Inkslingers Ball (A Forensic Handwriting Mystery)

by Sheila Lowe

  Claudia propped herself on an elbow. “You won’t believe this. The guy who gave her the ride is the guy I was looking for at the expo. Crash.”

  Rummaging in the drawer for a pair of socks, Jovanic turned to look at her. “You’ve got to be freakin’ kidding me.”

  “I was so pissed. I wanted her to show me where he lived, but she claimed she didn’t remember how to get there. I know she was lying.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “Her lips were moving.”

  “Aw, you’re such a cynic. Sweet little Jamie, a liar? I can’t believe it.”

  “Har har. She’d just walked from his place to the 7-Eleven. When she wanted me to give her a ride back here, she claimed her battery was dying, but she spent most of the ride on the phone, trying to score. At least she didn’t find any drugs in her backpack. I flushed them.”

  Jovanic stuck his fingers in his ears, “Lalala. I did not hear that.”

  “Hear what?” Claudia quipped. “How was your ride home with Annabelle?”

  “Pretty much sucked. I got the silent treatment.” He grabbed a pair of boxers from the dresser and headed for the bathroom, pausing at the door. “I was listening to the radio. All of a sudden she yelled something. Claimed she was dozing and had a bad dream, but I don’t think so.”

  “It’s the PTSD again. Time for her to have another session with Zebediah. She’ll talk to him.”

  “Good move.” He turned on the shower, then thought better of it and peered around the door. “Come scrub my back?”

  Jovanic ran down the back steps carrying a bulging plastic garbage bag and hurried along the side of the house. Crossing the grass verge at the curb where he had parked the Jeep, he leaned in the passenger door and scooped up the collection of cups and bits of leftover trash from several day’s worth of food on the go.

  When the vehicle’s interior was as clean as he could get it without a trip to the car wash, he dumped the debris into the big garbage can he had wheeled out front the previous evening for the weekly pickup. It was a minor miracle that he had remembered to do the chore. Dizzy with fatigue and after several beers, he had not even bothered with dinner before falling into bed. If someone had held a gun to his head, he could not have kept his eyes open a moment longer.

  “Hey, Joel!”

  He turned to see their neighbor, Marcia Taylor, jogging up the street with her German Shepherd, Flare.

  “How’s it going?” Jovanic asked, leaning down to pet the dog, whose tongue was already busy licking the back of his hand.

  Marcia reached into her pocket and pulled out a pink plastic case. “Annabelle dropped her phone by your house. I picked it up on my way out this morning. How many times does this make?”

  “I’ve lost count. Maybe she needs to think it’s gone for good.”

  “Yeah, maybe—”

  At the same moment, Jovanic’s own phone rang. The ringtone was one he had assigned to his team members. He excused himself and Marcia continued on to her house.

  “You won’t believe this,” RJ Scott announced when he answered the call.

  “Try me.”

  “Our guy, Alvin Rousch? Admitted to Regional last night. Somebody shot him. I just saw it in the newspaper.”

  “Is he still alive?” Listening to Scott, Jovanic slipped Annabelle’s phone into his pocket and went around to climb into the Jeep.

  “Serious, but he’ll be okay. He’s not saying who did it, though.”

  “Those assholes never do. On my way.”

  ***

  Fifteen minutes after receiving Scott’s call, Jovanic in the waiting room at Marina del Rey Regional Hospital and Trauma Center, waiting to see the surgeon who had removed the bullet from Viper’s abdomen. Taking Annabelle’s phone out of his pocket, he toyed with the idea of checking out who she had been talking to. Claudia would tell him not to invade her privacy, but in his view, a fifteen-year-old in his care did not enjoy the protection of privacy laws. Especially a fifteen-year-old like Annabelle Giordano, who had to be the most exasperating and, he had to admit, endearing, kid he had ever encountered.

