The Burnt House

“It’s the coral blouse,” Marge told him. “All women look good in coral.”

“What about men?”

“Men should wear black. It makes them look mysterious. In your case, Pete, black would set off your red hair very nicely.”

“It’s more gray than red,” Decker grumped.

“It’s still has plenty of red in it. So does your mustache. And you’ve got a lot of it … head hair. What you really need to look hip is a soul patch.”

“I’m beyond trying to look hip. All I want is to look appropriate so I don’t embarrass my teenage daughter.”

“I thought that was the purpose of parents of teenagers, to embarrass them.”

She had a definite point. Nothing was as much fun as to see his kids squirm at his misbehaviors. “So what’s going on with the graffiti and the looting?”

“We’ve gotten calls about homes being tagged.”

“How did that happen with units patrolling the area twenty-four/ seven?”

“The taggers are wily guys. They’re also not afraid of heights. We found signatures on the 405 Freeway overpass, and a couple of twenty-foot-high billboards. There’s also one on the top of the Parker/Doddard building, which has to be seven stories high.”

“Criminal Sherpas. Send them out to Everest where they can do some good.”

“I don’t think we’d like to see their signature in the snow, especially if we think what they might use to write with.”

Decker let go with a deep laugh. It felt good. “Not a pretty image. So what’s going on with the looting? Who’s reporting the activity?”

“Anonymous phone calls.” Marge laughed. “Since the residents aren’t back in the area to substantiate the claims, I’m thinking that may be thieves reporting on other thieves.”

“Any arrests?”

“A few for burglary, but that hasn’t deterred the felons. You know how it is, Loo. If houses are left unattended, crime is going to happen even with a strong police presence. The bad boys love to take chances. It’s like the tented houses when the owner fumigates for termites. There are always one or two yutzes who think they can beat the system and make it out before poisonous gas renders them unconscious.”

“How many looting complaints have been called in?”

“About a dozen.”

“Okay. Assign someone to call up the owners of the looted houses and have someone meet them there. Do a quick search inside to see if something is missing. That way if something has been stolen, they can contact their insurance agency right away.”

“I’ll get to it right away.”

“Thanks, Marge.”

“Leave the door open?”

“Absolutely.”

After she left, Decker looked around his private space. It was small, with used furniture, but it had walls that reached the ceiling and a door that made it an office as opposed to a cubicle. He was even lucky enough to have an outside window, although it didn’t open. It wasn’t big, but it usually let in enough light to add a pinch of cheer. Today the sash framed a gunmetal-gray sky. Ash had collected on the sill. He ran his hands through his gray-yet-still-red-according-to-Marge hair. He was still tired, but didn’t dare bitch about it, not when he looked down at all the message slips.

His fingers dialed the first number. A young male voice answered the call. Decker introduced himself and asked for Estelle Greenberg. The voice told him to hold on a second and then it called out, “Ma, police are on the phone.”

The woman who came on the line spoke before he uttered a word. “You found her!”

“Mrs. Greenberg, this Lieutenant Peter Decker of the Los Angeles Police—”

“Yes, yes … did you find my daughter?”

“And your daughter is …”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake! Why are you calling me if you don’t even know why I called?”

So much displaced anger. Decker rode with it. “I was just given a message. I’m sorry to upset you. Believe me, that isn’t my intention.”

“Did you find my daughter?” She was yelling over the phone.

“We haven’t recovered any bodies from the affected area,” Decker explained. “It’s just too hot and dangerous to search.”

“Then why are you wasting my time?” The fury in her voice barely overlay her desperation.

“First of all, I want to tell you how sorry I am. Second, I want to explain why I called you. I’m trying to gather information so that when the investigators do go into the area, they’ll know who they’re looking for. From this conversation, am I correct in assuming that your daughter lived in the affected building?”

The answer didn’t come right away. When it did, it was laced with tears. “Yes.”

“All right. May I please have her name?”

“Delia Greenberg. Apartment 3C.”

“I know the next couple of questions are going to sound moronic and insensitive, but I have to ask them anyway. So please forgive me if I upset you. I take it you haven’t heard from Delia since the incident.”

“No.”

“Does she have a cell phone?”

“I tried it a thousand times …” She was weeping. “It goes directly to her voice mail.”

“Okay. Did Delia live with anyone?”

“Alone.”

“So there was no one with her when it happened?”

“I don’t know! There might have been. She had friends stay over sometimes.”

“All right. Do you have any names, perhaps?”

“I don’t know! I can’t think right now!”

“You’re really helping me a lot, Mrs. Greenberg. Thank you for talking to me. One more thing regarding Delia. Do you think that you could obtain a copy of her dental records for identification purposes?”