Lauren nodded. “What I think everyone wants is for somebody to lift a finger and say, ‘Aha! I know her!’”

“Exactly,” Decker said. “Someone who’ll finally give Jane the recognition she deserves.”

28

S HE HAS A face.” Marge spread the photographs on her desk and sorted them by hairstyle. “Several of them, actually.”

“Several looks, but the same face.” Decker was standing behind Marge’s back, peering over her shoulder. His jacket was open and he had strapped his gun harness to his chest, but he wasn’t armed. He usually didn’t bother wearing his piece when he was doing desk work. “Lauren did an excellent job.”

Marge looked back and forth between Lauren’s interpretation of the bones and the computerized face. “Amazing how close the two faces are.”

“I think the final product was by mutual agreement,” Decker said.

“Nice detail. One thing that’s for certain: this is not Roseanne Dresden.” Marge looked up from one of the pictures of Jane. This particular one had the brunette Kate Jackson preppy shoulder-length haircut with medium-brown eyes. Wire-rimmed glasses sat on the bridge of a nose. “We need to compare these pictures to women around the same age who went missing thirty years ago. That’s a lot of women, considering we don’t even know the year this gal disappeared.”

“It’s the one thing that we have control over. Every detective in the squad room has his or her own set of Jane Doe photographs. I’m working on getting a copy for every police officer. Sometimes the craziest things happen on a routine stop.”

Marge said, “Bontemps and Wang were originally doing MP files. If they’re not in the field, I can assign them to take up where they left off. At least now they have a photograph to check against the missing women.”

“Perfect,” Decker said. “Next use the power of the post. Have Oliver take his copies of the pictures and run off a bunch of ‘Have You Seen This Person?’ mailers.”

“How many initial copies?”

“As many as the department will allow us to print. I’d like to bump this up to a high-profile case. Who did you speak with at the Times?”

“It was Rusty something. His name’s in the file.”

“Give him a call and ask to meet with him. See if you can get someone to write a story about Jane. Use the angle that the police were looking for one woman and found another. Convince him that it’s a perfect human-interest piece for the front page. Use your natural and abundant charm and sweep this poor unsuspecting male off his feet.”

Marge laughed. “Actually, in this case, I won’t even need charm. They have to make amends for erroneously listing Roseanne Dresden’s name in the crash list. I’m sure once I remind the paper of its screwup, someone will be happy to cooperate with L.A.’s Finest.”

THEY ARRANGED A meeting at one of the ubiquitous Star$, this particular one just west of downtown L.A., not more than fifteen minutes away from the skyscrapers and the paper. Since she arrived early, Marge was nursing some kind of sweet concoction that involved hot milk, chocolate, whipped cream, and a hint of peppermint. It wasn’t coffee by anyone’s definition, but it was sweet, hot, and frothy, and why not splurge with the pocketbook and the calories every blue moon?

She wore a lightweight navy-blue suit over a cream-colored top, with simple black flats on her feet. Her hair was now long enough to be pulled into a ponytail, although she elected to wear it loose. She had given her cheeks a stroke of blush, had lined the bottom of her eyes with the stub of a makeup pencil. A single pearl stud rested in each earlobe. She could have been the poster girl for middle management-bank clerk, paralegal, bookkeeper, insurance agent: anyone with a white-collar job who had a title but was grossly underpaid.

Her table had a beeline view of the doorway, and when the young man stepped across the threshold, Marge checked her watch. He was five minutes early; the boy would go far. Marge stood and waved and Rusty Delgado waved back. He wore a pair of khaki pants, a blue chambray shirt, and an ill-fitting double-breasted jacket that was way too low for his short, stocky frame. They shook hands and she handed him a five-dollar bill. “Not a bribe, just a friendly gesture to get yourself some poison.”

“I thought coffee was good for you in moderation.”

“Coffee isn’t the culprit. It’s all the other stuff that you put in the coffee.”

Delgado smiled. “I’ll be right back.”

Marge sat back down. She had learned that Delgado’s boss was still Tricia Woodard, but because Tricia had never bothered to call back and talk about the WestAir list, Marge didn’t feel the need to talk with her. Delgado, on the other hand, had been cooperative. It made more sense to deal with a known subordinate than an unknown boss. Delgado came back with a large steaming cup of something frothy and sat down, staring at her with eager blue eyes.

She said, “I’ve got a good story for you to pitch to your boss.”

“WestAir fraud?”

“Fraud possibly, but something even better. Murder.”

“The missing flight attendant?” Immediately Rusty took out his notebook, but Marge put her hand over the pad.

“Hear me out first, then take your notes. First of all, Rusty, I’m not an insurance agent.”

“You’re an undercover cop.”

“No, I’m a plainclothes detective sergeant, but I mostly work homicide. Originally we were looking for confirmation that Roseanne Dresden perished in flight 1324, but then things got very complicated. Another body was found at the crash site.” She gave him as succinct a summary as she could. Toward the end of her recitation, Marge extracted the pictures of Jane Doe from her purse and laid them down on the table for Delgado to look at.

“This is the forensic artist’s interpretation of our unidentified body that has been rotting underneath the apartment building for the last thirty years. It took us forever just to get a usable skull because the original one was in terrible condition. How we managed to get a replica to use forensically is an article in and of itself.”

“Why do you think she died thirty years ago?”

“We dated the sweatshirt she was wearing.” Marge pointed to a photograph. “This one is the Farrah Fawcett look. As you can see, we have others.”

“I’ve seen pictures of my aunts…they wore their hair exactly like this. Amazing that such a white-bread girl made fashion inroads into the Latino community.”

“Celebrity trumps all.” Marge took a sip of her coffee. “Rusty, someone got away with murder. You can tell we are anxious to bring a killer to a long overdue justice. We need the public’s help and you’re the perfect person to spread the word.”

“What happened to the flight attendant?”

“Roseanne Dresden is still officially missing.”

“And you don’t think that this woman could be Roseanne?”

“No. The forensic artist’s rendition looks nothing like Roseanne Dresden. More importantly the dental records don’t match.” She leaned forward and looked earnestly into Delgado’s eyes. “Your paper messed up by printing Roseanne Dresden on the deceased list. You didn’t do it, but your boss did.”

“But you’re still not one hundred percent certain that Roseanne didn’t perish in the crash.”

“No, not one hundred percent. But the more days that pass without Roseanne’s body, the more it looks like foul play. When her name was printed the investigation took a step backward and we lost days that could have been spent looking for Roseanne instead of digging around.”

Delgado said nothing.

“Not that this has anything to do with you. You’ve been helpful, Rusty, and I appreciate that. That’s why I came to you first. You, Rusty, and not your boss.”

“I appreciate your confidence in me.” He looked worried. “But…either I tell my boss about you or I go over her head. Neither one is a good option.”