“I don’t come to L.A. anymore!” he spat out. “The real estate is way too expensive. Besides, why should I make it easy for you when you’re the one who’s harassing me? If you want my cooperation, you come to me. Set it up in San Jose, and if it’s convenient for me, I’ll show up!”
“All right…I’ll get back to you and give you a choice of dates so you can pick—”
“And you’d better call during business hours—nine to five. If you call after five again, I will file a complaint. Then you will be dealing with my lawyer!”
“I hear you, Mr. Holmes. Again, thanks so much for all your help. Trust me, sir; I get no satisfaction out of being a pest. I’m just doing my job. And I assure you, once you pass the test and we rule you out, we can both move on.”
There was a long pause. When Holmes’s voice came back on the line, it had lost most of the poison. “I certainly hope you mean that. I’m sorry that Roseanne is dead or missing or whatever, but frankly, that doesn’t concern me anymore. She left me high and dry and I don’t owe her or her memory a damn thing. I’ve got bills to pay and a family to support and I don’t need the police breathing down my back.”
“I understand—”
“No, you don’t understand.” He sighed heavily. “I want to get this over with. How about tomorrow at noon? I think I can probably get away for a couple of hours.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Yes, tomorrow. Is that a problem?”
“It’s a little short notice—”
“Look, buddy, I’m doing you the favor. You’re already up here, so set up the damn test with someone local…shit, my wife is calling me. Call me tomorrow at ten and tell me when and where.”
Holmes hung up.
Decker had taken several cards from the uniformed officers who had investigated the slashed-tires incident. They seemed like nice enough guys. Just maybe San Jose would be courteous enough to help him out and set him up with an experienced polygraph examiner. It was useless to call the station house right now.
He finished up his sandwich, wondering whether he should phone Marge to let her know of his plans, to give her the option of staying on as well. He didn’t want to interrupt anything, but he did want to keep her in the loop.
He caught her just as she and Will were leaving the restaurant, explaining the situation as succinctly as he could.
“He offered to take a polygraph?” she said.
“If I can set it up tomorrow around noon, he said he’d be there. You don’t have to stay on, but I figured I’d give you the option.”
“Of course I’ll stay. I’m as curious as you are. I’ll have to do a little rearranging, but I’m there, boss.”
“Okay. I’ll call you tomorrow morning around eight.”
“I suppose that’s better than waking up at five in the morning. Speaking of which, do you want to take care of the airline tickets or should I do it?”
“That’s right. We have to change the reservation. I’ll do it, Margie. I’ve got nothing else to do, and at this point, I know the eight-hundred number by heart.”
23
AT EIGHT O’CLOCK in the morning, Decker started making phone calls. By the time he had managed to find and secure a reputable polygraph examiner—now known as a forensic psychophysiologist or FP—schedule an exam, and obtain financing, his right ear was hot and his throat was scratchy from talking for almost two hours sans break.
The best that he could arrange under such short notice was a three P.M. test situation at the local D.A.’s office, the cost of the exam to be split between the West Valley substation and Roseanne’s parents. The Lodestones had no idea that their Rosie had done a little mischief on the side, but it didn’t matter to them. They were possessed—and rightly so—with finding Roseanne’s body. If there was evidence of foul play, the Lodestones were keen on finding Roseanne’s murderer. Ivan was still the Lodestones’ first choice for bad guy, but Raymond Holmes would make a decent runner-up should the facts and data point in his direction.
The scheduled time was much later than Holmes had anticipated. He balked, he screamed, and he cursed, but in the end, he showed up on time and without a lawyer. It took about twenty minutes for the FP—an innocuous-looking, gray-haired woman of sixty named Sheila Aronowitz—to set up the exam. After all the electrodes, cuffs, and straps were cinched across Holmes’s body—causing the contractor to remark that if he was going to be electrocuted, he wanted a last meal—Sheila insisted on talking to him before actually asking the questions. She needed to be sure that Holmes understood the mechanics of the machine, and what all the paraphernalia was about. She also insisted that Holmes have something to eat because she felt that a steady blood sugar level was necessary for optimal results.
The rapport building and snack time took a little over an hour.
When she felt they were both ready to take the plunge, she asked ten questions.
Is your name Raymond Holmes?
Are you married with three children?
Do you live in San Jose?
Do you work in San Jose?
Are you fifty-eight years old?
Did you know Roseanne Dresden?
Have you seen Roseanne within the last year?
Have you seen Roseanne Dresden within the last four months?
Did you have anything to do with Roseanne Dresden’s disappearance?
Did you murder Roseanne Dresden?
Decker, Marge, and a right-out-of-law-school deputy PD named Grant Begosian sat behind a one-way mirror watching Holmes pouring out a flood’s worth of sweat as he slugged through the ten simply stated questions. Decker knew that one of the measurements of a polygraph test was galvanic skin resistance, mainly the wetness off one’s fingertips. Holmes’s score on that indicator must have been off the scale even against a baseline question like Is your name Raymond Holmes?