  He wanted to know whether she was still in touch with Mouser after he had forbade the contact. Sliding his index finger across the screen, Jovanic was surprised to see that the last app Annabelle had accessed was Voice Memos.

  Curious about what she had been recording, he took a closer look. The time stamp showed 4:43 pm yesterday. His recall of the time they had arrived home from the tattoo expo was a little hazy, but he thought it was around 3:15. After that, Annabelle had gone up to her room while he watched the game—slept through it, anyway.

  Something was not adding up. How could she have made a voice recording at 4:43 if she had dropped her phone outside at 3:15? Had she gone somewhere while he was asleep? She had been sick later in the evening when he got up to take a leak.

  He was still thinking about it when a doctor in blue scrubs and a pink paisley surgical cap entered the waiting room and approached him. “Detective Jovanic?” She offered her hand. “I’m Dr. Redfern, Dr. Feldman’s surgical resident. He asked me to come and speak with you. You’re here about Mr. Rousch?”

  “Yes. How’s he doing?”

  “He came through surgery just fine. In fact, he’s already out of ICU and in Recovery, but it’s going to be a little while before he’s ready to answer questions.”

  “Can you tell me anything about what happened?”

  Dr. Redfern consulted the electronic tablet she had brought with her. “He called for an ambulance himself at five-seventeen last night and reported that he’d been shot.” She glanced up. “He was pretty lucky. The bullet just missed the stomach, or it would have been a lot worse.”

  “What else did he say?”

  “He didn’t identify the shooter, if that’s what you’re asking.” She checked her screen once again. “He was shot once at close range, with a .380. Like you cops carry.”

  “I hope you saved the bullet.”

  “Of course. I’ll see that you get it if you’ll leave me your contact information.”

  Jovanic handed her his card. “Okay if I see him?”

  “Won’t do you any good, he’s sedated, and he’s going to be in significant pain when he wakes up. Give him at least till this afternoon.”

  Having suffered a similar wound himself less than a year earlier Jovanic understood all too well about the pain. He told Dr. Redfern that he would return later when her patient was able to talk. He had just reached the elevator when she called him back.

  “Hey, Detective, I just remembered something that might be useful for you.”

  He strode back over to her. “Yes?”

  “It was in the notes. One of the EMTs indicated that when they picked him up—apparently he was attacked where he worked, in a tattoo parlor. He didn’t say who shot him, but he did say something that indicated the shooter was female.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Something like ‘the bitch shot me.’ I’ll ask the charge nurse to find out who the EMT was so you can talk to him.”

  “Thanks. I’d appreciate that.”

  Jovanic took the elevator down to the lobby wondering what the chances were that the shooter might be Jamie Parker. Rousch had called 911 at five-seventeen. Would that leave enough time for Jamie to grab her car from Claudia’s street and get to the Dragon House and shoot him? The trouble was he could not think of a reason why she might. She had protected Viper when Jovanic interviewed her. And Jamie had professed no love for Angel, so there was no revenge motive.

  On the way across the hospital parking lot he called Claudia and asked what time she had brought Jamie back to the house.

  “We got here around 7:00. Why do you ask?”

  “Someone shot Viper last night and i
t may have been a female.”

  “What? Why would Jamie shoot Viper?”

  “Beats the hell out of me. Just looking at possibilities. Anyway, 7:00 puts her out of the frame.”

  “I’d starting checking ex-wives if I were you.”

  “Yeah.” He climbed into the Jeep, trying to ignore a troublesome nagging in his gut. Something he did not want to explore. “How’s the kid doing?”

  “I’m worried about her. She wouldn’t get out of bed this morning and she tried to hide it, but I heard her crying. An upset stomach shouldn’t last this long. I hope it’s not food poisoning.”

  “Make sure she stays hydrated.”

  “I will. If she’s not better tomorrow, I’ll take her to the doctor. It might be the stress over Angel. It’s brought back everything that happened before.”

  “Let me know if you need any help.”

