Tell Me Your Dreams by Sidney Sheldon Page B

seated in a chair, wired to the polygraph machine. Rosson had already spent forty-five minutes chatting with her, getting background information and evaluating her emotional state. Now he was ready to begin.
    “Are you comfortable?”
    “Yes.”
    “Good. Let’s start.” He pressed a button. “What’s your name?”
    “Ashley Patterson.”
    Rosson’s eyes kept darting between Ashley and the polygraph printout.
    “How old are you, Miss Patterson?”
    “Twenty-eight.”
    “Where do you live?”
    “10964 Via Camino Court in Cupertino.”
    “Are you employed?”
    “Yes.”
    “Do you like classical music?”
    “Yes.”
    “Do you know Richard Melton?”
    “No.”
    There was no change on the graph.
    “Where do you work?”
    “At Global Computer Graphics Corporation.”
    “Do you enjoy your job?”
    “Yes.”
    “Do you work five days a week?”
    “Yes.”
    “Have you ever met Jean Claude Parent?”
    “No.”
    Still no change on the graph.
    “Did you have breakfast this morning?”
    “Yes.”
    “Did you kill Dennis Tibbie?”
    “No.”
    The questions continued for another thirty minutes and were repeated three times, in a different order.
    When the session was over, Keith Rosson walked into Sam Blake’s office and handed him the polygraph test. “Clean as awhistle. There’s a less than one percent chance that she’s lying. You’ve got the wrong person.”
    Ashley left police headquarters, giddy with relief. Thank God it’s over. She had been terrified that they might ask questions that would involve her father, but that had not happened. No one can connect father with any of this now.
    She parked her car in the garage and took the elevator up to her apartment floor. She unlocked the door, went inside and carefully locked the door behind her. She felt drained, and at the same time, elated. A nice hot bath, Ashley thought. She walked into the bathroom and turned dead white. On her bathroom mirror, someone had scrawled in bright red lipstick YOU WILL DIE.

Chapter Nine
    S HE was fighting hysteria. Her fingers were trembling so hard that she dialed three times trying to reach the number. She took a deep breath and tried again. Two…nine…nine…two…one…zero…one…The phone began to ring.
    “Sheriff’s Office.”
    “Deputy Blake, please. Hurry!”
    “Deputy Blake has gone home. Can someone else—?”
    “No! I—Would you ask him to call me? This is Ashley Patterson. I need to talk to him right away.”
    “Let me put you on hold, miss, and I’ll see if I can reach him.”
    Deputy Sam Blake was patiently listening to his wife, Serena, screaming at him. “My brother works you like a horse, day and night, and he doesn’t give you enough money to support me decently. Why don’t you demand a raise? Why?”
    They were at the dinner table. “Would you pass the potatoes, dear?”
    Serena reached over and slammed the dish of potatoes in front of her husband. “The trouble is that they don’t appreciate you.
    “You’re right, dear. May I have some gravy?”
    “Aren’t you listening to what I’m saying?” she yelled.
    “Every word, my love. This dinner is delicious. You’re a great cook.”
    “How can I fight you, you bastard, if you won’t fight back?”
    He took a mouthful of veal. “It’s because I love you, darling.”
    The telephone rang. “Excuse me.” He got up and picked up the receiver. “Hello .. . Yes…Put her through… Miss Patterson?” He could hear her sobbing.
    “Something—something terrible has happened. You’ve got to come over here right away.”
    “I’m on my way.”
    Serena got to her feet. “What? You’re going out? We’re in the middle of dinner!”
    “It’s an emergency, darling. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” She watched him strap on his gun. He leaned over and kissed her. “Wonderful dinner.”
    Ashley opened the door for him the instant he arrived. Her cheeks were tear stained. She was shivering.
    Sam Blake stepped into the apartment,