“This strap measures your upper respiration and this one your lower respiration rate.”
He attached a blood pressure cuff to her upper right arm. “This records your pulse and blood pressure.”
Her blood pressure rose even as he said it. Then he attached two thermal sensors to the inside base of her left palm, one at the base of the thumb pad, the other on the outside of the palm beneath her little finger.
“These sensors monitor skin resistance . . . sweat.”
Last, he slid what he called an infrared photoelectric plethysmograph over the ring finger of her right hand.
“That one monitors your pulse blood volume change depending on the question. Oh, and be aware that there are movement sensors in the arms of the chair, so try not to squirm around too much.”
She swallowed, watching wordlessly as he connected the sensors to his laptop.
“Again, try not to move around too much. The polygraph will measure your body movements, your chest and diaphragm breath rate, your perspiration levels, and of course, your pulse and blood pressure. How it’s designed to work is that the sensors measure a number of changes in the body in response to questions. The data is recorded on my computer. Make sure that you answer each of the questions with a yes or no answer.”
And so the questioning began. The first few questions were basic, testing her indicators of a truthful answer. He asked Meg her name, her address, when she graduated from college, even when she had gotten married and divorced. She wasn’t sure why that information was relevant, or even how he knew it, only that in just a few hours, Hodges and his partner had obviously delved deeply into her past. She had only begun to calm down a little bit when he asked the first accusatory question.
“Did you set fire to your home?”
“No,” she replied firmly.
“Do you know who did it?”
Did she know? She had no idea. Why would somebody want to burn her house down? One of the neighbors who objected to her residents? Somebody possibly related to one of her residents in one way or another? What about Tanisha’s former pimp? Aliyah’s angry family members? And what if the body—
“Please answer the question. Do you know who set fire to your home?”
“No,” she replied softly.
He peppered a few more questions about the fire at her, and then out of nowhere came the first question about the body.
“Did you kill Tim Jefferson?”
Meg gasped. “It was Tim? They identified the body?”
The polygraph operator glanced away from his computer screen to look at her. “Remember, yes or no answers only. Did you kill Tim Jefferson?”
“No,” she replied. Oh, God, the body in the basement was Tim. But who had killed him? Why? Did he have something to do with the fire? In an effort to hide the murder, had his killer tried to set the place on fire?
“Miss Devers.”
The operator’s voice once again pulled her back to the present. “I’m sorry—what?”
“Yes or no answers only.”
“I understand,” she stammered. He looked at her. “I’m sorry, could you repeat the question?”
The operator glanced back at the computer screen with a sigh and repeated his question. He asked several more. Meg wanted to know how she was doing. She was trying her best, and she was being truthful with her answers, but she couldn’t tell from the expression on the operator’s face whether the “mathematical algorithm” he was using gave him any indication of her truthfulness or whether he thought she was lying out her ass. Stupid machines.
“All right, that’s it. We’re done.”
He looked up from the computer screen and smiled encouragingly at her. Meg’s nerves were completely blown. She had no idea how to take that smile. Sincere or facetious? He walked over to her, removed the accoutrements of the digital polygraph, and then asked her to remain seated while he excused himself. She watched the door close behind him and heard the sound of voices out in the hall. Male. What was the polygraph operator telling Hodges? A moment later, the door opened and Hodges stood there, his face not offering any clues.
“Miss Devers, please come with me.”
She rose and followed him out of the small room back toward one of the interrogation rooms. Again?
“Have a seat,” he said, gesturing.
She sat while Hodges hovered near the door, leaning against the wall, legs crossed at his ankles, arms crossed over his chest. He looked at her for several moments. She couldn’t help but frown. What? Did he expect her to say something? She wanted to ask how she did on the polygraph, but resisted their urge. She had to appear confident. After all, she had told the truth. Nothing but the truth.
“You passed the polygraph, but just barely.”
“What you mean, just barely?” she erupted, her blood pressure immediately shooting sky high. “Barely? I answered every question truthfully!”
He merely raised an eyebrow and offered a shrug. “Apparently, you hesitated when asked whether you knew who had killed the guy in the basement—”
“Tim Jefferson,” she snapped. “His name was Tim Jefferson.”
Again he offered a shrug. “We haven’t officially identified him yet.”
“What do you mean? The polygraph operator said it was Tim Jefferson.” Was he toying with her? Trying to agitate her, to encourage her to say something that she would regret? She was about to ready to tell the bastard to go fuck himself but didn’t want him to know that he was pushing her buttons. He was, but he didn’t have to know that.
“Another hesitation when you were asked if you had any idea of who might have set fire to your place.”
“Well, I didn’t,” she replied. “And when he asked that question, yes, I hesitated. I have had contact with a lot of people—”
“You mean like your residents with questionable backgrounds?”
He couldn’t be that obtuse, could he? Did he really think all her residents were deadbeats? No, the detective had to be deliberately trying to piss her off, and so far she had allowed it. She counted to five, real fast in her head, before replying in as calm a tone as she could muster. “Yes, some of my residents have less-than-stellar backgrounds. But I’m telling you that I seriously doubt that any one of them could have had anything to do with the fire, or Tim’s murder.”
