for your microbiology test…Vega, the test is a week away. Two hours of diversion will probably clear your mind…okay, okay, you know yourself better than I do…uh-huh, uh-huh…So how about if Willie and I take you both out for dinner on Saturday night? That way you don’t have to refuse Josh twice in a row.”

Marge switched to the other ear.

“That’ll work? No, honey, it’s not a problem, I’m sure Willie would love to meet him-”

Oliver cleared his throat.

“Honey, I’m about to go interview someone. So we’re on for Saturday, all right? Okay…okay…okay…okay…bye.” She hung up her cell and spoke to Oliver. “I’m going out on a double date.”

“Who gets the backseat?”

Marge punched him in the shoulder.

“Move it!” Oliver told the Buick in front of him. “Just put your foot down on the accelerator. The pistons will do the rest!”

“He can’t hear you-”

“The old man belongs on the Galápagos with all the other ancient tortoises,” Oliver said.

Marge leaned back and pretended not to hear.

Twenty minutes later, Miles Marlowe turned right into a gated complex, then slowed the Buick to a stop, rolled down the window, and pointed to a spot where he wanted the detectives to park. Oliver maneuvered the Cruiser into the tight space on the first try while it took Miles five minutes to ease the Buick into a space that was roomy enough for an African elephant. Finally, the old man got out and hobbled over to Marge and Oliver. He was stooped over, but even in the prime of his height, he must have been a short man. He wore thick glasses and had a gigantic nose. His eyes were milky blue and slightly rheumy. His best feature was a thick mop of snow-white hair. The agent checked his watch. “Don’t worry. I already called Priss to tell her that we’d be late.”

Oliver checked his watch: 3:03. “Is her place a far walk from here?”

“You’re standing right in front of it.” He pointed to the house. “After you.”

The development was filled with luxury homes with a minimum of thirty-five-hundred square feet of interior space sitting on an acre plus lot. There were an assortment of architectural styles and Priscilla Huntley’s piece of the rock was a variant on the Tudor mansion. The front lawn was emerald green, with a stone walkway lined with leafy bushes of red and pink roses, English lavender in full bloom, yellow and white daisies, and rosemary sprouting lilac-colored blossoms. Ground cover swirling around the brush included sage, mint, and thyme. A soft breeze emitted a scent somewhere between sachet and stew.

The house was fashioned from bricks and stucco that formed high peaks, and was topped by a slate roof. A massive stained-glass window ran from the top of the door’s keystone to just below the dormer window that sat in the middle of the pitch of the roof. Square mullion windows sat symmetrically on either side of the entrance-a recessed set of heavily carved, walnut double doors. The old man rang the bell: it chimed low and melodious and went on for several seconds.

“‘Springless Year,’” Oliver whispered to Marge. “Probably their biggest hit.”

To Oliver’s surprise, Priscilla Barrett answered the door.

She had aged well. In Oliver’s recollection, she had never been youthful-looking, even when she was a young pop star, but that might have been due to her conservative style more than her face. Even when she had been a singing sensation, Priscilla’s hair had always been coiffed, her makeup had been expertly applied, and she was always dressed fashionably. In that regard, Priscilla hadn’t changed a whit. She had well-tended, shoulder-length platinum hair, wide blue eyes, and a hint of pink cream softened her lips. She wore a silk tunic over slim-fitting jeans, her feet housed in platform espadrilles. Her fingers were slender: her nails long, with white French tips.