Inkslingers Ball (A Forensic Handwriting Mystery)

by Sheila Lowe

  Dumpster Dave smooshed his lips together and glared at the two detectives as if he couldn’t believe they would ask him such a dumb question. “Fuck if I know, man. I stayed down behind my wall till they was long gone. I don’t need to be up in nobody’s bidness. Leavin’ shit in a dumpster in the middle the night sez it’s risky bidness.” He showed the detectives a lopsided grin. “So, what happened, officers? Somebody dump a body in there?”

  The two detectives glanced at each other. “Thanks for your help, Mr. Robinson.” Jovanic handed him his card. “If you remember anything else, give us a call.”

  ***

  Claudia tried to concentrate on the probate case on her desk. Her client claimed that his parents had signed a will in his favor, cutting his sister out of the sizeable estate. The sister was challenging the authenticity of the will. The client had retained Claudia in the hope that she would write a report that would benefit him.

  Little more than a cursory glance at the documents and her gut told that her client was lying to her. The signatures on the will had not been written by either of the parents. She took her time to do a full examination, evaluating all the documents and confirming her opinion.

  There had been an attempt to simulate the two signatures, but it was a poor attempt. Simulating someone else’s signature rarely resulted in a successful copy. The shakiness along the line of ink was often the first giveaway. Most cases of tremor resulted from one of two causes: illness, or trying to simulate a handwriting that was not natural to the writer. In this case, Claudia knew it was not the former because she had asked the client whether either of his parents had suffered an illness. The answer was no, they were both in good health when they died in the crash of a private plane. So between the poor quality simulation and the tremor, it was clear that the client was lying, and that pissed her off.

  She had already been paid a retainer. Even when she could not provide the answer that a client was hoping for, which happened in at least twenty percent of cases, her contract made it clear that regardless of her opinion—whether it supported the client or not—she had earned the fee. In the rare event a client complained about such an arrangement, Claudia explained that as their retained expert, she would now be unavailable to work for the adverse parties to the case if they called her. In most cases, that settled the argument.

  She gazed at the enlarged signatures on her computer monitors. The alleged signatures of the parents filled one screen, the authentic ones for comparison on the other. If he had any brains at all, the client would not want her to write a report. If the probate were to be contested, her negative opinion would have to be disclosed in the discovery process and could be used against him. He was not smart enough to have hired a lawyer to retain her. Had he done so, and she gave her opinion as a consultant, rather than as a designated expert witness, the lawyer would not have to disclose her opinion to the opposing party.

  Reluctantly, she picked up the phone and punched in his number.

  The client soon realized he had picked the wrong expert to lie to. Claudia hung up from the brief call and put the files aside. Leaning back in her chair, she pondered how she could help Annabelle through yet another loss.

  The short ride home from the police station had been made in silence and once they got home Annabelle had gone straight to her room and shut the door. Moments later, music that Claudia thought of as Grunge was blasting through the walls. Normally, she would ask her to turn it down, but today was different. Angel was dead.

  Jovanic had said that neither of the victim’s parents had been located, so as yet, her name was not being released to the media.

  Once more, Claudia went back over her two brief conversations with Angel, torturing herself over whether there was anything she could have done that might have saved the girl’s young life. Finally, letting out a sigh filled with regret and sadness, she got up, crossed to the sliding glass door and stepped out onto the deck.

  Like Annabelle’s room along the hall, Claudia’s office faced the ocean. The sun had peeped out after the clouds burned off around three o’clock, leaving clear skies. Beyond the flat rooftops that lay close to the beach far below her, the water was pale blue and calm, no waves for the surfers to ride today.

  From her vantage point she could see Jamie’s old Honda parked crookedly at the curb fifty yards down the street. Although she had her doubts, she hoped that by now Kelly and Jamie might be doing some quality female bonding. From what Jovanic had told her of their interview, Jamie was one tough nut to crack. But if anyone could break through that hard shell of defiance, Kelly was the one.

