Faye Kellerman - The Burnt House

Roseanne meets Leslie Bracco at four-fifteen in the morning on the day of the crash. She basically tells Bracco the same thing she told Christie. As far as Leslie knows, Roseanne has boarded the five A.M. from San Jose to Burbank.

From this point on, there were loads of possibilities for Roseanne.

She could have died in 1324-a strong possibility.

Once again, she could have waged war with her husband, Ivan, when she returned. This time with deadly results.

She could have gone back home, packed up her belongings, and walked off the face of the earth. But then why would she bother with an interview in San Jose?

There is a slight chance that she didn’t hop the return flight to Burbank. Maybe she changed her mind and remained in San Jose, and something bad happened to her here-either with Raymond Holmes or maybe some other unknown factor.

Decker scratched his head and doodled as he finished the last of his sandwich. He took out his cell and called up a number he had written on his notepad earlier in the afternoon. The line was answered after three rings. A gruff voice growled out a hello.

“Mr. Holmes, this is Lieutenant Peter Decker…”

“Hold on a minute.” Decker heard muffled conversation behind the receiver. Several minutes later a whispered voice shot venom over the line. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

Decker looked at his watch and spoke calmly. “I have eleven-oh-six. I know you get up early, but I thought I might catch you before you went to bed. If this is a bad time, I’ll call you tomorrow-”

“First you disrupt me at work, now you bother me at my home. This is harassment!”

“Not harassment, Mr. Holmes, just a few simple questions.”

“You can ask them through my lawyer.”

“Not a problem, but are you sure you want to get into that? I know you want to keep your wife out of police business and I have no problem with that. But if you go the lawyer route, she’s going to find out-”

“What do you want from me? I haven’t seen Roseanne in over eight months. What can I do to make you believe me? Take a lie-detector test?”

That was exactly what Decker wanted. What luck! “That’s an idea. It sure would take the heat off. When’s the next time you’re coming down to L.A.?”

“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.”

A T 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?