But that didn’t sync with WestAir’s story.

Marge stared at that final call. No matter how many times she did this task-retraced the last moments of someone’s life-it always gave her pause, seeing a marker that pinpointed one of a person’s final acts before the trip into the great void. Marge knew that in Roseanne’s case, there was a faint possibility that she wasn’t dead, that she had deliberately walked away from her current life to start up again as someone else, but that was stretching credulity.

She looked up just in time to see Decker and an elderly companion walk into the squad room. She did a double take.

“Hollander!” she cried out. “Is that you?”

“Feels like me.” Mike patted his chest and arms. “By God, I think it is me!”

Marge got up from her onerous task, walked over, and slapped him on the back. With a wide smile, he gave her a quick hug and regarded her at arm’s length. “Dunn, you still look as good as the day you deserted Foothill for this clown. And now I find out, pouring salt on the wound, that you outrank me.”

“Yeah, well, I promise I’ll use my power for the good of mankind. What brings you into enemy territory?”

“Him.” He crooked a finger in Decker’s direction.

“By personal invitation,” Decker told her. “We’re going online. Hollander remembered seeing some kind of technique that could help us identify our Jane Doe from the apartment building fire. Care to join?”

“I just got Roseanne Dresden’s phone records. I need to go over them, but keep me posted.” To Hollander: “Great seeing you, Michael. Don’t be such a stranger.”

“Last thing you need is an old fogy like myself bothering you.”

“It’s never a bother and I might even learn something from a veteran.”

He tapped his temple. “I collected a lot of stories working in the Naked City. Sometimes I remember my cases as if it were yesterday. Other times, it’s like working a cold case. My memory’s in deep freeze until some clue reopens the file and it all comes back to me in a rush.”

“I’m like that now,” Marge said. “I can only imagine what I’ll be like at your age, Mike.”

“Well, lucky for you that when you reach my age, you’ll probably forget this conversation.”

SITTING AT DECKER’S desk, both of them in front of the computer monitor, they logged on to Court TV, methodically going through the Forensic Files cases: over one hundred episodes, each with a thumbnail description. As Decker brought up each show, Hollander repeated the same phrase. “No, that’s not the one.”

An hour later they had exhausted the entire list.

Hollander got up and stretched. “I’m sure I remembered it from somewhere. I’m just not that smart or creative enough to make it up.”

Decker had his doubts. With age, sometimes recollections get confused, although Mike appeared to be sharp. “Do you want to go through them again?”

“No point to it, Rabbi. It’s not any of the episodes we looked at.” He scratched his head and sat back down. “Maybe it was a Cold Case File.”

“Let’s have a look.” Decker logged on to A &E and then on to the Web site for Cold Case Files. There were over one hundred episodes for that series as well. As with Forensic Files, each show came with a thumbnail sketch. Unlike Forensic Files, a half-hour program, Cold Case Files was an hour, sometimes divided into two half-hour cases; sometimes one case occupied the entire hour.

Decker brought up episode number one.

“No, that’s not it.”

Thirteen episodes later, they struck oil.

Mike exclaimed without hesitation, “That’s it.”

Decker was surprised, expecting another dead end. “‘Reconstructing Murder/Fire Flicks?’”

“It’s the first one,” Hollander said. “There’s a trailer tape. Does your computer have sound?”

“I think it does.” He pressed the bullhorn icon and unmuted the sound on his machine. All the computers in the squad room worked with muted sound. To hear conversation between the detectives was a must. Sometimes someone would overhear two people talking and add something very relevant. There was a reason why the detectives sat at open tables and weren’t housed in cubicles.

Decker played the intro to the episode. Like all good trailers, it revealed nothing about the actual case other than that the crime originated out of Wisconsin. Decker scrolled down the Web page to an icon that said Buy This Episode. The price was definitely within the departmental budget, so he clicked the icon. The response told him that this particular tape was no longer for sale.

“Well, that’s terrific.” But then Decker thought a moment. “The case involved forensic reconstruction and was made into a TV show. I’m thinking that it must have been some kind of long-term, high-profile murder. If you describe what you saw to Wanda Bontemps, maybe you two can go online together and cull through some of Wisconsin’s notorious murder cases. See if anything looks familiar.”

“Good idea, although it might take up time for your detective.” Hollander curled the ends of his walrus mustache. “I was just thinking to myself that somewhere this tape exists. Maybe it’s in A and E archives, or if it isn’t, maybe I can contact the producer. Let me do some research before we bother a detective.”

“If that’s what you want to do with your free time, I won’t complain.” Decker raised up a finger. “Let me see if I can get you on as a consultant. That way you’ll get a little money for your services.”

“If you do that, Pete, then I won’t complain.”

Decker qualified: “As long as your consulting doesn’t interfere with my daughter’s remodeling plans.”

Hollander punched him in the shoulder. “What kind of lieutenant detective are you?”

“Blood is thicker than a paycheck.”

MARGE LEANED AGAINST the wall, arms folded across her chest, waiting as Decker looked over the phone records. She said, “I’m trying to figure out the best way to approach Ivan Dresden to make him feel like he’s on our side.”

“With her last call coming out of San Jose, he may actually be on our side.” Decker flipped through phone records. “What was Roseanne doing there?”

“Maybe working, but maybe she was visiting her old boyfriend.”

“So-called old boyfriend: nothing’s been verified. Is this Raymond Holmes’s phone number?” Decker recited the numbers out loud.

“Yep.”

“Roseanne hadn’t called it for the last six months. That jibes with Arielle Toombs’s account…that she had severed the relationship a while ago. But he did call her about three months before the crash.”

“Hmmm…what did we find out about Holmes?”

“He lives in San Jose at 5371 Granada Avenue. No wants, no warrants, no priors.”

Oliver walked into Decker’s office, rubbing his eyes and rolling his shoulders. His emerald tie was slightly askew and the collar of his jacquard white shirt was wilted. Marge checked her watch. It was almost four in the afternoon. “Hot time last night at Leather and Lace, Scotty?”

“Wish it were so.” Oliver yawned. “I just got out of court. Peabody homicide.”

“Kerry Trima,” Decker said. “The one with the inconclusive DNA. How’d it go?”

“The PD was wet behind the ears. He spent all his time attacking the DNA expert and gave our circumstantial evidence a free ride. He could have easily put a giant hole in my testimony, but luckily he didn’t ask the right questions. I think the jury will be swayed despite the lack of a smoking gun. What are we dealing with now?”

“Roseanne Dresden’s phone records,” Marge said. “Did you get my message?”

“About the midnight San Jose call?” Oliver shrugged. “What was Roseanne doing in San Jose eight hours before she allegedly perished on a flight from Burbank to San Jose?”

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” Marge said. “I think it’s time to talk to Ivan the Terrible. Maybe he knows what she was doing there. And since Mr. Dresden fancies himself a ladies’ man, I figured we should interview him together and you should do most of the talking. You two can talk about Fifi at Leather and Lace.”