The Burnt House by Faye Kellerman

fear that I might need them.”
     
    WHILE DECKER NURSED his coffee, Oliver, Dunn, and Darwin gorged on pastelitos —little puff pastries of ham, chicken, pork, and a Cuban specialty, pacadillos , a spicy ground beef. In addition to the savory tarts, there was a pot of pork adobo. Sides included fried black beans and fluffy white rice. The day was mild, which was convenient because the East L.A. storefront restaurant had no air-conditioning. The sidewalks were humming with activity, some of it legal, some of it otherwise, but it wasn’t Decker’s district and he wasn’t in the mood to look for trouble. Even though Decker couldn’t eat the food, he could smell it and the aromas had aroused his taste buds. Thank goodness he kept kosher. It helped keep his weight down.
    There must have been considerable spice in the food because Marge was sweating even after taking off her sweater and rolling up the sleeves of her white blouse.
    “Really good.” Oliver had shed his suit jacket and was now in theprocess of loosening his tie and rolling up his own long sleeves. “How’s the coffee, Loo?”
    “Good. And I should know. I’ve had four cups.”
    “Caffeinated?” Marge asked.
    “According to my heart, yes.”
    Darwin summoned a local girl of about fifteen. She had chocolate, curly hair and gang insignia tattoos inked across her arms, neck, and back—everything from snakes and tigers to butterflies. The artwork was intricately done, which meant a lot of needles and a fair amount of pain. She wore a denim miniskirt and a black wife-beater T. Her toenails were painted black and her feet were shod in flip-flops. Lazily, she got up from her chair and took out a pad. The doctor had explained to them that her father owned the place and this was her employment since she dropped out of school.
    “Coffee, Dr. Cesar?”
    “For the table, Marta.”
    She turned to Decker. “I think you had enough coffee.”
    “You’re right. I’ll take water.”
    “You don’t like Cuban food?”
    “I had an enormous breakfast,” he answered her in Spanish. “I’m just not hungry.”
    Marta wrinkled her nose. “You talk the talk, but you don’t walk the walk. I bring you some dessert, okay?”
    “What kind of dessert?”
    “Does it matter?”
    “I don’t eat anything baked with lard.”
    She harrumphed and turned tail. A few minutes later she was back with the coffees and a plate of sizzling hot fritters. “Vegetable oil only.”
    Decker smiled and picked up the fried concoction. It melted in his mouth. “Oh, man, this is good. But it requires coffee.”
    “I’ll bring you decaf.”
    The better part of an hour had passed, and it was time for the discussions to begin in earnest. Decker turned to Darwin. “I’m sure myfellow detectives are grateful for the meal, but that’s not why we’re here. What’s going on, Doc?”
    “Ah, yes, the reason I called you down.” The doctor ate a fritter and blotted his lips on a paper napkin. “This is a very perplexing case, yes, and a most difficult autopsy. The skeleton has been thoroughly charred, everything reduced to bones and, unfortunately, ashes. We hope to make a definite identification through the teeth. We do have an intact skull, but it is very delicate. Since we don’t want to damage forensic evidence, we have been treating it quite gingerly. As a result, it has been hard to get the exact angle to match the dentition in the radiographs given to us by Roseanne’s dentist. The jaw is thicker in bone mass, so it is a bit sturdier and easier to position. But I must emphasize, what we are working with is very fragile.” Darwin stopped talking, taking a sip of his coffee. “I’ve had three forensic odontologists compare and contrast the pre-and postmortem radiographs. We all agree that the skull does not belong to Roseanne Dresden.”
    The table fell silent. Oliver coped with the news by eating three fritters in a row.
    Darwin said, “As you well know, the recovery team has