by Lowe, Sheila
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Epilogue
"SHEILA LOWE HAS A
TALENT FOR SUSPENSE.”
—American Chronicle
Praise for the Novels of Sheila Lowe
Written in Blood
“A fascinating and complex murder mystery that keeps readers involved and guessing till the exciting climax.”
—American Chronicle
“Readers will relish Sheila Lowe’s fine tale.”
—The Merry Genre Go Round Reviews
“Sheila Lowe’s mysteries just keep getting better. Her writing is crisp, and she deftly incorporates interesting information about handwriting analysis along the way. Her characters are rich and fully developed and her plots sizzle.”
—Armchair Interviews
“If you enjoy forensics, then give these Forensic Handwriting Mysteries a try. It’s a different slant on the field wrapped in some pretty believable story lines.”
—Gumshoe
Poison Pen
“Suicide or murder? Only the graphologist knows for sure in this dynamite debut, the first in a new series, from forensic handwriting expert Lowe. The author’s large nonfiction fan base augurs well for the series.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“[A] fast-paced, crisp, and gritty novel that penetrates the world of celebrity and the dark appetites of those who live in that world.”
—Armchair Interviews
“Debut novelist Lowe wins readers over with her well-developed heroine and the wealth of fascinating detail on handwriting analysis.”
—Booklist
“The well-paced plot develops from uneasy suspicions to tightly wound action.”
—Front Street Reviews
“A perfectly paced mystery with an easy fluidity that propels the reader through the story at breakneck speed.”
—BookPleasures.com
Also by Sheila Lowe
Poison Pen
Written in Blood
OBSIDIAN
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First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library,
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First Printing, August 2009
Copyright © Sheila Lowe, 2009
eISBN : 978-1-101-10881-9
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Dedicated to Erik and Benjamin,
the best sons in the Universe
Acknowledgments
There are special challenges to writing about an unfamiliar neighborhood. After all, Google goes only so far. With that in mind, I want to give a big thanks to Detective Steve Giaco of the NYPD for filling me in on procedure and terminology in the 18th Precinct, and for the LAPD side, Bob Brounsten (no clichés here, BabBob!). Thanks to Doug Lyle, MD, who always makes himself available for medical questions. To Jane Myers, who reviewed and gave helpful comments on narcissistic rage. This is beginning to feel like an Oscar acceptance, but there are a few more. . . . Thank you, Suzanne Bank, for decorating Grusha’s office. Thank you, indefatigable Bob Joseph, for listening to me read, even from afar. Thank you, Ellen Larson, for always reminding me of Claudia’s strengths. And to a special friend, Roger Rubin, for loaning part of your persona for a minor but important series character, and for all the cyberhugs, sent as needed. And how cool it is to be able to say, “Thanks to my agent, Irene Webb,” as well as Kristen Weber, my editor at Obsidian. Also, to Rita Frayer, who bid on and won a character name to benefit the Ventura County Professional Women’s Network. And finally, it would have been much harder without my wonderful critique groups; you know who you are.
Chapter 1
The Olive Avenue off-ramp materialized out of the predawn fog like something from a dream. The exit sign, chalkboard green during daylight, looked almost black in the darkness. Claudia Rose steered the vintage XJ6 off the Golden State Freeway, melting smoothly into the light stream of street traffic.
The late-winter morning had started cold and early—three thirty. Chill bumps had rippled her skin as she slipped from under the covers and silently gathered her clothes. Jovanic had stirred and mumbled a promise to keep the bed warm. Working as a detective for the LAPD, he was accustomed to being roused in the middle of the night. But though he had urged her
to hurry back, Claudia had known he would be asleep again before she closed the front door behind her.
The GPS was telling her to turn left, then right on Front Street, not far from the Metrolink Station. Another left, another right. She followed the directions blindly, scanning the row of industrial buildings for the television studio. With any luck, she would get her Hard Evidence interview done and make it home to Playa de la Reina and Jovanic by six thirty.
