“Handle it however you want. We all have our crosses to bear. At this moment, Rusty, you’ve got a great story.” Marge swept her hand across the air to imitate a headline banner. “‘The Search for a Missing Flight Attendant’s Body Leads Homicide Detectives into a Baffling, Thirty-Year-Old Murder.’ It’s complicated, it’s got twists, it’s got pathos, and it’s got mystery. All we’re asking for is that the paper print these photographs and solicit the public’s help in identifying her.”

“It’s a thirty-year-old case. The guy responsible for her murder could be dead.”

“More likely he’s in his fifties and is feeling very smug,” Marge told him. “Look into the future, Delgado. If we find the killer, think of the arrest and the trial. Who else is going to give you such a big opportunity?”

“It is absolutely the big break everyone in my position hopes for.” The young man licked his lips. “Of course I’m going to pitch it. I just hope that Tricia doesn’t screw it up for me.”

“You tell whoever you have to that I talk to you, not to Tricia.”

Delgado shook his head. “Why are you doing this for me?”

“Because you were there when I needed you. So here’s your chance, Delgado; don’t blow it.”

He threw up his hands. “Of course I’m in. Can we go over the case again more slowly? I want to figure out exactly how to present this to the feature editor.”

“I’m happy to give you a little more time just as long as you run the photographs of our Jane Doe.”

“Absolutely, Sergeant. Our readers love pictures. Sometimes I think that the captions are the only thing they’re reading. The Internet wouldn’t survive without illustrations and videos. No one has the patience to sift through a detailed article.”

“We’re a short-attention-span society.”

“We were raised on Sesame Street, computers, and instantaneous communication, Sergeant. We did it to ourselves.”

29

I MMEDIATELY AFTER THE article was published, the tips started pouring in, requiring someone to manage the phones full-time. The calls were vast and varied. It was someone’s long-lost daughter, it was someone’s long-lost sister, it was a friend of a friend who moved to France and disappeared, it was Aunt Janice or Cousin Ellie. The names were duly written down and checked out. Sometimes Aunt Janice was alive and well. Just as many times, Cousin Ellie could not be located and was put on a checklist.

Do you have a picture of her?

A photograph was sent via e-mail. Receiving the image, the detective in charge would immediately notice that the two people looked nothing alike and that there was a thirty-year age difference.

I don’t think this is your cousin Ellie, but we’ll certainly keep it in mind.

Then there were the kooks. Jane Doe was actually Gamma-Globulin Moonbeam, an alien from outer space who was sent from Alpha Centauri to infiltrate Earth. The best one that Wanda got was that Jane Doe was a reincarnation of Gucci, a woman’s beloved pet Maltese who had met her untimely demise by running across the street just as a Porsche Boxster turned the corner and ran a stop sign.

All the press attention focused on Jane Doe did a fine job riling up Farley Lodestone.

“You got a woman who’s been dead for thirty years getting more paper space than my daughter, who’s only been missing for a few months,” he yelled at Decker.

“Farley, no one has forgotten about Roseanne-”

“That’s damn well only because I call you all the time!”

“No, it’s because we’re committed to the investigation of your daughter,” Decker said. “We’re not just sitting with our hands under our butts, we’ve gone through her phone and credit-card records at least a half-dozen times. We’ve called everyone she’s called up in the last year. We went up to San Jose and talked to people she knew up there-”

“San Jose is a total waste of time. You know that bastard did it.”

“Farley, we pulled a search warrant and inspected every wall, floor, and fiber in your daughter’s condo. If something happened to Roseanne, it didn’t happen there. We spent days tracking down Ivan’s old car and went over that forensically inside and out and we didn’t find anything. We’re reinterviewing people at the condo to see if they suddenly remember something. We’re going over our notes. So far, we don’t have the smoking gun, we don’t have circumstantial evidence, we don’t even have a crime scene. Even so, we’re not giving up.”

Lodestone didn’t answer.

“Are you still there?” Decker asked.

“Yeah, I’m here. It just pisses me off that you’re spending all your time looking into a corpse instead of looking for my daughter.”

Roseanne wasn’t Decker’s only case. Neither was Jane Doe. At the moment, he was juggling thirty detectives and hundreds of cases. What could Decker say to convince the man that he doing the best he could?

The answer was nothing.

And if he, God forbid, was in the same situation as Farley Lodestone, he’d probably feel the same way.

“Farley, all I can tell you is I’m doing whatever I can.”

“Well, it ain’t enough!”

“I hear you, Farley. I know you’re frustrated-”

“I’m pissed!”

“I can’t say that I blame you. I wish I had more news to tell you-”

Lodestone hung up on him.

Decker rolled his eyes and slammed the phone back into the cradle. He was doing all he could, but Farley was right. It wasn’t enough.

Failure sucked.

DAY SEVEN AFTER Rusty Delgado’s article was published, Marge took a phone call regarding Jane Doe that sounded like something more than hope. She snapped her fingers and got Scott Oliver’s attention, mouthing, “Get Decker.” A minute later the lieutenant was on the line. He introduced himself and Marge told the caller to repeat her story.

“Like I told the sergeant, my name is Cathie Alvarez and I’m calling about the Jane Doe in the paper.”

Decker said, “Thanks for calling, Ms. Alvarez. What would you like to tell me?”

“Well, now, this is a long time ago. But I have to tell you that it looks pretty much like my older cousin Beth.”

“Okay. How so?”

“The picture in the paper, the one with the granny glasses and the Farrah Fawcett-Majors hairdo. Beth used to wear her hair like that except it was dark, but so did everyone else. Beth had glasses just like that, but so did everyone else. Mostly, it was the mood ring. Beth always wore a mood ring. Not that she needed it. Beth was such a positive person. She was always smiling.”

Decker became very excited and pulled out his notepad. Lauren had thought that the Jane Doe might be Latina and Alvarez fit that category. “Would you have a picture of Beth?”

“No, I’m sorry, I don’t have one on me. But I mailed the article to my mother-Beth’s aunt. Mom and I talked about the picture for over an hour. She agrees with me. We both think it’s Beth, but neither one of us has told my aunt or uncle. If it isn’t Beth, well, you can imagine how terrible we’d feel, stirring up such heartbreak.”

“And may I ask who your aunt and uncle are?”

“Sandra and Peter Devargas. They’re in their seventies, but still strong. They have five other children, and lots of grandchildren, but that doesn’t take the place of Beth.”

“Of course not.”

“I’m sure they’d like to know…give her a proper burial if it is…”

The voice on the other end choked up.

“I’m sorry. I’m sure you’ve had dozens of calls, all of them thinking that the picture is a loved one.”

“We have, but we take each phone call seriously. What happened to your cousin?”

“She and her husband vanished into thin air thirty-two years ago.”

“Do you have the date, month, or year?”

“June of 1976.”

Finally something concrete. Hallelujah. “Where were they living at the time, Mrs. Alvarez?”

“Please call me Cathie. They were living in Los Angeles…somewhere in the San Fernando Valley, but I don’t know the exact address. I’ve lived in Long Beach for the last fifteen years. My family is from Santa Fe, New Mexico.”