Dead Write: A Forensic Handwriting Mystery

by Lowe, Sheila

  Grabbing a cab over to Elite Introductions, Claudia felt her head swim with questions. Why hadn’t Dr. McAllister mentioned his daughter’s involvement with some of the men at the dating club? It seemed a major omission when he knew of the deaths of two female clients. Two female clients he had examined.

  Grusha Olinetsky was late again. The matchmaker flashed a toothy smile as the door to her office opened and she came out, but Claudia could have sworn there was something sad in her walk as she came toward her.

  I sound like Donna Pollard, she told herself. But she couldn’t shake the impression that Grusha’s cheerful demeanor was merely a mask.

  “Claudia!” The matchmaker’s hands were outstretched in welcome and she took Claudia’s shoulders, pressing one cheek to her own, and then the other, continental style. “I have been so much looking forward to seeing you again and hearing everything you have to report to me. But first, I have here someone who is very eager to meet you. Please, to come into my office.”

  Across from Grusha’s desk, a man sat in the chair Claudia had occupied the day before. He rose when they entered, an impressive figure in a leather bomber jacket over V-necked cashmere, khaki cargo pants and military boots. Indiana Jones in Manhattan. And as easy on the eyes as Harrison Ford in the films. Short brown hair shot with gold highlights, glossed into hip spikes. Six feet, broad shoulders, probably mid-thirties. Indy’s whip and battered fedora would have completed the picture.

  Something familiar . . .

  Claudia struggled to place what it was, returning her gaze to the squarish face with its sexy cleft chin. The picture in her mind’s eye sharpened and came into focus. Wow. He was clean-shaven now, but in his file photos he’d been sporting a graying beard and wearing a baseball cap. She guessed that he’d also shed some pounds since the photos were taken. The devilish grin was what had clued her in to his identity.

  He offered a deeply tanned hand. “Marcus Bernard,” he said at the precise moment his name popped into her head. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you, Claudia.”

  “Marcus vants to hire you,” Grusha interrupted. “He needs you to analyze the people who go to vork for him.”

  “Construction, right?” Claudia said, remembering his bio. “You build hotels.”

  “You got it.” He blasted her with the full force of the smile. “Hotels, condos, shopping malls, office buildings, you name it, we build it.”

  “I am taking a suite in his new building,” said Grusha. “Dr. Pollard and Dr. McAllister will have consulting offices there.”

  “Sounds convenient, everybody together in the same space. The clients should like that.”

  “Precisely,” said Grusha. “The building is scheduled to open in July. It’s simply gorgeous, the Bernard Building.”

  “It’s not quite Trump Tower,” Marcus said with mock humility. “But I’m pretty proud of it. I’d love to show it to you, Claudia.”

  “If I’m here long enough, I’d love to see it.” She recalled his handwriting: smooth talker, abundant energy, the type who found it hard to keep still. Even now, he was tossing his keys from one hand to the other. That could get on your nerves if it went on too long.

  “I hire a lot of people,” he said. “In this business, they’re not always on the level, so I’m looking for something to back up the drug tests. The baroness here says you can help me with that. Considering how savvy she is, I’m willing to listen.”

  Claudia nodded. “I work with a lot of employers, analyzing their job applicants. I’d be happy to work with you.”

  He caught her eye and sent her a boyish smile that probably melted harder hearts than hers. “How about lunch? We can discuss the possibilities over a nice Scottish salmon. Have you been to the Gotham?”

  It had already occurred to her that Marcus was one of the men who had dated both Shellee Jones and Heather Lloyd. She did want to talk to him and find out what he knew. But right now, it was more important for her to marshal her thoughts and figure out where Dr. Pollard’s information fit. She returned his smile. “It sounds wonderful, but I really have to talk with Grusha right now. A rain check?”

  She caught Grusha’s disapproving frown. “No, no, you go vit Marcus now,” Grusha said, flapping her hands at them. “Go, eat! The Gotham is fabulous. Ve talk later. I have some free time later this afternoon.”

