Inkslingers Ball (A Forensic Handwriting Mystery)

by Sheila Lowe

  “Ouch.” Claudia positioned the lens and snapped several close-ups of the scabbed-over sugar skull. “At least it looks like it’s healing properly.”

  Annabelle gave her the well, duh look. “I’m taking care of it. What’s the other case about?”

  “Just something another detective wanted Joel to look at.”

  Annabelle flopped back on the pillow and pulled the blankets up to her chin. “You mean somebody else got murdered and they had the same tat as Angel and me?”

  Sometimes, the girl was too quick for her own good.

  “That’s what they’re trying to figure out.”

  “Is he gonna come after me, too?”

  Claudia leaned over and gave her a hug. “No, baby girl; there’s nothing for you to worry about. But stay away from Jamie and Mouser, okay?” As soon as the words left her mouth she regretted them. Annabelle was apt to do the opposite.

  After enlarging the photograph of Annabelle’s tattoo and comparing it to the others, it became clear to Claudia that although it was a close match to the other three tattoos in content, there were subtle differences in the style, the shading, the colors, the lines. Both showed a natural artistry, but Angel’s and Darla Steinman’s were done with bolder strokes. Annabelle’s had a more finely detailed touch.

  “We already knew there were two artists,” said Claudia. “But why is this guy Crash copying Viper’s work? I mean, besides doing Angel a favor, that’s a major no-no in the inkslinger world.”

  Jovanic didn’t bother to ask how she knew so much about tattoos. He was aware that her experience as a handwriting examiner wasn’t limited to handwriting. Anything that constituted graphic behavior was fair game for her considerable skills.

  “That’s the big question. What do we know about Crash?”

  “Annabelle said he was an old guy, but coming from her, that could be anything over twenty-five. He did the tat for sixty bucks.”

  “In his van.”

  “Pretty unsavory. Not to mention unsanitary. He gave her tequila, too.”

  Jovanic’s lips flattened in disgust. “Fucking asshole. It’s a stretch, but I might be able to pick him up on Child Endangerment. That’s a felony, at least it should get him talking about what he knows about Viper. If this Crash guy is copying his work, maybe he trained in his studio, like Travis Navarette.” He went over to his desk and booted up his laptop. “Any info on the van?”

  “Just that it was white and had no windows; a cargo van, I guess. Must be a million in L.A.”

  “Shit.”

  “Something tells me you’re not coming to bed anytime soon.”

  “Sorry babe, let’s make my promise an IOU.” He spoke absently, his mind already on the investigation. “You might as well get some shuteye.”

  Claudia planted a kiss on his cheek and left him to it. She was presenting a lecture at an early breakfast meeting in Valencia and needed the sleep. But that didn’t mean she was not disappointed.

  ***

  The Internet was the detective’s boon. It would have taken days or even weeks to get the same information through department resources, pulling every case from the records. Even getting a summary sheet from the DA would have taken ages. The DA’s hourly staff wasn’t known for its helpfulness.

  Had he not already known the source of Angel’s and Jamie’s sugar skulls, Jovanic would have accessed the LAPD gang unit’s tattoo database to search for the design. Since he did know, he logged onto LexisNexis, the legal database, and did a search for Alvin Lester Rousch AKA Viper. His search produced records of a slew of charges: extortion, drug possession, arson, even murder for hire. He followed the stories through the L.A. Times website and found what he had expected. None of the charges stuck. Viper always had an alibi and no witnesses could be found who were willing to break it.

  The articles Jovanic found raised the specter of witness intimidation. Whispers followed Rousch, but never developed into anything useful. Prosecution witnesses evaporated, their once powerful narratives abruptly diluted to useless pap. Once he got into the office Jovanic would be able to check other programs through a department computer and see whether anything else popped up related to Viper’s criminal history that was not publicly available.

  Google pointed to a string of articles detailing the man’s involvement with the Skullz motorcycle club, which had flourished under his leadership. Dragon House Tattoos, which he had established some fifteen years earlier, was a known hangout for members of the local branch of the outlaw club, whose members became frequent targets of law enforcement for their drug and sex trafficking activities. The county jail seemed to have installed a revolving door for the other club members, but Alvin Lester Rousch always walked.

  There was an L.A. Times photo taken at the L.A. Superior Criminal Courts building on the next block from where Claudia had just testified. Alvin Rousch was a man of small stature, but the flat obsidian eyes staring out of his unsmiling face would scare someone twice his size. In fact, Jovanic thought Viper might be the hardest-looking asshole he had encountered over his long career.

  By the time he had finished reading about the man’s numerous arrests and just as many acquittals, Jovanic knew he was going to work on this case until he put Viper away for the murders of Travis Navarette and Angela Tedesco. Viper might not have hurled the Molotov cocktail through Travis’s window himself, but Jovanic knew he had ordered it done. And according to Bobby Morgan’s brother, Viper was the one responsible for Angel’s savage beating death. He wasn’t sure yet where Darla Steinman fit, but it was too big a coincidence that she had a sugar skull that looked like Viper’s work, and now she was dead.