A segment producer for the faux-news show had called the day before, needing a handwriting expert for the weekend’s lead item: the latest celebrity misbehaving. The producer, Peggy Yum, said that the early-morning show aired live on the East Coast at eight a.m. Given the three-hour time difference, Claudia would need to arrive at the Burbank studio before sunup.
She had almost turned it down. But Peggy Yum didn’t easily take “no” for an answer. Her pretty face and misleading smile hid a personality tougher than a strip of rawhide. She’d been quick to point out that if Claudia refused the job, there were other handwriting analysts, some perhaps less ethical, who would be more than happy to fill the breach. Besides, the free advertising Claudia would get in terms of TV time was worth more than she might earn in six months.
The handwriting Yum wanted examined stemmed from the DUI arrest of a young female singer who had taken over the headlines. Her third arrest. Worse, this time the disgraced diva’s two-year-old son had been in the car with her, which added child endangerment charges. Yum had somehow obtained a copy of a note the singer had written to her boyfriend while in custody at the Lynwood Jail, Los Angeles County’s main lockup for women. Despite the singer’s star status, the Beverly Hills judge who’d sent her there had run out of patience and was threatening to extend her stay to thirty days.
Claudia had agreed to analyze the handwriting, which Peggy Yum subsequently scanned and e-mailed to her, but as soon as Claudia opened it she could see that there was little she would be willing to publicly discuss. The first thing she noticed was the large size and extreme roundness of the letters, which reflected the singer’s profound need to have the world revolve around her. The girl had already proven the truth of that assessment by her behavior. The lower loops were left open in a hook shape that pointed to the left. After studying the writing, Claudia formed the opinion that the young woman had probably been the victim of childhood sexual abuse. But she wouldn’t say that on the air. Even misbehaving public figures deserved some privacy.
Greeting her in the studio’s reception area, Peggy Yum led Claudia to a small room, explaining that the production company rented the remote space when they needed to interview someone far away from the in-studio hosts. She wouldn’t be able to see the New York hosts as they questioned her about the handwriting, but they, and the audience, would see her on the monitor.
With the exception of a club chair, a television camera mounted on a tripod pointed at the chair, and a monitor, the makeshift studio was bare. A swath of black fabric had been draped behind the chair where Claudia would sit for the interview, providing a backdrop.
The videographer, a youth in a sweatshirt and jeans, was doing double duty as soundman. He hooked her up with an earpiece and a lapel microphone, snaking the wire up under her suit jacket and clipping it to her collar. When he was satisfied that both were as unobtrusive as he could get them, he stepped away and asked her to count to ten for a sound check. Yum said to sit tight; she would be on after the next commercial.
Waiting for the signal that they were going live, Claudia rehearsed in her head what she was going to say. Then Yum came to stand behind the monitor and held up three fingers . . . two . . . one . . . mouthing the countdown.
The host’s voice came through her earpiece: “Next, internationally recognized handwriting expert Claudia Rose, who is going to give us her opinion on the handwriting of . . .”
Almost before she could blink, the segment was over and she was being de-miked, gathering her briefcase and jacket, getting ready to head out. It didn’t feel as if the segment had been her finest five minutes.
Peggy Yum seemed to think otherwise. Hollywood excitement sparked through the hip black frames of her DKNY glasses. “Claudia, what you do is so awesome. I’m gonna use you in a really big segment. People need to hear more about handwriting analysis. This is gonna be huge—I can feel it!” She leaned into a pretend hug and air kisses. “Gotta run. I’ll call you!”
Alone in the frigid Jag, waiting for the heater to kick in, Claudia watched the sun rise over the San Gabriel Mountains, glad the interview was over. She was looking forward to crawling back into bed with Jovanic. Working in the hours after midnight appealed to her in a way that getting up early didn’t. It was as if the secrets hidden in handwriting were easier to access late at night when she was free of the distractions of phone calls and e-mail. Maybe I’m part vampire. Note to self: Check the mirror for a reflection.
Not bothering to cover her yawns, she retraced her drive and got back on the freeway, rerunning the interview and Yum’s parting words through her head. She’d heard the hype before, and told herself not to take it too seriously. Maybe Yum would call; maybe not. That’s showbiz.