  “This can’t wait,” Claudia said. “I’d rather make it sooner than later.”

  Marcus reached into his pocket and handed her a black and gold embossed business card. “Are you free for dinner? Call my office when you’re finished here and I’ll have my secretary make arrangements for my car to pick you up at your hotel.” He gave her a salute and leaned in to brush Grusha’s cheek with his lips. “Be sure to let me know as soon as you’ve found Ms. Right for me, Grusha. I’m gettin’ horny.”

  Well, that was crass.

  Grusha gave him a sidelong glance from under her lashes. “Ah, Marcus, I doubt that you lack for someone to relieve your distress in the meantime. But yes, dahling, of course. I call you soon. You know I have someone in mind, perfect for you. I have to vait for the results of the background check and the doctors. Then I vill give her handwriting to Claudia for analysis. And when ve know she has passed the test, you vill meet this beautiful young lady and ve vill vatch the chemistry begin to bubble.”

  “Okay, okay, just don’t make me wait too long.”

  As Marcus Bernard strolled out of the office, Grusha turned on Claudia with an irritated glare. “You should have gone vit him. Is not good to refuse a client like Marcus when he shows interest in talking to you. He is always hiring and firing people, and he pay vell. He can be very good client for you.”

  “I appreciate the referral. Thank you, Grusha, I will see him later. Now, could we close the door please? I really do have something important to discuss with you.”

  “Fine. Sit down; ve talk.” Content to have made her point, Grusha leaned out the door and called to Sonya to bring coffee. She closed the door and took her seat behind the desk, giving Claudia an arch look. “So, how did you like Ian?”

  “Ian was fine. But before we get into that, I’d like to know what made you choose the particular files you gave me.”

  “What do you mean? I vanted to see what you vould say about their personalities. Do you have a report for me?”

  “Yes, I have a report. Three of them are dead. Now you tell me, what’s wrong with this picture?”

  The matchmaker’s face paled. Her eyes grew big and round. “How could you possibly know—who told you that?”

  “What difference does it make how I know?”

  “Which one of them? Was it Donna Pollard? Or was it Ian? Who—”

  Claudia’s patience was beginning to wear thin. “What’s really going on here, Grusha? Why are these people dead? Tell me honestly: Why did you bring me to New York?”

  “Stop shouting at me! You are making me nervous.”

  “I’m making you nervous?” Claudia echoed, getting to her feet, prepared to walk if she didn’t get some immediate answers. She had been through too much, and her fuse was shorter than it used to be. “How do you think I feel? You’ve been playing me for a fool, bringing me here for some secret purpose of your own. That makes me pretty damn nervous. I want to know why you’re using me.”

  “No, no, Claudia, vait—that’s not it! You are not a fool. You are very smart voman. That is why I bring you here.”

  “If that’s what you really think, then please don’t insult my intelligence anymore. Stop this blatant attempt to manipulate me. I want the truth this time.”

  Grusha held up her hands, placating. “All right, please, sit down. I tell you everything.”

  Claudia hesitated, then dropped back into the guest chair waiting for the explanation. She felt skeptical that what she would hear would be the truth.

  “Ve talk confidential, yes?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “So. Is like this. I had business in another p
lace a few years ago. A girl who vork for me make trouble. She vant me to pay her more money. I say no. She quit. Is okay; I don’t need her vit the attitude! But she call my clients and she tell them things about me—lies. I run legitimate business, but this girl, when she lie, she get some people to go to court and testify against me.” Grusha’s expression darkened. “Cost a lot of money, a lot of my life. That thing hurt my business very bad, very bad. So I move to East Coast, I vork and vork to build again, make new clients, new business.” The deep-set eyes had traded warmth for flat black intensity. “I cannot afford anything to interfere this time. You understand me, yes? I have to make sure things are done right.”