  Suddenly, Claudia realized that the music had stopped. At the same moment she heard the front door close, quietly, surreptitiously. If she had been at her desk, she would have missed it. Leaning over the deck railing, she called to the girl hurrying down the wooden staircase. “Annabelle! Where are you going?”

  Annabelle swung around and looked up, her expression mulish. “Why are you spying on me?”

  “You know the rule—if you’re going out, you tell me where you’re going.”

  “For a walk! Okay? I can’t fucking breathe.” And with that, Annabelle took off running.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The next name on Jovanic’s witness list was ‘Mouser,’ Angel’s boyfriend, according to the statement Jamie gave Claudia.

  Randy Coleman navigated the department Crown Vic through the narrow streets of Venice, looking for the street address Claudia had given him. “What kind of bullshit name is ‘Mouser’?” Coleman said, steering the car with his knee while attempting to open a packet of Juicy Fruit chewing gum.

  “Give me that before you run us off the road.” Jovanic snatched the pack from his partner. He unwrapped a stick of gum and handed it back, stuffing the balled up wrapper into the ashtray. “I don’t like going in blind. Did you at least run the tattoo parlor where the brother works?”

  Coleman nodded. “I checked the lease. The owner of Dragon House is Alvin Lester Rousch, AKA ‘Viper.’”

  “Almost as bad as Mouser.”

  Coleman grinned. “No lie. Alvin Lester? His parents must have hated him to hang that name on him.”

  “Could be worse.”

  “Yeah? Like—?”

  “How about Adolph? Or Willard, like the rat.”

  Coleman, who was ten years younger than Jovanic laughed. “You gotta be as old as dirt to remember that movie. Anyway, Willard was the boy.”

  “That’s right, the rat was Ben.” Jovanic grinned. “Yeah, I’m old. But I’m your senior officer, so show a little more respect.”

  Coleman took a left off Palms onto Elmwood, which was a short block of a dozen or so homes on each side; a melange of ages and styles, kempt integrated with neglected. As Coleman slowed, Jovanic started counting down house numbers.

  The residence they were looking for, where Mouser lived with his brother’s family, was set back from the street by a patchy front lawn that needed re-seeding. A small ranch style 1930s model, it was flanked by a remodeled two-story casa with a red tile roof and another Depression-era house in rundown condition.

  Jovanic didn’t say so out loud, but the white trimmed shutters against dove-grey stucco walls reminded him of the wimples the nuns wore with their habits at the convent school he had attended in early childhood, back in Chicago. A lifetime ago.

  A neon yellow late model Camaro sat outside the single car garage, looking far too flash for the little house. “Nice ride if you painted it a decent color,” Coleman remarked as they cruised slowly past. “Looks like a goddamn banana.”

  Before exiting the Crown Vic, at Jovanic’s direction, Coleman called in the license plate. The Camaro was registered to one Robert Lewis Morgan, Jr., residing at this address. Morgan, presumably, was Mouser’s brother. They also learned that Robert Morgan had a minor arrest record
for misdemeanor battery—maybe street or bar fights—and drug use. He had not been in any trouble over the past three years. If Mouser was home and drove his own vehicle, it was not in evidence in the driveway, nor at the curb in front of the house.

  Leaving their vehicle parked down the street, the two detectives walked back, watching their step. The roots of old growth trees planted at least forty years earlier had buckled the sidewalks into an ankle-busting obstacle course.

  “Hope the little bastard’s home,” Coleman said.

  Jovanic jabbed a warning finger at him. “Let’s just keep it chill, Randy. Try to establish rapport. We don’t jack him up unless it’s necessary.”

  The front door of Robert Morgan’s residence stood wide open. As they advanced up the front walk, raised voices reached them from deep inside the house, one high-pitched, female, the other deep, male.

