“Her name is Jell-O, not Fifi.”

“Jell-O?” Decker laughed out loud. “Is that for real?”

“Her given name is Marina Alfonse,” Oliver said. “By the way, I’ve altered my opinion of the young lady and that may have some bearing on the case. When Rottiger first talked about Marina’s reaction to Ivan, he implied that Marina thought that Ivan was a jerk. Fast-forward to last night. Now I find out they’ve been humping in secret because it’s against the rules to fuck your clients. Meanwhile, Dresden’s jacked up fifteen gees’ worth of lap-dance bills.”

Both Decker and Marge gasped.

Oliver said, “Yeah, I had the same reaction. The owner, a no-nonsense guy named Dante Michelli, got antsy and told Marina to collect a partial payment. To everyone’s surprise, Dresden paid the bill off in its entirety. Marina thinks he might have mortgaged the condo to get the cash, a condo he now owns because Roseanne is presumed dead from the crash. That spells m-o-t-i-v-e to me.”

“How’d he get a second mortgage on the condo so fast?” Marge wondered. “Insurance and the coroner haven’t declared her officially dead yet.”

“First of all, it’s been over two months since the crash, so the loan wasn’t necessarily a fast one. Second, maybe he has an in with the loan officer at the bank. Eventually, even if we don’t find the body, Roseanne’s insurance policies are going to have to pay out.”

“Not if we declare her disappearance a homicide,” Marge said.

“And what evidence do we have for that?”

“Well, we certainly don’t have any evidence that she was on the plane,” Decker said. “Especially with her last phone call coming in from San Jose.”

Marge said, “There is a possibility that she flew in on the five A.M. flight from San Jose going to Burbank and then flew back out on the doomed eight-fifteen flight.”

“I thought WestAir didn’t have a work assignment for her on that flight.”

“As far as we know, they still don’t,” Marge said. “So how do we approach Ivan?”

“Ask Ivan why Roseanne was in San Jose. Then see if he knows anything about Raymond Holmes.”

“So you want us to bring up her ex-lover?” Oliver asked.

Marge said, “The last call on Roseanne’s phone was to her house from a tower in San Jose.”

“Okay…so you’re thinking she went up to see him.”

“It’s possible, although there doesn’t seem to have been contact between them for a good three months before the crash.”

Oliver nodded. “So with Ivan Dresden, we’re, what…using the approach that we think Mr. Holmes was the last one to see her alive so help us make him the bad guy?”

“It may be true,” Decker said.

“But we’re still considering Ivan the Terrible a suspect even though we’re not approaching him that way.”

“Yes.”

“And we’re figuring that if the heat’s on Raymond Holmes, Dresden may feel relaxed enough to open up.”

“Especially if we appeal to his ego,” Marge said.

“We need your help, Mr. Dresden,” Oliver acted out. “The police are counting on you.”

“Yeah, we can lay it on as thick as peanut butter,” Marge said. “You never can go wrong appealing to a man’s ego. Guys are basically fragile creatures. I mean, we women really don’t even need to put out. A few well-placed compliments are all it takes for a movie and dinner.”

17

I T WAS A condo in a neighborhood of block-long condo compounds, all of them refurbished, seventy swinging-singles apartment houses, each building bleeding into the next. The exteriors were fashioned from wood and stucco with balconies for every unit. The sycamores and elms that had been planted three decades ago as little sprouts were now mature trees providing shade and greenery-a good thing because summer temperatures in West Valley often reached one hundred degrees and beyond. Weaving in and out of courtyards abloom with impatiens and azaleas, Dunn and Oliver passed two swimming pools, four Jacuzzis, a glassed-in gym, a recreation room, two resident coffeehouses, and dozens of parking lots, giving the complex the feel of a planned community with suburbia mall overtones.

The Dresden unit was on the third floor of a three-story building. Ivan answered the knock with a scowl on his face. Briefly, Marge studied the man and decided that pictures didn’t do him justice. He had thick black hair, startling blue eyes, and a strong chin, his only imperfection being small pits and dots that landscaped his skin. He was slightly shorter than Marge, around five ten, but he carried himself with an air of haughtiness thanks to a good-looking face and a sculpted body. He wore a black muscle T, long black sweats, with a towel around his neck, though he didn’t look as if he had just worked out. Every hair was in place, not a bead of sweat anywhere.

“Thanks for seeing us, Mr. Dresden,” Marge said.

“Do I have a choice?” he snapped back. “It’s not enough that I have to grieve for my wife, but you people are preventing me from getting my insurance. Money can’t take the place of Roseanne, but I don’t see why I should have to suffer any more than I’m doing.”

They were still standing outside. Oliver said, “Maybe it would be better if we talked indoors, sir?”

Dresden snorted but moved out of the way. The detectives entered the condo and looked around. The furniture was chain store contemporary, but nicely appointed. The place wasn’t a sty, by any means, but it could have used some tidying. There was a week’s worth of newspapers scattered about, and a trash can filled with empty beer cans, take-out Styrofoam cartons, and dozens of torn health-bar wrappers. Plus, the room would have benefited from a woman’s touch-flowers, pictures, candles-because everything was done in stark lines and in pale colors-whites, grays, and pastel blues, except for a lone black leather couch.

“As long as you’re here, you might as well sit down.” Dresden threw some newspapers onto the floor, revealing a sofa cushion. He waited until the detectives sat, then resumed his lament. “Maybe if I smile and say ‘pretty please,’ you’ll let me have what’s rightfully mine.”

“What makes you think we’re withholding anything from you?” Marge asked.

“Oh, c’mon! Do I look like a moron?” He pulled the towel off his neck and snapped it in the air. “I know that insurance companies will do anything not to pay, but it doesn’t help that the police keep asking about a body. Like it’s my fault that the recovery crew is a bunch of incompetent jerks?”

Oliver stepped in. “So you think that your wife died in the crash, Mr. Dresden?”

Dresden became incredulous. “Of course she died in the crash! You have another idea, I’m open to suggestions!”

“I know you’re aggravated.” Oliver crossed and uncrossed his legs. “Insurance hasn’t helped us one iota, either. And WestAir…” He waved his hand. “They’ve been downright obstructionist. So you’re our last hope. We need your help.”

“And if you help us out, we might be able to help you out,” Marge said.

“Mutually beneficial,” Oliver told him. “We’re going to have to ask you a couple of questions, but don’t take it the wrong way. We’re just doing our job.” Dresden made a sour face, but Oliver recognized mollification when he saw it. “When was the last time you heard from Roseanne?”

Dresden scratched his cheek. “These questions…do I need a lawyer?”

“Why would you need a lawyer?” Marge asked.

“Look, Ivan…can I call you Ivan?” Oliver asked. “We’re here to get help. I’m not asking these questions to trip you up. I’m asking questions because we’re trying to get a time line for your wife, which, by the way, is also what insurance needs.”

“We’re trying to re-create her last night before the crash.” Marge held up her notepad. “I got it broken down into hours. Just filling in the blanks.”

“Routine stuff,” Oliver said.

There was silence. Then Dresden said, “Okay. I’ll help you out as long as you tell me that Roseanne’s parents didn’t send you.”