  As she listened, Claudia resolved to research the story on the Internet for herself. There might be some articles about Grusha and her court case. She said, “I understand that you had problems before, and that something is apparently going on now. But what does this have to do with the mistakes Andy Nicholson made? Or did you just make that up to get me here?”

  “No! Is true.” The matchmaker’s lip started to tremble. She took a folded tissue from a pocket of her dress and pressed it to the corners of her eyes. “Somebody is trying to sabotage my business, but I do not yet know who or why . . .” Her voice trailed away and she spread her hands in resignation. “So. Claudia, I need your help. You have good reputation, you can save me.”

  “Let me understand what you’re telling me—that Andy Nicholson failed to identify red flags in the handwriting of a client who is now trying to sabotage you?”

  “Yes, yes, that is it,” Grusha said with evident relief.

  “And you’ve identified some people who you suspect could the culprits. That’s what those files are?”

  “Suspects, I—I am not sure.”

  “If you’re saying that you want me to pick the most likely suspect from this group, there are a couple who concern me. But that doesn’t answer why you gave me the handwritings of dead people.”

  Grusha hesitated. “It is true what you say, that some clients have died in terrible accidents, but . . .”

  “And Dr. Pollard’s office was broken into this morning.”

  “What? What you are talking about?”

  “I guess you haven’t heard. She was attacked in her office early this morning. That didn’t feel like a coincidence to me.”

  Grusha’s brows knit in a worried frown. Claudia could see that the news had shaken her.

  “Attacked? Donna was attacked?”

  “Yes. Hit over the head, in fact. I think she has a concussion. Yet, for some unknown reason, she’s refused to call the police. I don’t suppose you have any idea why that might be.”

  “What did this person vant from her?”

  “He didn’t stick around long enough to let her know. So, Grusha, tell me: What is really happening here?”

  “Too many bad things, too close together. Something is very wrong. Someone is behind all these things; I am convinced of it.”

  “Well, yes, it’s pretty obvious that someone is. But why? Why would someone do this? There has to be a motive.”

  Grusha groaned. “I vish I know. Someone is trying to sabotage me again. This much is clear.”

  “And there are people dying, so you have to go to the police. That much is clear.”

  “No! I cannot! I vill be ruined if it comes out. That is why I ask you to come. I need you to find this person for me. Their handwriting vill show who it is, and why these people are dead.”

  “Grusha, I hope you understand handwriting only reveals someone’s potential. It can’t predict for sure what the writer is going to do. But what I can do is describe the behavior that the handwriting reflects on the page. Guessing games are out.”

  “I thought—I thought if you could find something in their personality that connects them . . . Claudia, I have faith in you. Remember, I read all about your reputation.”

  Claudia gave her a thin smile. “That’s all well and good, but I’m not psychic. What made you pick those particular clients?”

  “I gave you the files of the men who dated the two girls and I put in some other ones as a—what do they call it? A test, some kind of test.”

  “A blind test.”

  “Yes, that is it. Andrew Nicholson give them all good reports, but I had some questions about them; that is all.” Spots of color rose in her cheeks and her eyes moved to the left.

  She’s lying about something.

  “Why do you think Nicholson was wrong about these particular men? What have they done to make you suspicious?”

  Grusha hesitated. “I have no reason to suspect them. Just that some of them dated the same girls.”

  “Grusha, for heaven’s sake! If you believe there’s a killer loose, targeting your business—”

  “Claudia, please, you have to help me. The police vill not believe me.”

  “Why not?”

  Another long pause.

  “Why not, Grusha?”

  “Because . . . because I have trouble vit them in the past.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “It has nothing to do vit this. But once the police know you, you are never again free. If I go to them, they vill immediately suspect me of something, and it vill get into the media, and then—”

  “I’m not a private detective,” Claudia interrupted. “And I’m not interested in being part of some Mission: Impossible investigation. I’ve been close to murder before, very recently, and I don’t want to be anywhere near it again. If that is what’s going on here, you can count me out.”

