Inkslingers Ball (A Forensic Handwriting Mystery)

by Sheila Lowe

  Annabelle put a finger to her chin and looked skyward. “Let’s see—there’s you and Monica, Joel, my father. You guys are okay. Everyone else pretty much sucks.”

  Claudia grinned. “Well, I’m glad to be counted among the privileged.”

  “Don’t let it go to your head,” Annabelle giggled, but Claudia had noticed something odd about the way she was standing.

  “Are you in pain, kiddo? You look—”

  Annabelle’s face darkened and just that fast, the scowl was back. “I’m fine, okay?” She turned to Monica. “The popcorn’s gonna be cold. Do you want to watch the rest of the movie, or what?”

  ***

  When the girls had gone back downstairs, Claudia turned to her case, baffled by Annabelle’s behavior. Over recent weeks she had seemed happy, attending summer school and even doing homework without too much complaining. But her old sullen behavior had suddenly returned with a vengeance. Thinking it over, Claudia realized it had started up again after Annabelle had come into contact with her old school friend—what was her name? Angel.

  Yesterday, upon her return from Tyler’s, Annabelle had gone straight up to her room, complaining that she didn’t feel good, and had not reappeared until this morning. Could she have lied about meeting her friend? Had she been meeting a boy?

  Claudia’s stomach dropped. Monica had said something about an infection. Oh God, could Annabelle have an STD? As far as she knew, the girl wasn’t interested in any boys, had not been sexually active. As far as she knew.

  Feeling like a failure as a surrogate mom, Claudia asked herself whether it would have made a difference if Annabelle had been her natural child. Would a birth mother have some kind of sixth sense that would have told her if Annabelle was having sex? She quickly dismissed that idea. If that had been the case, Claudia’s own mother would have known that their next door neighbor had molested her, staring when she was ten.

  Annabelle’s father was due back from Canada soon. What if she had to tell him that his daughter had a sexually transmitted disease; that she had failed in her promise to keep the girl safe?

  Claudia pored over her insurance case until her neck was stiff. She got up and did a few stretches, then carried a stack of fresh towels to the upstairs guest bathroom, which Annabelle used when she stayed over. A small pile of clothes lay on the floor next to the tub. Irked, and despite knowing she should tell the girl to do it herself, Claudia picked up the clothes and took them to the laundry hamper. She shook out the T-shirt and undies, her attention caught by a small stain as she went to drop them into the hamper.

  She went onto the landing and leaned over the banister. “Annabelle, would you come up here, please.”

  “Right now? The movie’s almost over.”

  “Pause it. I need to see you.”

  Even from the second floor Claudia could hear the longsuffering sigh and grumbling. Then the clomping of reluctant feet on the stairs.

  “What’d I do now?”

  “That’s what I’d like you to tell me.”

  “Huh?”

  Claudia held up the T-shirt and blue-and-white striped cotton panties. “What’s with the blood?”

  Annabelle snatched the items from her hand. “Eww, gross! What are you doing, snooping in my stuff?”

  “If you hadn’t left them on the floor, I wouldn’t have picked them up and seen that there’s blood on them. Now stop deflecting the question and tell me why there’s blood.”

  “I—I cut myself.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Uh, shaving?”

  “Annabelle, I’m not joking. I’m responsible for you while your father is away and I expect the truth. Now tell me what you’ve been doing. Were you really with that girl you told me about yesterday?”

  “Yes!”

  “The whole time?”

  “Why are you being such a bitch?”

  Claudia took a deep breath and silently counted to five. “Where were you yesterday afternoon, Annabelle? Answer me now.”

  Without a word Annabelle spun around and ran into her room, slamming the door shut behind her.

  ***

  Monica was curled up on the sofa, staring at the TV screen, where Superman was frozen mid-fight with General Zod. Judging from the wary expression on her face, she had heard the exchange upstairs.

  “Does she have a boyfriend?” Claudia asked bluntly.

  “No!”

  “Could she have one without you knowing?”

  “How? We’re best friends.”

  As if that explained the world. And Claudia supposed it did. “You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?”

  “Of course not! Even if I tried, it wouldn’t come out right.”

  Claudia had to admit the truth in her statement. Even as a small child, Monica had never been able to tell a successful lie. The moment the words left her mouth her fair skin would splotch bright red and give her away. She gave her niece a hard look.

  “Fine, but whatever’s going on, please use your head and don’t let Annabelle talk you into something that will get you in trouble—or get me in trouble with your dad.” And having dropped that load of guilt on her niece, Claudia went back upstairs and knocked on Annabelle’s bedroom door.

  “What?” The girl’s muffled voice came back terse.

  Claudia turned the knob and entered. “We need to talk.”

  Annabelle was sitting on her bed with her head bowed. “Why do we have to talk? You know I always mess everything up. Just leave me alone!”

  Claudia sat down beside her. “I need you to tell me why you were bleeding. I’m not going to get mad or yell. Just—tell me.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Did you get into a fight? Is that what happened?”

  “No!”

  “Honey, you looked like you were in pain when you got up off the floor, and there’s blood on your clothes. Can’t you see that I have to know what’s going on?”

