Inkslingers Ball (A Forensic Handwriting Mystery)

by Sheila Lowe

  INKSLINGERS BALL

  A FORENSIC HANDWRITING MYSTERY

  BY SHEILA LOWE

  INKSLINGERS BALL

  By

  Sheila Lowe

  DIGITAL EDITION

  * * * * *

  PUBLISHED BY:

  Suspense Publishing

  Copyright 2014 by Sheila Lowe

  Cover Design: Shannon Raab

  Cover Photographer: iStockphoto.com/tacojim

  Cover Photographer: iStockphoto.com/schus

  Cover Photographer: Erik Lowe

  PUBLISHING HISTORY:

  Suspense Publishing, Print and Digital Copy, June 2014

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  For the first time in the series, much of this story is told from the point of view of Claudia’s lover, Detective Joel Jovanic. Having no personal experience in law enforcement, I assembled the best team of experts ever. Derek Pacifico’s Homicide School for Writers was a great help, and consulting with him personally added an extra layer of veracity. He also had some great ideas, which I shamelessly “borrowed.” Detective Heather Gahry, who, like Jovanic, works at LAPD, added many important and helpful insights and I thank her, too, for the interesting and enjoyable lunches we shared. Scott Silverii offered the unique perspective of a police chief, and my former critique partner, retired LAPD detective Bob Brounsten, answered all questions, except why they call him The Bad Bob (one day, I will find out!).

  From the title, you may have guessed that this book has a tattoo theme, and there could be no better help on that score than input from my talented older son, Erik Lowe, who is himself a tattoo artist (www.tattooguy6000.com). He took me to a tattoo convention for atmosphere, and offered several times to ink me up, which I politely declined. I did, however, twist his arm until he drew exactly the right sugar skull.

  Thank you, Shannon Raab for the best cover in the series. I’m looking forward to working with you more.

  It was a great pleasure to once again work with editors Kristen Weber and Ellen Larson. And as always, my deepest thanks to longtime critique partners who make me a better writer: Robert Bealmear, Bruce Cook, Gwen Freeman, Barbara Petty. And to my dear friend Raul Melendez, who may have left our group, but readily makes himself available whenever I get stuck and need an idea. I always appreciate his willingness to share.

  PRAISE FOR SHEILA LOWE

  “Sheila Lowe’s writing is fast-paced and suspenseful and made believable by her own background as a forensic handwriting expert. Yet another page-turner for Claudia Rose fans.”

  —Rick Reed, Author of the Jack Murphy Crime Series

  “Lowe expertly delivers a solid criminal investigation while guiding her readers into a unique culture where tattooing and the murder of a young girl come together on the autopsy table. Hit the lights and siren because this is one fast ride from beginning to end.”

  —Lee Lofland, Author of “Police Procedure and Investigation” and founder and director of the Writers’ Police Academy

  “ “Inkslingers Ball” is the perfect novel for an afternoon by the pool. With vivid characters, smooth writing, and a twisty plot, Sheila Lowe has crafted a mystery that will keep you guessing to the very end.”

  —Boyd Morrison, International bestselling author

  “Sheila Lowe’s “Inkslingers Ball” is a reminder of every parent’s nightmare. Lowe drags us into the underworld of street mobsters who destroy reputable businesses through shakedowns, torching, and murder, luring naïve youth into their employ. A deadly dance orchestrated by the lowest forms of life.”

  —Sandra Brannan, Author of the acclaimed Liv Bergen Mysteries

  INKSLINGERS BALL

  A FORENSIC HANDWRITING MYSTERY

  By Sheila Lowe

  Chapter One

  Early Wednesday morning

  It started with a late night phone call.

  She knew that the phone was in his hand even before Jovanic rolled out of bed. The familiar ringtone was never a good awakening. He pressed the answer button, waiting until he was in the bathroom with the door closed before acknowledging the caller, but Claudia had already been jarred out of a sound sleep.

  She curled onto her side in the dark, grateful to escape the dream in which she had been immersed, but struggling to recapture it. Anxious, breathless, running barefoot through the barren rooms of a derelict mansion, her feet never quite touching the floor in the odd way things worked in dreams. The sense of feathery fingers reaching for her as she fled. Not quite a nightmare, but the memory left her unsettled.

  She reached for the blanket crumpled at the foot of the bed and drew it over her bare shoulders, listening to Jovanic’s low voice filter through the wall. Though the words were indistinct, something in his tone made her think that this was other than a routine homicide call out. If any homicide could be thought of as routine.

  The sound of water beating against the wall a minute later told her the call had ended. Three minutes in and out of the shower; then water running in the sink—brushing his teeth, a hurried shave. He’d switched off the light before re-entering the bedroom, doing his best not to disturb her as he made his way across the room to the closet. Still, Claudia knew from the click of the security snap precisely when he holstered his Glock; from the whisper of cotton against acetate when he shrugged into his suit coat. She knew, too, from the muttered curse under his breath when he stumbled against the sharp corner of the bed frame while hunting for his shoes.