It had been a while since Decker had witnessed a polygraph. Gone were the days of paper-loading, needle-dancing analog machines. These days polygraphs were digital, and as Sheila asked her questions, she regarded a laptop monitor, clicking on the keyboard at various intervals. The actual test didn’t take long. When it was over, she unhooked Holmes from the straps and the cuffs and the galvanometers. Meticulously, she gathered up her equipment as Holmes eyed her silently, dabbing his face with a sodden handkerchief. When she was a step out of the doorway, the contractor couldn’t contain himself. He blurted out the obvious question.
“How’d I do?”
Sheila smiled beatifically and said that she’d be back in a moment and asked if she could get him anything. Holmes opted for a cup of coffee and a croissant.
DECKER, MARGE, AND PD Grant Begosian were still staring at Holmes behind the one-way mirror, marveling at the production of the man’s sweat glands, when Sheila stepped into the interview room. The three of them raised their eyes in unison, directing their expectant gazes at the FP. Decker said, “How’d he do?”
She said, “You’ll just have to wait a moment. I don’t want to be precipitous in my conclusions.”
They waited as Sheila booted up her laptop and zeroed in on the polygraph. Her facial expressions were unreadable as she examined her data. She seemed to be perfectly comfortable working in silence as three people scrutinized her every movement. Eventually she sat back in her chair and looked up from the monitor.
“It is my opinion that Mr. Holmes was not being deceitful.”
Marge made a face. “He passed?”
“It is not a graded examination, Sergeant; it is a measurement of four involuntary physiological processes. I can’t vouch for the man’s credibility. All I can say is that from the measurements of his blood pressure, his heart rate, his respiratory rate, and his GSR, Mr. Holmes seems to have answered my questions in a nondeceitful manner.”
“On all ten questions,” Decker said.
Sheila smiled. “On nine questions actually. The only question that indicated a hint of deception—I’d have to rank it as inconclusive—was when I asked him if his n
ame was Raymond Holmes. That’s not unusual. The first question, being as it is the first question, sometimes produces a surge of anxiety as measured by the physiological indicators no matter how much we try to put the examinee at ease.”
“Thank you very much, Mrs. Aronowitz.” Decker tried out a smile. “If Holmes is telling the truth, that’s good to know. We’ll direct our energies elsewhere.”
Deputy PD Begosian said, “Thank you for coming on such short notice.” The lawyer turned to Marge and Decker.
“My pleasure.” Sheila took out a piece of paper. “Who do I bill?”
Decker took the invoice and handed her his card. “I’ll take care of it. Call me if you have a problem and thank you.”
“In case you should need my services again.” She handed everyone a business card. As soon as Sheila left, the PD said, “Do you want to tell him the news or should I?”
Decker regarded Begosian, who looked way younger than his own daughter. He was too thin, too fresh, and too boyish for legal gravitas, but they all look that way in the beginning. If he stuck around long enough, he’d grow into the position. “I’d like to tell Mr. Holmes the good news, if that’s okay with you. I want to make sure there are no hard feelings. I may need him later on.”
“Be my guest.”
The two detectives entered the interview room, where Holmes was pacing nervously. “You can relax, sir,” Decker said. “I think we’re finally done.”
The contractor stopped treading the concrete. “Done as in done with the interview or done as in done harassing me.”
“The polygraph indicates that you haven’t been deceitful.” Decker held out his hand. “I really appreciate your total cooperation and I thank you again for your time.”
Holmes gave the gesture some thought, then wiped his right palm against his pants and shook hands. “I suppose you were only doing your job.”
“Yes, sir, that is the truth.” Marge offered her hand as well.
Holmes shook hands with her as well. “Then we’re done.”
“Absolutely,” Decker said. “You’re free to go and I promise not to call you unless I have a specific question in mind.”
“What does that mean?”
“You did know the woman,” Decker said. “Maybe I could call you for some help…some insight.”
“As far as I’m concerned, I’ve helped you as much as I can,” Holmes told him.
“I’m sure you’re right. Good-bye and good luck.”
Holmes looked at Decker with agitated eyes. “What does that mean? Good luck?”
“Take it easy, sir.” Decker smiled. “I was referring to your house. Good luck with your construction.”
“Oh…okay. Thanks.” Holmes tried to return the smile but failed. “And good luck to you with Roseanne and the case. I mean that.” He dabbed his forehead with a tissue. “But don’t bother me again. I mean that, too.”
With that, Holmes left the room; he elected to slam the door shut.
THE EXTRA DAY in San Jose gave Marge and Will Barnes another night together. Although the two lovebirds extended a dinner invitation to him, Decker politely declined, anxious to get home. He wanted to take a taxi to the airport, to be alone and think, but Barnes insisted on acting as chauffeur. As he drove to San Jose International, the two lovebirds spent the majority of the ride talking about what restaurant they wanted to go to. Decker zoned out, emptying his mind, which wasn’t hard. In his present state of maximum fatigue, it seemed impossible for him to will up a conscious thought. He fought sleep, deciding to succumb on the plane ride back to L.A.
When they pulled up to the curb of passenger loading and unloading, Marge got out with him. “What now, Loo?”
“For me, a hot dinner and a hot shower sound like a plan.”
“What’s our next step with Roseanne?”