  The detectives exchanged a quick glance and a nod. Jovanic removed the toothpick he’d been chewing and dropped it into his pocket. Shadowing his eyes with his hand, he peered through the screen into the tiny living room. From what he could see, it was unoccupied. After unsnapping his holster he rapped on the door frame, then stood back, hand lightly resting on his weapon in case the argument inside escalated. Mirroring his actions, Randy Coleman stepped to one side in the same position.

  The female got a whole lot louder, spewing a barrage of angry-sounding Spanish. Jovanic knocked harder against the metal frame and called out in a loud voice, “Hello?”

  For a moment the voices went silent. Then the man yelled, “What?” Jovanic knocked again, saying nothing.

  A man entered the room, shirtless and barefoot, in jeans. Around five-ten, late twenties, dark hair shaved close to his skull; wooden tribal gauge earrings made huge holes in his earlobes. A match for the DMV photo they had viewed on Coleman’s mobile phone. Under the tattoos that extended from shoulder to wrist, well-defined muscles said he pumped iron pretty hard. A fire breathing dragon curled around one arm, a skull’s red eyes glowered from the other.

  “Robert Morgan?” Jovanic asked.

  “Who the fuck’s asking?”

  “I’m Joel and this is Randy. We’re detectives with LAPD.”

  Morgan pushed the screen door halfway open and stood in the frame, scratching the sprig of hair on his trim belly. He glared at them with suspicion. “‘Joel and Randy?’ Don’t sound like any cops I ever met.”

  “It’s just a friendly visit,” Jovanic said. “Is Mouser here?”

  “What do you want with Mouser?” Morgan glared at them, narrow-eyed. “What’s he done?”

  “Nothing that we know of. We’d like to talk to him about his girlfriend, Angel.” Jovanic noted the immediate shift in the younger man’s expression.

  “He’s not here.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Gone surfing, then he’ll hang with his buddies. Won’t be back till late.”

  “Okay, we can come back. But as long as we’re here, maybe we could ask you a few questions. Would you mind if we came in?”

  Shaking his head, Morgan started to pull the screen door closed. “I’m kinda busy—” As if to back him up, a baby began to howl from somewhere at the rear of the house, followed by a woman shouting, “Get back here Bobby, you need to help me.”

  Morgan twisted his head toward and yelled, “Shut up!” He turned back to the men on his porch. “Mouser’s a good kid. You stay away from him.”

  Coleman stepped up. “If he hasn’t done anything, what are you worried about?”

  “I know how you assholes are. He doesn’t have to do anything. You’ll find something to pin on him.”

  “Sounds like you’ve been through the system, Robert,” Coleman said. “That’s a pretty good size chip on your shoulder.”

  “You just leave us the fuck alone.”

  “We don’t want to hassle you,” Jovanic said. “Your brother’s not in any trouble with us.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  Jovanic, sensing that Morgan’s belligerence had deflated, modulated his manner, hoping to get something useful before they were forced to leave. At this point, they didn’t have anything they could use to take him to the station. “We’re just looking for some information. Maybe you could tell me what you were doing around one o’clock this morning.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, Morgan went for nonchalance. “I was in bed with my old lady, bangin’ her brains out.”

  “Yeah? You weren’t out driving around Venice?”

  “Why would I, when I got a sweet piece of ass keeping my bed warm?”

  “Robert!” The woman’s rising pitch had the whine of a dentist’s drill. “I tole you I need—”

  Jovanic, who was several inches taller than Morgan, could see over his shoulder when she appeared in the kitchen doorway. Five-two if she stood on tiptoes, she had the clear skin and prettiness of youth, but with hands balled on hips the glare she turned on Jovanic and Coleman as she marched over and pushed in front of Morgan had the ferocity of a two-hundred pound gorilla.

  “The fuck is going on?” she challenged them.

  Morgan flicked a glance down at her. “Cops.”

  “No shit, Sherlock. Like I can’t see that?” She twitched her mane of glossy black hair over her shoulder and cocked her chin at the detectives. “What you want?”