  He made a few notes about what he had that might goad Bobby and Big Carl Latu into cooperating. When he figured out which of them was the weakest link, that’s the one he would lean on. They had both transported Angel’s body, which made them part of the crime, but he was not interested in charging them with the homicide. They were just the small fish he would use as bait to catch Viper.

  The temptation to join Claudia in bed was almost more than he could resist, even if he was too tired to do more than wrap her in his arms and meld his body against hers. But there was one more search he needed to do before he caved.

  Fighting the need for sleep, he typed the moniker, “Crash” into the system, hoping the asshole had a record. That would mean at least a last known address and a parole officer.

  Annabelle Giordano could be a major pain in the ass, but Jovanic admired her spunk. She had come a long way since Claudia had rescued her from an appalling situation. Even if she had asked for it, the thought of some prick pouring alcohol down her throat and putting ink on her young skin infuriated him. He would have trouble saying so out loud, but over the past year, she had grown on him.

  Of course it couldn’t be that easy. Nothing about this case was easy.

  A steady dinging jerked him awake. The computer. His face was pressed against the keyboard. He had not even known he’d nodded off. Jovanic dragged himself out of the chair, yawning, and trudged across the office. He had to grab a couple of hours’ sleep before he hit the department’s computer, where he could access rap sheets, parole information and DMV records.

  Meanwhile, the body count was mounting. Travis, Angel, Darla. And now Jamie was missing. She was a piece of work, but he did not want to see her become victim number four. He hoped she was smart enough to stay away from Viper.

  Detective Colin Flynt buttonholed Jovanic before he had a chance to start on his second mug of coffee. His sleeves were pushed up, the top button of his dress shirt opened with his tie loosened. He perched his oversized ass on the corner of the desk and tapped a file folder he was holding. “I just got a call from a guy, claims he’s got something on dumpster girl.”

  “Why’s he calling you?”

  “He was calling
about my soccer mom. Says there’s a connection.”

  Jovanic sat up straight. “What kind of a connection?”

  “He wouldn’t say. I’m meeting him at eleven-thirty. The Casablanca on Lincoln. Wanna tag along?”

  “Damn straight I do.” Jovanic knew the place, a Mexican restaurant themed for the movie. He didn’t care about the life-sized Humphrey Bogart statue or the movie memorabilia, but the Pechugas de Pollo would get him through the door. “How do you know he’s legit? What did he say?”

  “Said he was shocked when he saw the Steinman murder on the news. They showed the kids, interviewed Grandma. She’s saying the husband did it. Go figure.”

  “Yeah, that’d be a first.”

  “Bill Steinman’s coolin’ his jets in Interview Room 3. You wanna take a run at him? I’m heading there now.”

  “Sure. I want to know about that sugar skull tattoo on his wife.” Jovanic would have preferred some time to review the Steinman murder book and prepare for the interview, but all he had seen was the victim’s body at the morgue. Sometimes you just had to go with what you had.

  He rose and shrugged into his suit coat. Flynt might dress like a slob, and that could help put the witness at ease, but Jovanic preferred a more professional look. As they walked to the interview room he asked for more information about Flynt’s caller.

  “Sounded pretty shook up, wouldn’t say much on the phone.” Flynt pulled out his notebook. “Name’s Shane Oliver, he’s—”

  “Shane? No friggin way.”

  “What?”

  “We’re looking for a journalist named Shane.”

  “You’re shittin me.”

  “I shit you not.”

  “Well, ain’t that a coinkadink.”

  Jovanic reached for the doorknob. “I don’t believe in coincidences.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  William Steinman was the perfect model of a bereaved spouse, thought Jovanic, observing him through the two-way mirror before they entered the interview room. He was seated at the table, linebacker shoulders hunched, head in hands. He looked up as the door opened to admit the two detectives, his face wet with tears. Whether the tears were more for his dead wife or himself was unclear.

  “Bill,” said Colin Flynt, reaching out to shake the man’s hand. “Don’t get up. I’m Colin. I’m heading the investigation into your wife’s death. This is Joel.”

  “Detective Jovanic,” Jovanic said, not unfriendly, but keeping some distance. Steinman’s warm, moist flesh made him want to wipe his hand on his trousers.

  “I didn’t do it.” Steinman said urgently, not waiting for Flynt to start the interview. “I know what that old biddy and the kids are saying, but it’s a lie. I would never hurt my wife.”

  Would never. Jovanic picked up on the trigger words. When a suspect said “I would never,” it often meant they had already done whatever it was they were denying. He took the chair across from Steinman. Flynt remained standing over the husband, a posture that gave him the advantage. “Which old biddy is that?” Flynt asked.

  Steinman scrubbed his hands across his face, wiping away the evidence of his momentary weakness. He took a deep breath. “You know who I’m talking about, Darla’s mom, Marilyn Sanders. She’s got the kids brainwashed. I wasn’t anywhere close to the house when—when—it happened.”

  “Is there any reason Darla’s mother would say that you did this?”

  “Listen, you guys know I got in trouble before. That was a mistake and it was two years ago.”

  “Why do you think someone would do something like this, Bill?” Flynt asked.

  “How the hell should I know? She lets someone in the house and they shoot her. Isn’t that what you guys said happened?”