Then her new cell phone rang and sent her heart into overdrive.
Only yesterday Jovanic had insisted upon the purchase of the phone, dragging her to the mall and standing over her for forty-five minutes, leading her through various models before she lost patience and told him to choose one. It didn’t matter to her whether her cell phone could download music or allow her to Twitter the world. Why did she have to be in touch with the world at all?
For more than a month, she had resisted thinking about the reason why she needed a new phone: Her last one had been destroyed by a murderous psychopath who’d killed someone Claudia had known, and then had pursued her, too.
She’d been the one who had found the decomposing body of her friend. Over the intervening weeks, the memory of that horror refused to be erased or even softened. Yet she had also put off replacing the old phone, as if doing so would be an act of disloyalty to the psychopath’s victim. As if the purchase of a new one would be a final step in closing that chapter of her life, allowing her to move on and leave her friend behind.
The phone continued to ring. She glanced at the LCD and read PRIVATE CALLER. Early-morning calls didn’t usually bring good news. She felt a flicker of apprehension as she tapped the answer button on her earpiece. “Good morning, Claudia Rose speaking.”
“Please hold for Baroness Grusha Olinetsky,” a female voice said, not waiting for her to respond before the line went silent.
Claudia’s attention sharpened. Baroness?
She heard a change of sound on the line and a throat being cleared.
“Claudia Rose?” The husky voice pronounced it Cloudia. “I need to meet vit you as soon as possible.” The heavy accent curled around the words, transforming w into v. “I need you to analyze some handwriting. Is oorgent matter.”
Claudia rolled her eyes. Every client thought their matter was urgent. “What kind of analysis is it that you need?” she asked. “Is this a forgery case, or . . .”
“No! No forgery. I am matchmaker—vorld-class matchmaker. You never hear of me?”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t think so.”
“Is okay. You call me Grusha. Ve be friends. When you come to New York to see me?”
“New York?”
An old Camaro doing ninety raced past, closely followed by a motorcycle, its rider looking like Green Lantern in black leathers and a neon lime helmet. Even at dawn, L.A. traffic had its own special brand of insanity.
“You come right away to my office,” Grusha Olinetsky said. “Look at some handwriting. Tell me about the people, what they are like.”
She made it a demand, not a request. An image of what Grusha Olinetsky’s own handwriting might look like crossed Claudia’s mind. It was a game she played with herself when she met someone new and interesting. As pushy as the baroness sounded, she would probably cr
owd her words close together and press the pen deeply into the page, demonstrating emotional intensity. And with her imperious manner, long t-bars.
Claudia said, “If you need the analysis quickly, you can overnight the handwritings to me. I’ll return the originals afterward. I don’t need to come to New York for that.”
“Nyet!” Just one word, but adamant. “Cannot take from here. Don’t vorry—I pay you good. You come tomorrow. I make plane ticket for you. Is oorgent.”
She’d said that before. Still, Olinetsky’s urgency did not have to become hers. And so far, the baroness hadn’t said anything that made Claudia want to get on a plane on Monday and fly to the East Coast.
She interrupted as Grusha started to talk about flight arrangements. “Wait, please. I’ll need you to give me more information than this. You’re asking me to travel a long distance to see you, but you’re not giving me any details. I need you to tell me something about the purpose of the analysis.”
The silence on the other end of the line dragged out, the reply so long in coming that Claudia began to wonder whether she had hit a dead zone and lost the call. She was about to ask, Can you hear me now? when the baroness spoke again.
“So. I use graphology for long time. I know is good tool to learn about people and I have every member analyzed. Helps me know more about them and who is good match. But last graphologist make some mistakes. Bad mistakes. I see you on TV show this morning, I call them up and ask for your number. I vant to meet you face-to-face, and then I vill know if you are the one who should replace this bad person.”
Claudia was beginning to get the feeling that there was a lot being left unsaid that might affect her decision as to whether she would accept the assignment. “What’s the name of the graphologist?” she asked more sharply than she had intended. “Who have you been using?”