  “What’s your name, ma’am?” Randy Coleman asked.

  She gave a shriek of laughter. “Ma’am? Are you fucking kidding me? Seriously?”

  “Shut up, Ari.” The lack of force with which Robert Morgan spoke confirmed who was in charge of this household. “Her name’s Ariceli Lopez.”

  “You shut the fuck up, Bobby. I can talk for myself.”

  Ariceli Lopez was wearing a pair of skimpy cutoffs with a wife beater T-shirt emblazoned across ample breasts with the words “If I had balls, they’d be bigger than yours.” Jovanic had an uneasy feeling that the statement was true.

  “They’re asking about Mouser,” Robert Morgan said to his girlfriend with a look that relayed some private message.

  “Wouldn’t it be easier if we stepped inside?” Jovanic asked, not giving Lopez space to respond. He kept a grasp on the edge of the screen door, holding it open. “Unless you don’t care if your neighbors know your business.”

  Morgan hesitated, then pushed the screen door wider and stepped back, pulling the suddenly acquiescent Lopez with him. “Hurry it up, okay? I gotta be to work by five.”

  They caravanned through the living room, which was dominated by a baby’s playpen and an assortment of toys littering the floor, and into the kitchen. Robert Morgan shoved a highchair back from the old-fashioned metal-trimmed table. The men took a seat, Ariceli Lopez leaned against the sink, her arms folded in belligerence.

  Jovanic sat back in his chair, careful to keep his arms off the pink speckled Formica tabletop, which was coated with grape jelly and smeared baby food. Coleman wasn’t quick enough and got jelly on his perfectly pressed coat sleeve. Lopez, looking amused, watched him rub at it, but didn’t offer him anything to clean it. His flushed neck said he was too embarrassed to ask.

  “What kind of work do you do, Mr. Morgan?” Jovanic asked conversationally once they got settled.

  Robert Morgan crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair, tilting the front legs off the floor. “Inkslinger.”

  “You work at a studio?”

  “Dragon House.”

  “That the place over on Venice?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s a nice piece you’ve got.” Jovanic nodded at his arm, where a skull peered out of skillfully inked torn flesh. “Done at your studio?”

  Morgan, trying not to look pleased at the compliment, nodded. “My boss did it. He’s fucking amazing.”

  “
And he would be—?”

  “Name’s Viper.”

  “You’re right, he does great work. I’ve been thinking about getting some work done myself. Maybe I’ll stop by.”

  “Yeah, you do that.”

  “Viper won’t ink a cop,” Ariceli interjected. She picked up a pack of cigarettes from the counter and lit up, expertly blowing smoke upward from the corner of her mouth. “He hates cops.”

  Jovanic showed her a thin smile. “But we’re so lovable.” She snorted her disbelief as he turned back to Robert Morgan. “I expect you heard, one of your competitors up the street had an unfortunate fire the other night.”

  Morgan dropped his chair back up onto all four legs. His eyes tightened to slits. “That’s why you’re here?”

  “No. But as long as we’re talking about it, did you know the guy who died?”

  “Travis? Yeah, I knew him. Used to work for us. We taught that little fucktard everything he knew; then he stole our clients and opened his own studio.” Morgan seemed to remember who he was talking to and hurried to add, “But that don’t mean we torched his shit, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “We’re not thinking anything, Robert. Remember, we’re just gathering information. So, how long have you worked for Viper?”

  Morgan closed his eyes, his brow furrowed as he counted back in his head, then opened them again. “Around eleven years.”

  “You must have started right out of high school.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Does Mouser work there, too?”

  “I told you, leave my little brother out of this. He surfs and he goes to school. That’s all.”

  “What’s he studying?”

  Morgan sat up a little straighter and Jovanic could see the pride in his younger sibling. “He’s gonna be a architect. Gonna make somethin’ out of himself.”