  “Vait! Please look to see if anything from the handwriting vill give a clue about these people. If you find something that connects them—if ve find some proof, I vill go to police. That is all you have to do. What do you think?”

  “I think I don’t like it; that’s what I think. The police need to be made aware of—I’m sorry, excuse me.” A beep from Claudia’s cell phone signaled the arrival of a text or picture message. Murmuring an apology for not switching off her phone during the meeting, she removed it from her pocket and looked at the screen. The number was Annabelle’s cell phone. What now?

  The LCD screen said she had a video message and gave the option of viewing it now or later. She clicked view now.

  Grusha’s voice came at her from a long distance. “Claudia? Are you all right? You’ve gone pale. Is bad news for you?”

  Chapter 11

  Even on the small cell phone screen, Claudia was easily able to recognize the woman with the blunt-cut blond hair: Detective Alexandra Vega, her arms wrapped around Jovanic, her body pressed up against him, her lips on his.

  He wasn’t fighting it.

  After a moment, Alex stepped away and they both got into a car. The video had lasted only fifteen seconds, but Claudia felt sick. She may have had her suspicions for the last several weeks that there was something going on between Alex and Jovanic, but having it stuck in her face this way was a body blow. It was one time she had desperately wanted to be wrong.

  There had to be an explanation.

  It won’t be good enough.

  Learning to trust him hadn’t been easy. Not that he had done anything to make her doubt him, but because painful past experience had taught her not to allow any man to get too close. Until this moment, she’d believed she had come a long way. The video unraveled her hard-won assurance. As she sat there, trying to look and act normal, her feelings were running the gamut from disbelief to anger to jealousy to grief.

  After leaving Dr. Pollard, Claudia had intended to give Grusha the news that she was quitting the assignment and returning to the West Coast as soon as she could get a flight. She would repay the generous retainer. Now Annabelle’s cell phone transmission had changed things. There was no point in rushing back to L.A.

  In her heart, she questioned whether she was making the rational choice—maybe this was not the best time to make rash decisions. But before she could change her mind again, she turned to the matchmaker. “You just want
me to analyze handwriting, right, not get involved in any investigation?”

  “Yes, yes, just handwriting. I give you bonus, too.”

  “I don’t need a bonus. Let’s just get on with it.”

  Sonya was given instructions to order sandwiches from the deli on the ground floor of the building, and they prepared to brainstorm. The thought of food held no appeal for Claudia, but her decision to remain and help seemed to have renewed Grusha’s energy and she was now bustling around her office, making space for their lunch.

  Claudia took a break to tidy up. Annabelle’s defiance of her order not to spy on Jovanic angered her, and she wanted to throttle Alex. She hadn’t yet begun to think about what she would like to do to Jovanic.

  She dampened a paper towel and dabbed it over her face, repaired her makeup. A little lipstick and blush made her look less like death warmed over. If she was going to stay on in New York, this was not the time to be depressed. She had a suspicion that despite her promises, Grusha might have been less than forthright. It was going to be important for Claudia to be alert during their conversation and listen for anything that was being communicated between the lines.

  Before returning to Grusha’s office, she gave herself a stern talking-to and forced the cell phone image out of her head.

  “So, three of your clients have died—unless there are any other dead clients you haven’t told me about?”

  Grusha looked aghast. “God forbid!”

  “Okay, then, two of the clients—Heather Lloyd and Ryan Turner—died in sporting accidents. One—Shellee Jones—had an allergic reaction to peanuts. It’s too much to believe that all three of these were really accidents. But is it possible that any of them might have been genuine? The anaphylactic shock, maybe? Could that have been just a horrible coincidence?”

  Grusha pounced on the suggestion. “Yes, of course! How could someone arrange such a thing at a restaurant? Poor Shellee does not belong vit the others!”