  “Thank you, Joel. You are so—” she hesitated. “I love you.”

  He hesitated for just a moment, too, before his response, “I love you, too.” The words never came easy, but he felt them rooted deep in his heart. He and Claudia were like two blind people groping for each other in the darkness. He was hopeful that they were getting closer.

  He said, “Hey, before I forget, Marcia found her phone outside. I’ve got it.”

  “I can’t believe she lost it again! That’s at least the fourth time. As sick as she is right now, I doubt she’ll miss it.”

  They said their goodbyes and rang off. Jovanic sat in the Jeep, trying to connect with what was bothering him. Something was working its way up through his subconscious, but was not yet close enough to the surface to identify.

  He phoned Randy Coleman and told him about Viper getting shot, then asked whether he’d had any luck in getting the warrant for a trace on Shane Oliver’s cell phone.

  “Yeah, but the phone company’s dragging their heels,” said Coleman. “We should have something by noon. I’ll let you know.”

  “What about next of kin for Travis Navarette?”

  Randy asked him to hold on. Jovanic heard his partner calling to someone else, then come back on the line. “Yeah, it just now came in. The father’s name is Gerald Harris. Travis was using his mother’s maiden name. She’s deceased.”

  “Why does that name sound familiar? Gerald Harris.”

  “You want me to send somebody out to do the notification? Or just have the locals do it?”

  “Wait a sec. I got it. Gerald Harris is a guy Viper put in the hospital twenty years ago.”

  “Huh. How’s that for coincidence?”

  “Yeah, Randy. Big ‘coincidence.’ What the fuck’s going on here?”

  Coleman paused, apparently running through his head what Jovanic had just told him. “So, the Gerald Harris who got beat up by Viper is the same guy whose son got firebombed?”

  “That’s what I’m saying. Hold off on the notification. Get the team together and meet me at The Firehouse.”

  ***

  While he was waiting outside the restaurant for the other detectives, Jovanic took Annabelle’s phone from his pocket. He accessed the Voice Memo screen again, strangely reluctant. Claudia would admonish him that listening to what she had recorded would be like reading someone’s diary.

  The thought of Claudia made him smile. He had watched her defenses crumble over time as she grew to trust him and accept the fact that he was not going to hurt her. The weekend before this crazy week began, he had gone to a jeweler in the mall and bought an engagement ring. His uncertainty about her answer was all that held him back from offering it to her.

  Jovanic sat there in the Jeep, visualizing a couple of scenarios where he took the plunge and actually asked her to marry him. With half his mind busy on thoughts of Claudia, he idly tapped the arrow that started the voice memo playback.

  A coarse male voice sounded loud and clear: “You don’t need anything to blow me. Get over here. On your knees.”

  Jovanic sat up straight, his attention riveted to the voice on the phone. He listened with dawning horror at the mocking laugh and the man’s damning observation: “That’s a pretty nice gun for a little girl like you.”

  And then, unmistakably, Annabelle’s trembling voice trying to sound tough. “It’s going to shoot you if you don’t tell me what you did to Angel.”

  Hardly daring to breathe, Jovanic listened to the entire episode. He heard every word of Annabelle’s abortive attempt to scare a confession out of one of the meanest thugs in Southern California. Viper’s shout of protest. The deafening blast of a gunshot.

  The long silence, then Annabelle’s whimper. “Omigod, omigod, omigod, I killed him. What am I gonna do? I didn’t mean to kill him. Omigod.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Jovanic barreled up the back steps and entered the kitchen, where Claudia was pouring herself a cup of coffee. She swung around as he entered, her face lit with pleasure that turned quickly to alarm.

  “Where is she?” Jovanic demanded.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Not trusting himself to speak, he pushed past her, taking the stairs two at a time. Claudia called after him, but his mind was racing. He went into their bedroom and made straight for the closet. “Shut the door,” he said tersely, knowing she was right behind him.