  “You think she let them in?”

  “Look, Darla never leaves the door unlocked. Ever. She’s paranoid about that shit. If someone came through the door, she opened it and let them in.”

  “So you think it was someone she knew? Are you aware of anyone who would want to hurt her?”

  “No, man. She’s just an ordinary mom, she works part-time as a realtor. I mean, she smokes a little weed once in a while, but nothing stronger, and never around the kids.” Steinman’s face screwed into a deep scowl. “Her mom is always happy to stick her big nose in and stay with Emily and Todd when Darla goes out. Like they need a babysitter at their age.”

  “How old are they?”

  “Em’s eleven, Tim’s thirteen.”

  “They’re your stepchildren?”

  “Yeah, but I’ve always treated them like they’re my own.”

  Flynt consulted his file. “The information you gave the first officer who contacted you was that you were in Riverside at the time your wife was killed. Is that correct?”

  “Yeah, man, that’s over a hundred miles from here. I was just getting off the freeway when the cops called me. I was away overnight.”

  Flynt pulled a two-year-old color photo from the file and dropped it on the table. From his vantage point, Jovanic could see Darla Steinman’s puffy face. A multi-hued bruise painted her left cheek; blonde hair pushed behind a torn earlobe where an earring had been ripped out. Her eyes were a contrast in colors—the right one white, the left blood-filled and swollen almost shut. An image of Angel’s beaten face and body pulsed in Jovanic’s brain and he felt shame for his gender.

  Steinman flipped the photo upside down and banged his fist on it. “I told you! That was two years ago. I did all the anger management classes the judge ordered, I paid the fine, I did the fucking community service.”

  “That’s a lot of anger to manage, pal. I guess she knew how to push your buttons, huh?” Flynt said.

  “I never touched her like that again. You can’t hang this on me. I didn’t kill her!”

  “Is there anyone in Riverside who can vouch for your whereabouts, Bill?”

  “Shit, I don’t want to…” Steinman trailed off.

  “Gas receipts? Restaurants? Hotel?”

  “No, I used cash. Godammit. It’s complicated. There’s someone—I don’t want to get them involved.”

  “You were banging some other guy’s wife and you don’t want her husband to find out.”

  “Hey, man, Darla filed for divorce. What am I supposed to do?”

  “You’ll have to give us your friend’s name. You know that.”

  “Shit! C’mon, man. You can’t do this to me.”

  “Mr. Steinman.” Jovanic spoke for the first time, pulling the man’s attention away from Flynt. “Tell me about the tattoo Darla had on her shoulder.”

  “The sugar skull? Jesus, she’s had that forever. She had it when I met her. Why? What’s it got to do with her getting killed?”

  “Just checking everything out. She ever talk about where she got it?”

  “Nah, man. She used to be a party girl when she was younger, before Todd and Emily came along. Who the hell cares where she got it?” His expression softened for just a moment. “We had some good times, you know? Back in the beginning. It was her mom who fucked everything up. She’s gotta stick her face into my business all the time. She’s always saying shitty things about me to the kids, always wants to butt in on our time.”

  Jovanic leaned back and watched Bill Steinman’s agitation grow as he spoke about his mother-in-law. It showed in the way he bounced his knee under the table, the heightening of his color.

  “Who else has been beating on Darla, Bill?” Jovanic asked.

  “What? Nobody!”

  “Why’d she file for divorce?”

  “I dunno. I guess she found out I was, uh, seeing someone.”

  “You guess?”

  “She did, okay? She found out. She hacked into my email and my phone.” Steinman dropped his head and sigh
ed. “What the hell happened? I loved her.”

  Jovanic didn’t care about what had happened to the Steinman marriage. He changed the subject before Bill Steinman could get maudlin. “Who was she dating before she met you?”

  “How’m I supposed to know? We’re talking, what, eight, nine years ago? She never talked about anyone else.”

  “Never?”

  “No, man. She said the past didn’t mean anything. She didn’t want to hear about my exes and she didn’t want to talk about hers.”

  “Does the name Viper mean anything to you?”

  “Viper? You mean, like a snake?” Steinman shrugged with a small shake of his head. “Should it?”

  “How about Alvin Rousch or Crash?”

  “Who the hell are these people?” A glimmer of hope crossed Steinman’s face. “What are those, gang names? You think gang members killed Darla? You know it wasn’t me, right?”

  Jovanic stood up. Bill Steinman was not his man. His denial had the ring of sincerity. Colin Flynt would continue investigating Darla Steinman’s homicide, but Jovanic was going to have to look elsewhere.

  Flynt would check into his victim’s past; her cell phone records, her contacts in and outside of work. With her work as a realtor, even part-time, there would be plenty to dig through.

  Jovanic had enough of his own to work on. His task was to discover how Travis Navarette and Angel Tedesco were connected to Viper. He did not offer his hand this time. “Thanks for your time. Detective Flynt has some more questions for you.”

  “Hey, wait. Do I need a lawyer?”

  Jovanic shrugged. “You aren’t under arrest. That’s why we didn’t read you your rights. You can call a lawyer if you want, but we’re just trying to figure out who did this to your wife.”