“How can you be so sure?”
She shook her head. “What would it benefit any one of them to burn the place down when I’m the one providing them with food and shelter? That doesn’t make any sense!”
“You never know what motivates some people,” he said. “You did say that your bookkeeper, Monica Chambers, had access to your books. We’re looking deeper into those, see if we can find any link between your business account and hers.”
At first she didn’t understand. “You mean you think she was embezzling from me?” She almost laughed. “There’s nothing to embezzle. She’s not listed as a beneficiary on any policies, at least not the one I took out,” she finished.
“What about the mysterious deposit of funds into your account?” he suggested. “There was a hesitation on that question, too.”
She sighed, suddenly overwhelmed, tired, and physically exhausted. So much had happened in such a short amount of time. She needed to get away, to collect her thoughts, to try and figure out what the hell was going on. “Detective Hodges, I have no answers for you,” she replied. “I have no idea why this happened, where that money came from, why anyone would murder Tim, set fire to my place, or take out extra insurance policies on the business—”
“There’s one on you, too,” he said.
That jarred her. “Me?” A cold sensation rushed down her spine. “Who took out a life insurance policy on me?”
“Looks like there is still a life insurance policy in place taken out by your ex-husband, Ray Delancey.”
She scoffed. “That policy lapsed years ago. Besides, it was only for about ten or fifteen thousand dollars. Just enough to cover burial expense
s.”
Hodges made a face. “For one, the policy never lapsed. It’s still active. And you’re way off on the payout.”
“What do you mean, the policy never lapsed? When we got divorced, my ex and I canceled our life insurance policies. They were term and not worth much.”
“You’d be amazed at what some people will actually kill for.”
“You said the policy is still active? For the same amount? I can’t even remember which insurance company wrote it. I think it was with the company who had our car insurance.”
“Does New York Life ring a bell?”
“New York Life? No way. That wasn’t the name of the company. I said it was linked to our auto insurance policy.”
“Nope,” he said. “It’s New York Life, taken out a year ago. Three hundred grand. Double indemnity. Meaning that if you die and it’s proven an accident or a natural death, your ex ends up with over half a million in his pocket.”
Meg was dumbfounded. Hodges appeared to find her confusion amusing, if that crooked grin on his face was any indication. She wasn’t at all amused. Damn it, Ray! As soon as she could get to a phone, she was going to give him a piece of her mind and then call the insurance company and demand that the policy be canceled. How dare he? And without her knowledge? How could he accomplish that? They weren’t married anymore. How was it possible to take out a life insurance policy on somebody without that person signing for it?
She couldn’t take much more. She had gone to bed last night blithely unaware that in just a matter of hours, her life would be turned upside down. She looked up at Hodges. “Can I go?”
To her surprise, he nodded and gestured toward the door. “We’ll keep you posted. If we have any more questions, we’ll let you know.”
She rose and strode toward the door. Paused, hesitating to ask him any favors, but she had no ride home. “Can I borrow a phone, call for a taxi?”
“No need, there’s an officer out front who will take you home.”
11
Meg
By the time the officer—the same one who had driven her home earlier—dropped her off again, her head felt like it was going to explode. Her pulse throbbed in her neck and she took a deep breath, trying to force herself to calm down. Once again she thanked the officer and stepped out of the car and stood on the sidewalk, assessing her home. Liam’s SUV wasn’t parked on the street. The crime scene tape had been removed from the exterior of the property. Finally, she could go back inside her home. She walked up to the door—no seal or notice. Meg’s shoulders dropped and for the first time since the police station she felt herself finally relax. She could go inside, and on her own this time.
While her neighborhood was usually quiet, the stillness over the street early in the afternoon was almost unsettling. A prickle rose on the back of her neck, firing her up all over again. No one was walking their dog or pushing a stroller, no mailman, and no traffic. Odd. She slowly walked down the driveway and stepped onto the short walkway that led to the front door. It was unlocked. Why hadn’t Liam locked the place up? Maybe he realized that because she had left the house with him, she didn’t have her car keys nor her house key. Still.
Woodenly, she entered the old house and stood inside the entryway for several seconds, just listening. All was quiet. The air still heavy with the scent of soot and smoke, damp wood and drywall, and wet fabric. Discouraged and fighting back tears, she headed for the stairs. She couldn’t confront the kitchen just yet, not only because of the damage in there, but because of the fresh memory of what she had done with Liam stamped into her brain. Meg shook her head as she took the stairs one at a time. What in heaven’s name had gotten into her?
Her hand slid up the banister with habit, but it felt different. She looked at her hand, now covered with powdery black soot. Just cleaning the place would take days, let alone dealing with damage to drywall, repainting, replacing furniture. She was too tired right now to fully assess the severity of damage in every room.
She reached the landing to the second floor. It looked pretty good here; no obvious signs that a fire had occurred in the house. Still, the scent of lingering smoke and water damage was everywhere. Her footsteps echoed on the hardwood floor as she headed for the far end of the house. In front of the last door, where the stairway to the attic was located, she paused. Near the base of the outside wall and the base of the door, rising up the drywall, was a dark black stain that looked like an anorexic volcano, wide at the bottom, narrowing to a point about halfway up the wall.