  “Monica tried to stop me. And just so you know, she wasn’t even there.”

  “Okay, thanks for telling me that. Monica wasn’t where?”

  Annabelle slid off the bed with unmistakable reluctance and unzipped her Levis. She grabbed the hem of her T-shirt and yanked at it. With the other hand, she pushed the waistband down a few inches, quick to cover it back up.

  Claudia clamped her lips shut, but she could not stop her eyebrows rising into her hairline at the brand new tattoo. “So, this is where you went yesterday?”

  Annabelle turned a mutinous face to her. “Nobody said I couldn’t.”

  “That’s supposed to be an excuse?”

  Her shrug was less than convincing.

  “Where did you get it done?” Claudia asked. “You can be sure they know it’s illegal for them to tattoo anyone under the age of 18 without adult permission.”

  “My friend’s friend did it.”

  “Where? What’s the name of the tattoo parlor?” What Claudia did not say was, she intended to ask Jovanic to arrest the owner. She knew he would be as incensed as she was, and furious at Annabelle’s latest escapade. Oh hell, what will her father say? A little voice whispered that at least it wasn’t an STD.

  “There’s no parlor, okay?”

  “Then, where, goddammit? Somebody’s house? You need to tell me where you went, and I mean now.”

  Annabelle heaved a big sigh, making like she was bored with the subject. “His van.”

  “His what? You got a tattoo in somebody’s van? Who is this guy?”

  Annabelle glared at her, triumph gleaming in her eyes. “You said you wouldn’t yell. I knew I shouldn’t tell you.”

  “Oh my God, Annabelle, give me a break! You have no idea how much I’m not yelling right now. Do you realize that’s permanen
t?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “I want this person’s name and phone number. Give it to me, please.”

  “Can’t.”

  “This is not a joke. Give it to me now.”

  “I don’t have it. Angel talked to him for me.”

  “Then give me Angel’s number.”

  “I don’t have it either.”

  “Yes, you do. She called you yesterday, so it’s in your phone.”

  A dull red flush spread over Annabelle’s pale cheeks. “I don’t have my phone. I left it in the van.” She scowled at Claudia’s incredulity. “I didn’t mean to. I was in a hurry to leave, and I forgot it wasn’t in my pocket.”

  Claudia released a long breath and shook her head. “I can’t believe it. Here, I thought everything was going well; you’ve worked hard and got your grades up. Then the minute you meet up with this Angel, everything goes to hell. What were you thinking?”

  “Angel and Jamie had matching ones on their shoulders and they looked really bad. So I wanted one, too.”

  “When you say ‘bad,’ I’m guessing that means ‘good?’”

  “Yeah. Crash made mine just like theirs.”

  “Crash? That’s the guy’s name?”

  Annabelle nodded. “The artist.”

  “Who else was with you besides Crash and Angel?”

  Annabelle hesitated. “Um, I thought she was going, but after he got there, she left.”

  “Let me get this straight. You were alone in a van with a stranger and you let him stick needles into you? Good God, Annabelle.”

  Annabelle’s gaze was pointed at the floor. “Why’s it such a big deal, anyway? Nothing happened, I didn’t get hurt. The tat doesn’t even show.”

  With another sigh of frustration, Claudia gestured at her. “Let me see it again.”

  Despite the inflammation around and under the ink, the fine artistry was obvious in the delicate lines of the skull’s face, the swirly decorations around the eyes and mouth. Claudia’s mouth twitched in disapproval. “At least he did a good job. What did this—jerk charge to deface your fifteen-year-old body with a painted skull?”

  “Ummm, sixty.”

  “Where’d the money come from?”

  “I saved most of my allowance my dad’s been sending me.”

  “And you’ve lost your cell phone?”

  “It’s not lost, it’s in Crash’s van. He didn’t want me texting while he was doing the work, and I—I forgot to get it when he was done. I was in a hurry. I didn’t want to be late getting back.”

  A memory flashed of Annabelle’s unsteady gait when she had returned home the day before. “What did this Crash guy give you—drugs, alcohol?”

  “Well—”

  Under the heat of her glare, Annabelle was becoming increasingly fidgety. A vein throbbed in Claudia’s neck and her lips bunched with suppressed fury. “What did he give you?”

  “Just a shot of tequila.”

  “Just a—no wonder you forgot your phone. No wonder you were sick.”

  “He reeked of pot, but I didn’t even smoke.”

  “Is that supposed to make it better? You know I’m gonna have to tell Joel about this. And when your father comes back—”

  “Fine!” Annabelle shot back. “Go ahead and tell everyone how I disappointed you! That’s what I do. I always do the wrong thing. I always screw everything up.” And with that, uncharacteristically, Annabelle burst into tears.

  Chapter Six

  Claudia was assuring Annabelle that, tattoo or not, she still loved her when Jovanic arrived home. She heard him in the service porch, heard the metallic clank of the washing machine lid closing. That indicated he had been at a particularly stinky crime scene. He would have left his suit in the garage, then discarded the rest of his soiled clothing in the washer and donned the clean robe hanging in the porch for occasions like these. It wouldn’t do to have him traipse through the house in his underwear while Annabelle was staying with them.