  The red numbers on the bedside clock glowed 2:33.

  “Where is it?” she asked, her voice still thick with the remnants of the dream.

  “Shhh. Go back to sleep.”

  “No, tell me.”

  Jovanic hesitated, then loosed a sigh. “Venice Beach.”

  Normally she would not push him, but his reluctance compelled her. Claudia propped herself on an elbow, seeking him through the shadows. “I want to know.”

  Already halfway through the bedroom door, he paused in the frame and turned back, chilling her with his words. “It’s a kid.”

  Chapter Two

  The previous Friday

  Weed shops, tattoo parlors, Rose the body painter. Crazy Guitar Dude on roller blades, amp strapped to his back, singing as he swept past. Amateur rappers hawking their latest CD. Old guy wearing nothing but a Speedo; everyone said he’d been there forever. A pall of pot smoke thick enough to give everyone within a block a contact high.

  Venice Boardwalk was like a theme park where the theme was all the wack jobs doing their own thing. The crazies excited fifteen-year-old Annabelle Giordano the most and stirred her curiosity. She wanted to know what made them do what they did, and would have gone up to the guy with the “Kick me in the balls for $1” sign and asked him, but Monica grabbed her by the arm and dragged her away before she could, afraid she
’d get rabies or maybe something worse.

  Monica Cabot was Annabelle’s BFF, which was totally weird because two girls could not have been more unalike. Monica’s aunt Claudia called them Snow White and Rose Red, like the sisters in the fairytale.

  Annabelle’s raven-colored hair and olive skin were gifts from her father. She wasn’t exactly pretty, but even she knew there was something appealing about her exotic looks. At least, when she forgot to paste on her sullen face and curl her cupid’s bow lips into a sneer.

  Monica, on the other hand, was conventionally cute, with the curly blonde hair of a baby doll and china blue eyes that got big and anxious when she was out of her comfort zone. Like now, when she was feeling guilty. “I hope my dad doesn’t call me,” she said.

  Annabelle kept her eyes on the painted men dancing like robots, and the rapping acrobats. “Why would he call when he thinks we’re at the mall?”

  “You know how he is.”

  “Yeah. He’s obsessed with keeping you a little kid.” Annabelle let out a huff of irritation. For sure Pete Cabot would never have given permission for his daughter to go to the Boardwalk if she had told the truth about where they were going. “He should let you be more independent. That’s how you learn what to do if something bad happens to you.” Annabelle knew a lot about bad things happening.

  “You know it’s because of my mom.”

  Annabelle could tell that Monica was regretting the little white lie she had told her father. She tore her gaze away from the away from a weight lifter who was getting his photo taken with a girl in a bikini; he charged five bucks for the privilege. “Her getting killed by a drunk driver doesn’t mean he has to keep you wrapped up like a big burrito all the time.” She didn’t remind Monica that her own mother had died in a car accident, too. Instead, she changed the subject. “I might get a piercing. Maybe my tongue.”

  Monica gave a derisive snort. “Not while you’re staying at my aunt’s. She’d freak.”

  “You think so? She’s usually pretty cool.”

  “She just wants us to think she’s cool. Inside she’s freaking. Remember that time she caught you with those cigarettes? I heard her talking with my dad. She was pretty upset about it.”

  Annabelle grinned. “Duh. I didn’t even smoke them; I’m not that stupid. I was just carrying them in my backpack so my homies wouldn’t think I was a total loser.”

  “Well, Auntie C told my dad he’d better keep an eye on you when you’re over at our house.”

  “Everyone says I’m a bad influence on you.”

  “It’s not that…well, maybe it is. But you know she loves you anyway.”

  Annabelle didn’t answer. It would have sounded pitiful to say that nobody loved her, even if that’s how it felt most of the time. She knew deep in her heart it wasn’t true. But after believing it for so long, the habit was hard to break.

  Annabelle was fourteen when Monica’s aunt Claudia Rose came into her life. She had been motherless for eight of those years. Pretty much fatherless, too. The man who raised her might have given her his name, and far more in a material way than she could ever have wished for, but a name and material things were not what she hankered after.

  Discovering that Nicholas Giordano was not her father was like having a big icky spiderweb lifted off her. She had always felt it in her bones—isn’t that what people said when they knew something with their whole entire self? Well, that’s how strongly she had known something was wrong with the way Nick—she had started thinking of him as her fake father—had looked at her, like she was something gross he’d picked out of his nose. When he even bothered to look, that is.

  Annabelle had tried every way she could think of to get his attention, from jacking up the sound of her favorite Grunge bands to a gazillion decibels, to involving herself with a very bad crew. But it was always the same. Nick’s voice reverberating through the big house in the hills above Malibu Beach, screaming at whatever dildo was directing the latest movie his studio was producing, demanding to know why they were over budget and not on schedule. Nothing Annabelle did mattered.