“I haven’t gotten that far.”
“I should talk to Ivan again,” Marge told him. “We know he lied about the time of the fight. He said it was in the afternoon and we know that Roseanne left L.A. in the late morning. I say we ask him about it, using the approach that we’re just trying to button down a couple of details and there’s been a little inconsistency, blah, blah.”
“Great.”
“I’ll have Oliver call him tonight to set something up.”
“Do you want to bring him into the station house for questioning?”
“I think we’d get more information if we came to him.”
“Set it up and let me know.” Decker rubbed his eyes. “Have you finished checking off the names of your tenant list for the Seacrest apartment?”
“I’ve done a little over half.”
“I’ve done about sixty to seventy percent. Let’s all finish up with that within the next couple of days.”
“I’ll make it a priority.”
Decker gave her a thumbs-up sign. “Have a great time.”
Marge smiled. “He’s taking the position…Will is.”
“In Santa Barbara?”
“Yes. I’m excited. It takes everything to another level.”
“Yes, it does.”
Spontaneously, she gave Decker a big hug. “Regards to Rina.”
As Decker watched her slide into Will’s car, the two of them zooming off, he realized he had a big smile on his face.
“DO YOU THINK they’ll get married?” Rina asked him.
Decker pulled back the covers and nestled into bed. “Not right away. They’re still about ninety miles away from one another. But now it’s a car trip instead of an airplane ride, so it’s moving in a more committed direction.”
“How old is Marge?”
“Past forty.”
“And he’s in his fifties?”
“Yes.”
“Good age for both of them,” Rina said. “I hope Will likes the flute.”
Decker smiled. Marge played the instrument, but only when she was alone. For her, it was personal expression, like singing in the shower. “They really do seem to have a lot in common.”
“That’s nice.” Rina moved over to be closer and Decker put his arm around her shoulders. “I wish them happiness and lots of luck.” She faced her husband. “You look exhausted.”
“I am.”
“Fruitful trip?”
“In some ways. Roseanne’s ex-lover passed a polygraph and a flight attendant was pretty sure that Roseanne took the five o’clock flight from San Jose back to Burbank the following morning. It still seems that she disappeared once she reached Burbank.”
“You’re still thinking about the husband?”
“Yes, that’s the logical choice. I’m sure he has some secrets.” Decker shrugged. “All the people who died in the accident, I bet they died with a lot of secrets as well.”
“Secrets from man, but not from G-d.”
“That’s a humbling thought.” Decker frowned. “I don’t know if I really believe in that personal of a God. I, for one, feel that God has better things to do than to get involved in the trivialities of our petty lives.”
“Sometimes I think that’s true, too. I mean, why would Hashem care if I wore a blue or pink dress? Although that isn’t the Jewish way. We really do have the precept of Hashgacha Pratite—that G-d watches over our every moment and our every movement.”
“To each his own.”
“Then there are other times where I’m positive that Hashem is involved with our petty lives. So many important things happen serendipitously that I just can’t chalk them all up to coincidence.”
“I suppose if you’re an atheist, that’s exactly what you do…chalk it up to coincidence.”
“I’d rather believe in divine intervention. It’s much more romantic and much more poetic.”
“That’s because you have romance and poetry in your soul. Me? I believe in God but for an entirely different reason. I need God. Who else is there to curse when things go poorly?”
24
IT WAS ONE of those rare moments when he took time out to smell the
roses. Looking down at his sleeping daughter, her carrot-colored hair flowing over her face and the pillow, he realized that although life was passing too rapidly, he hadn’t gone through his days on earth without producing miracles. Two of them to be exact, but this time around he had been more fortunate. Cindy, although full-time in his heart, had been only part-time in his life. With Hannah, he was fully experiencing her teenage years with all their trials and tribulations. Sometimes it felt as if the drama would never end, but the flip side told him that he was lucky to be there when she needed him.
He tapped his daughter’s shoulder. “Wake up, Rosie O’Dee. It’s a beautiful morning and I love you.”
Hannah inhaled deeply and opened her eyes. “Love you, too.”
He kissed her forehead. “I’ll be waiting in the kitchen for you.”
“Five more minutes?”
“Not today. I’m taking you to school.”
She rolled over and pulled the covers over her head. “Can’t Eema do it?”
“You don’t want my scintillating company?”
“I love your company, Abba, I just want to sleep.”
“I realize that you have an unlimited capacity for slumber. Unfortunately, it’s time to face the music.”
“Can you feed my fish and take my backpack?”
Decker glanced at his daughter’s aquarium. Going to the tropical fish store used to be a weekly outing. Lately Hannah had better things to do on weekends, and the tank was down to two angelfish, and two enormous bottom-feeders—an upside-down catfish and a clown loach. The good news was that the remaining stalwarts were healthy. He dropped flakes into the water and picked up Hannah’s book bag, which weighed no less that fifteen tons. “Do you have any preference for breakfast?”
“No.”
“How about cereal and juice?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You have to eat something.”
“Just juice. I’ll have a glass of milk at school.”
“I see we’re on the liquid diet today.”
“With all this conversation we’re having, I could have had my extra five minutes of sleep.”
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