  Leaving the girl lying on her bed, face to the wall, Claudia went downstairs to meet him. Her brother had already collected his daughter. In a tacit agreement with Monica, nothing was said about Annabelle’s absence, except that she was upstairs in her room, but with the measured look Pete gave Claudia over Monica’s welcoming hug, she could tell he had caught on that something was wrong and felt relieved when he had the good sense to refrain from asking.

  The acrid odor of smoke clung to Jovanic’s skin. “I know,” he said when Claudia wrinkled her nose. “I need to hit the shower.”

  “Where’ve you been? Somewhere nasty, for sure.”

  “Tattoo parlor in Venice. I’ve been there since six. Somebody firebombed it.”

  Her insides did a little flip. “A tattoo parlor? You got a call out?”

  “Yeah. Couple of Molotov cocktails through the front window. It started spreading to the store next door; took LAFD a while to knock down the fire.”

  “Someone didn’t make it out.” It wasn’t a question. There was only one reason the homicide unit would have been called to a scene that would be worked by the fire department.

  “They’ve had several break-ins recently, so they’d beefed up security. Windows in back were barred; metal door had a deadbolt and the key was in the lock. They found the victim near the door while they were looking for the flashpoint. Probably got disoriented in the smoke.”

  Claudia shuddered, hoping death had come quickly for that poor victim.

  “With all the fuel it spread fast,” Jovanic continued as they mounted the staircase. “Everything went up—couches, posters on the walls, magazines. They think he died from smoke inhalation, which I guess is marginally better than being burned to death.”

  “Was it the owner?”

  “No positive ID so far. We waited for some employees to show up this morning, but nada. The people on the block said the shop was just open pretty recently and he didn’t have anyone else working for him yet. We couldn’t get anything on ownership.”

  “What was his name?”

  “Travis Navarette. We’re looking for next of kin.”

  A little ribbon of relief threaded through Claudia’s pity for the fire victim. Not Crash. The firebombing had nothing to do with Annabelle. She knew it had been an unreasonable fear, but experience had taught her that when it came to Annabelle, anything was possible. “Was it a gang thing?” she asked.

  “More like an extortion thing. We’re pretty sure we know the asshole who ordered it. Been looking at him for years. He runs his own shop and takes 40% of the profits from the competition. They don’t pay up, he burns them out.”

  “And he just gets away with it?”

  “Getting the evidence is the problem. He scares any potential witnesses shitless. But it’s different this time.”

  “Because of the homicide?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, I hope you nail him.” Claudia gave him a little push toward the staircase. “Leave your robe in the bathroom. I’ll wash everything in the morning.”

  “Thanks, babe.” Jovanic gave a yawn big enough to show his molars, didn’t bother covering it. “God, I’m starving. Have we got anything quick and easy?”

  She took in the shadows staining the skin under drooping eyelids; the day’s growth of grizzled stubble on his chin. “You look dead on your feet, Columbo. If you think you can stay awake long enough, I’ll heat some pizza and dig out a couple of beers.”

  He yawned again, wider. “What a woman. No wonder I adore you.”

  Claudia grinned. “Pepperoni and extra cheese coming up. Go take your shower. I’ll turn on the TV in the living room.”

  They had reached the foot of the staircase. Jovanic jerked his chin upwards. “What’s up with the kid?”<
br />
  “She’s in the doghouse. Ironically enough, she came home with a tattoo. Needless to say I wasn’t thrilled.”

  “Ah, shit. Where the hell’d she get a tattoo?”

  “Back of some guy’s van. We can talk about it later.”

  He rolled his eyes skyward. “Unfuckingbelievable. Just when we thought all was quiet on the home front.”

  Claudia joined Jovanic at the TV for the eleven o’clock news. Channel 2 made a brief mention of the firebombing, panning across the blackened storefront on Lincoln Boulevard in Venice.

  Jovanic made short work of his dinner, then his head lolled back against the couch cushions and in seconds he was snoring. He didn’t stir when Claudia took a half-eaten slice of pizza from his fingers and carried his plate out to the kitchen. She disposed of the remains and loaded the dishwasher, then went upstairs. He would nap for at least an hour or two before he would wake long enough to trudge up to bed.

  Settling back at her desk, Claudia picked up where she had left off earlier in her stack of sign-in sheets. Using a six-inch metal ruler and pen, she examined one sheet at a time. Where she could tell the signatures had been written in groupings, she drew a straight red line from the first in the group to the last, creating a visual image for the judge and jury. The work absorbed her, and she was deep into it when more than an hour later, her cell phone rang and startled her.

  She had no love for the ringtone—a Lady Gaga song called Poker Face—but Claudia had allowed Annabelle to choose the one she wanted to represent her phone number. Then it struck her: Annabelle’s phone is in the tattoo artist’s van.

  Claudia dove for her bluetooth and hooked it around her ear. “Hello?”

  She had expected a man’s voice—Crash, the tattoo artist—but it was a young female, speaking almost in a whisper: “Who’s this?”