  “What’s going on?” He could see she was frightened, but Jovanic could not offer her any reassurances when he was scared stupid himself. “Where’s your Glock?”

  “In the safe of course. Why?” She repeated her question: “What’s going on?”

  Jovanic was already inside the closet, his keys in his hand. He had chosen to place the safe there because it was inconspicuous and unlikely to be spotted by someone who did not know to look for it. Claudia stood framed in the doorway behind him, watching mutely as he yanked the cord that switched on the light. He shoved aside the neat row of trousers and skirts that concealed the heavy locked box. Crouching on his heels, he turned the key and opened the lid.

  The Glock was right where it was supposed to be, looking as innocuous as a deadly weapon could look. He prayed that its presence meant he was mistaken, but he knew better. His mouth was dry as he took the gun from its hiding place and straightened. Claudia backed up, pale and wide-eyed, giving him room to exit the closet. The questions on her face were palpable, but she did not ask them again.

  Jovanic removed the semiautomatic from its holster and pointed it at the floor. He pressed the release and slid out the magazine, knowing what he would find, but checking anyway. One empty slot, one in the barrel. His face burned as the blood rushed to his head. “Holy fuck.”

  He snapped the magazine back into the receiver and moved past Claudia, the Glock still in his hand. She reached out and tried to grab his arm, but he shrugged her off and wrenched open the bedroom door.

  Jovanic strode along the landing to Annabelle’s room and without bothering to knock, slammed open the door. Annabelle shot up in bed with a squeal of fright.

  “What the hell did you do?” In his tone was a seething storm of barely contained fury. “I’m talking to you, Annabelle. Look at me! What did you do?”

  She hunched behind the covers, squeezing her eyes shut, obviously trying to make herself small enough not to be seen. “Claudia, help me!” The muffled voice barely rose above a squeak.

  Jovanic leaned down, eyes blazing, and ripped the blanket away from her face. “She can’t help you this time. You fucked up a little too good.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry! Don’t yell at me.”

  “You think this is yelling? I haven’t even—”

  “Stop it, Joel!” Claudia’s urgent appeal came from behind him. “Can’t you see you’re scaring her. And you’re scaring me, too.”

  He turned the fury on her. “Oh, I’m scaring her? Well, guess wha
t—she needs to be scared. She’ll be a lot more scared when her ass lands in jail. I could lose my goddamn job because this—this—” Struggling for control, he bit his tongue on the epithet that wanted to fly out of his mouth. “She friggin’ shot my suspect with the gun I gave you.” He held up the Glock for emphasis, enunciating each word with precision, making sure Claudia comprehended what he was saying.

  Claudia sank down on the bed. “Oh my God.”

  Annabelle started sobbing. “I didn’t mean to. I was just gonna scare him, but he grabbed it and—and—” The words were garbled, but clear enough to take their meaning. She scooted back against the headboard, shrinking as far away from Jovanic as she could get. “I didn’t mean to kill him, I didn’t. I thought—if he would just tell what he did to Angel he would get into trouble and they would make him p-p-pay.”

  Jovanic was well aware of how to use his height and imposing build to his advantage when he wanted to spook a suspect. He was not deliberately using those assets now, but he knew how intimidating he must seem to the girl in the bed, and he did not care. It took every ounce of restraint he could muster not to grab her by the shoulders and shake her like a rag doll.

  “Put that gun away, Joel, and stop glaring like that.” Claudia’s strained voice finally penetrated the red mist that was clouding his vision. “You’re angry and with good cause, but it doesn’t help for you to stand over her like King Kong.” She pushed at his legs. “Back off.”

  The adrenaline surge that had propelled him from the restaurant parking lot was starting to ebb and his hands were shaking. Jovanic took a few steps away from Annabelle’s bed and sat on the dainty white wicker chair at the study desk. He knew he looked ridiculous perched there, but he had to steady himself, regain control of his emotions.