A thought struck her. Why hadn’t the smoke detectors gone off? She had them all over the house. Another question with no answer. It looked like someone had tried to start a fire here on the second floor, right next to the doorway of the staircase that led up into the attic. She looked up into that enclosed space, saw the charred walls, enough to cause the telltale alligator skin in the old paint but not enough to eat all the way through. Taking a deep breath, she took the first step, then another, warily placing her weight on each step, half expecting it to all come tumbling down around her. She knew it wouldn’t. Liam had said that the house was sound. Hadn’t he?
By the time she reached the attic level, she began to see more signs of fire damage. The charred walls, the soot-blackened rafters. She’d had a room for herself constructed up here, literally dividing the attic space in half, the bedroom space a bit smaller than the rest of the open attic. Her makeshift office, at least until she could arrange for renovation of another of the rooms downstairs in the basement.
She stepped into her bedroom, trying to ignore the sight of the dark splotches right in front of her doorway. She felt hollow. Why had somebody tried to kill her? She had no doubt, after seeing the marks on the floor right outside her doorway. But how had anyone known that was her room? She’d barely moved in. How could they have known she’d be there, behind the closed door? Sleeping, dreaming, not a care in the world until the smoke had woken her.
She stepped into the room. Broken glass and broken pieces of window frame lay on the floor not far from the base of her bed. The crumpled mess of her blankets lay under and around them. She’d probably have to get a whole new sheet set. There would be glass all through them. The sudden surge of emotions hit her like a punch to the gut. Her knees gave way and she slowly sank to the floor, sobs heaving from her chest. She buried her face in her hands and cried, overwhelmed by despair.
She wasn’t sure how long she cried, but she pulled herself back. She had things to do, an unpleasant phone call to make. She had only spoken to Ray a couple of times since their divorce but she needed to get in touch with him. She was so angry with him she could spit. Unpleasant emotions, uncertainties of the past came rushing back; her despair over the end of her marriage and its devastating impact on her self-esteem and self-assurance. The arguments, his drinking, and his resulting mood swings came rushing back like a flood tide. She fumbled around for her phone, finally finding it on the floor by the bedside table. She must have knocked it over when she reached for the alarm clock to break the window.
The fear of the evening before . . . no, not evening, just this morning, once again threatened to take her breath away. Meg took a deep breath and steeled her resolve. She couldn’t allow herself the luxury of self-pity. Not now. She already had too much to think about, plans to make, repairs, figuring out how she was going to take care of the people who counted on her. She reached for the phone, wiped it against her pants, and pressed the power button. Her eyebrows rose in surprise when it flashed on, the screen bright. It would have been just her luck to find it broken. She even had three bars and a full battery. Lucky her.
She didn’t have Ray’s number stored in the phone. No reason to, so she ventured out of her makeshift bedroom and down the short hallway to the other side of the attic where she had only partially converted the space into an office. There was much more damage here. Her eyes stung, most likely caused by the charred, alligator-cracked wood planks, original to the construction of the home. S
he shook her head. Such a shame. In the far corner of the room there was a small hole in the roof, maybe a foot across and as much wide, exposing blue daylight beyond. How much would that cost to get repaired? Everywhere she looked, there was more damage. Meg forced it out of her mind. First things first, clear her damn name.
She stepped to the desk, found the clutter of papers on top in varying states of damage. A couple of pages had curled around the edges by the heat, but nothing was charred. Everything was damp, ink smeared, the pages stuck together. A stack of papers near one corner of the desk clumped together, saturated with water. Again she shook her head, wondering how she was going to reconstruct it all. Her laptop was still open, sitting on the other corner of the desk. The screen was warped with damage. She doubted it would work. Maybe she could find someone at the local computer store who would be able to recover data off the hard drive. If not, she wasn’t sure what she would do. All her records and transactions were stored there. She’d have to look later. She didn’t have the heart nor the energy to deal with it now. The unpleasant task before her placed enough of a burden on her emotions as it was.
She reached for the bottom left desk drawer, rummaged around, and found her old address book. Leaning against the desk, she placed her cell phone down and thumbed through the book, looking for the names and addresses of former friends that she and Ray had known in a past life time. It seemed so long ago. She was a different person now, but just thinking about him brought back a plethora of uncertain emotions. She had given him way too much control over their marriage. Allowed him to develop the “rules” they would live by. She wasn’t a pushover by any stretch of the imagination, but for some reason, with Ray, she had acquiesced more than she had disagreed or even argued. Why?
That was a question for which she had no answers, or at least none she cared to dissect at the moment. That was just the way she had been. But not now. She thumbed through the book until she came to the “R” section and found his number. Meg had no idea if it was even still in service. There was only one way to find out. She heaved a sigh, closed her eyes, and tried to still the pitter-patter of her heart. Not from fear this time, nor loathing. This time it was uncertainty for sure, and not just a little anxiety. Since their marriage had begun to fall apart, she and Ray could barely get through an entire conversation without an argument.
Fighting the Flames (Southern Heat Book 2) Page 8