  Finally, she had given in to her loneliness and desperation to be loved. Early one morning, she stole a bottle of vodka from Nick’s wet bar and took it down to the beach. She’d forced down as much of the booze as she could tolerate, then smashed the bottle on the rocks and dragged a thick shard of the broken glass across her wrists.

  She had no memory of it, but later, in the hospital psych ward, they told her that a guy walking his dog had found her before it was too late. She wished he had just let her die.

  Nick had stood over her hospital bed and yelled at her for making him look bad. He sent her to the Sorensen Academy, a school where rich parents sent their troublesome daughters when they didn’t know what else to do with them, or just didn’t want to bother. Annabelle thought of it as Juvie with fake glitter. She had been to real Juvie, so she knew.

  Meeting Claudia Rose had been the start of her new life.

  Claudia had lectured to the student body about their handwriting and what it said about them. Afterwards, she had showed Annabelle something called ‘graphotherapy,’ which was written exercises that she was supposed to do while some funky special music played in the background.

  Claudia said the exercises would help her deal with her feelings appropriately, instead of stuffing them inside until they spewed out like an angry volcano. Annabelle had pretended not to be interested, but deep down she was totally over constantly getting in trouble for her behavior. So despite her skepticism, she agreed to try the program, and after a while was surprised to discover that she was actually feeling better.

  Meeting Monica was another awesome event in her life. The instant feeling of sisterhood was totally alien to Annabelle, but despite—or maybe because of—their differences, the two girls formed a bond that had only deepened as their friendship evolved.

  Annabelle was the older of the two by only a few weeks, but Monica, who had been sheltered by a loving father and aunt, seemed much younger. Upon learning how Annabelle had pretty much raised herself, smoking dope at thirteen and cruising with gangbangers in the cars they stole, tender-hearted Monica had burst into tears. Annabelle decided she had better not tell her the part about getting passed around for sex.

  Her friend’s impatience filtered through the memories.

  “Anna, are you even listening to me?”

  “Sorry, Mon’. Anyway, it’s no big, I’m just thinking about it. Maybe I’ll get a tattoo instead.”

  “What kind would you get?” Monica sounded wistful. “I’d like a little flower on my ankle—maybe a rose. But I’ll have to wait ‘til I’m about a hundred. My dad would never let me do it.”

  “For sure. He’s like the witch in that Rapunzel movie. You might as well be locked up in some old tower, growing your hair a thousand feet long.”

  “So now I’m a burrito, and Rapunzel?”

  Annabelle grinned. “A big burrito with really long hair.”

  “Whatever. Anyway, what would you get?”

  Annabelle stopped walking and thought about it for a minute. “A mermaid, maybe. I’d have them do it someplace where no one could see it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s nobody’s business.”

  “Well, what’s the point, if nobody can see it?”

  “I would know it’s there. It would be my secret.”

  Monica giggled. “Unless you had a boyfriend. He would know.”

  “Shut up! I—”

  “AnnaB! Hey, home skillet! Wait up!”

  Annabelle swung around in surprise. “Angel?” She had recognized the voice, but it took a few seconds to match her memory to the girl calling out to her across the sidewalk. The silky formerly chestnut hair had been dyed white blonde and teased out like straw. Thick bla
ck mascara outlined her eyelids like pictures Annabelle had seen of Cleopatra. In her tiny stretch shorts and hi-top sneakers she looked like a baby hooker.

  She introduced her old friend to Monica. “This is Angel. We used to hang out in jail—I mean at Sorensen Acad.”

  “Jamie,” Angel said, jerking her head at the girl who was with her.

  “Hey.” Annabelle nodded back, thinking that Jamie, whose face was camouflaged behind a pair of enormous shades, must have gotten her strategically torn jeans and tight T-shirt off the same tacky rack as Angel.

  “So, whatup, AnnaB?” said Angel, ignoring the beachgoers who flowed around them on the crowded boardwalk. “It’s been like forever.”

  “I know, huh? We gotta talk.” A strong whiff of barbecued meat wafted past and made Annabelle’s stomach rumble loud enough to be heard in Santa Monica. Everyone on the boardwalk seemed to have food in their hands: mangoes with chili powder, hotdogs, churros. “Let’s go to Figtree’s and get some food.”

  Angel nodded. “I wanna hear what you been up to since the great escape.”

  Fanning out across the boardwalk, the four girls turned as a group, too engrossed in their conversation to pay attention to where they were going. A little boy licking a mile-high ice cream crashed into them and nearly dropped his cone. The father shot them a dirty look as they walked away.

  “Fuck you, asshat,” Jamie yelled after him. Angel laughed. Monica blushed bright crimson. Annabelle, feeling ashamed even though she hadn’t done anything, grabbed Monica’s arm and started walking faster toward the café.