“Yes.”

“Her husband claimed that Roseanne had made a last-minute schedule change that put her on the doomed WestAir flight 1324.”

“Yes.”

“She was not working flight 1324 but was en route to San Jose to work some WestAir flights up north.”

“Yes.”

“Therefore, because she was on a flight for work, she was not issued a ticket.”

“Yes.”

“Now her stepfather and her mother are insisting that Roseanne’s husband, Ivan…as in Ivan the Terrible…heard about the crash, and suddenly decided that this presented an opportune time to kill his wife.”

“Yes. She was contemplating divorce and he stood to lose financially, according to Farley Lodestone.”

“The stepfather who owns three hardware stores.”

“And every single one of them makes money.”

Marge continued: “So Ivan killed Roseanne once he heard about the crash. Then he called up the newspapers and told them that Roseanne had been on the ill-fated flight, and that her name should be added to the list of crash victims.”

“That about sums it up.”

“And so far, her body has not been recovered.”

“Farley Lodestone made a point of telling me that three times,” Decker said.

“Yes. But as of this morning, there are still bodies that have not been accounted for. So why don’t we wait until the recovery operation is complete?”

“Lodestone is tired of waiting.”

“And we have to capitulate to this man, who probably harbors some irrational grudge against his son-in-law?”

Decker shrugged.

“May I ask why?”

“You may and I will try to answer you because I’ve thought about it myself. If it were just Farley’s accusation, I wouldn’t bother. But there’s something earnest about the mother, Shareen. She knows that Roseanne is dead, so she’s not in denial. I know the smartest thing to do is to stall them until the body is recovered, but these folks are suffering. If months go by and recovery doesn’t locate Roseanne, we’re just that much further away from what actually happened. Things get lost, people move away. If it is a homicide, it would be good to have a jump start.”

“If.”

“I know. The big if.”

Marge smiled. “What do you want me to do, Rabbi?”

“Make a couple of calls to WestAir. See if you can’t get some written confirmation that Roseanne was actually on the flight-a computer printout that showed Roseanne’s work schedule, a memo or a slip of paper: anything that puts Roseanne working in San Jose. The Lodestones were trying to do that on their own, but right now WestAir isn’t directly talking to any of the families.”

“Probably worried about lawsuits.”

“That and also busy trying to figure out what went wrong. If we could find the assignment sheet, maybe we could give the parents some peace of mind.”

“And what if there’s no written record of a schedule change?”

“There has to be, Marge. She couldn’t just show up in uniform and hop a plane.”

“Why not?”

Decker sighed. “Well, maybe she could do it, but why would she do it?”

Marge conceded the point. Roseanne must have gotten the assignment and there must be a record of it. “All right. I have some time in the afternoon. I’ll make a few phone calls.”

“Thanks.”

“If the airline refuses to cooperate, is there anyone else I can talk to who might verify Ivan the Terrible’s account of what happened to his wife?”

“As a matter of fact…” Decker pulled out the list that Shareen Lodestone had given her. “What I have is a list of FORs-friends of Roseanne. For what it’s worth, they told Shareen Lodestone that Ivan the Terrible’s version of what happened was pure horseshit.”

“Have you called anyone?”

“No. I am the lieutenant. You are the sergeant.” He handed her the list. “Now, as the sergeant, you may assign this task to someone else.”

“Who do you have in mind?”

“You choose.”

Marge stepped outside Decker’s office and looked around the squad room. Most of the detectives were already in the field and the few who were loitering around their desks were making a good pretense of looking busy.

All except Scott Oliver.

The thirty-year veteran detective was busy cleaning his nails. He had obviously showered this morning because his face was shaved pink and baby smooth. His black hair was combed straight back and kept in place by gel. His clothes were meticulous: a gray linen suit, a starch-pressed white shirt and a cherry-red tie, with lizard-skin loafers on his feet.

But somehow, even with all that morning grooming, he had missed his nails.

She walked over to his desk.

“I see you’re busy,” she told him.

“Qué pasa?” he asked without looking up.

“I have an assignment for you.”

“Hit it, babe.”

“You can either call a list of people or you can call up WestAir and deal with bureaucracy.”

Oliver looked up and frowned. “How many people on the list?”

“Around eight.”

He took the list and scanned the names. “Info, please?”

“A flight attendant named Roseanne Dresden was listed as one of the people who died on WestAir 1324. Her parents think she wasn’t on the flight, but instead was murdered opportunistically by her husband, Ivan, who then called in her death to the newspapers, saying that she had a last-minute schedule change and was on the flight.”

Oliver stopped filing his nails, his eyes dazed. “What?”

“You want to take out a notepad, Scotty. It might help your aging memory.”

As Oliver put away the manicure set, Marge explained the Lodestones’ theories. When she was done with them, she realized that the story still sounded absurd. “Look, what would help close this out is finding someone who saw Roseanne board the flight or an official work order that says that Roseanne had flown up on 1324. Because she wasn’t issued a ticket.”

“She wasn’t?”

“No. If you’re a flight attendant and you’re working the flight, or you’re on your way to work a flight, you don’t have to be issued a ticket. I’m thinking that it shouldn’t take more than an hour to clear up this mess and give the parents some peace of mind.”

“You think this won’t take more than an hour? Can I quote you on that, Dunn?”

“No, you may not quote me on that, Oliver, because I’ve been fooled before.”

PHONE CALLS TO the airlines went nowhere. Marge went from one division to another with no one anxious to talk to her, let alone give her any information.

“I can’t help you with that. Let me try another department.”

“I think we have a task force dealing with the crash. I’ll transfer you there.”

“I have no way of knowing that. You might want to call up human resources.”

“I wouldn’t have that information. You’ll have to call up Burbank.”

“Sorry, I can’t give you that information without a written request from the employee.”

“The employee is dead,” Marge told her.

“Then I’ll need a written request from the next of kin.”

Next of kin was Ivan Dresden, who, in Marge’s opinion, might not be inclined to give written consent.

She was spinning her wheels and that was the problem with the phone. It was hard to be charming and disarming without the visuals. She hung up the receiver and went over to Oliver’s desk.

“How’s it going with the list?”

“They’re at work, Dunn. I left messages and kept them vague. If they have something illuminating to tell me about Ivan the Terrible, I don’t want to scare them off. Furthermore, I don’t want it to get back to the husband that we’re looking into his wife’s death. I would surmise that such action would displease him. How’s it coming with you and WestAir?”

“The phone is good for some things, but not so hot for others. How would you like to come with me and pay a visit to WestAir?”

“And what makes you think that the company will talk to us?”

“Our gold shields. They’re very shiny.”

“Where are the offices?”