Dead Write: A Forensic Handwriting Mystery

by Lowe, Sheila

  Her eagerness sent Claudia’s guard up. For someone who had insisted that she come all the way across country to participate in this situation, Grusha seemed far too willing to drop part of it.

  “For argument’s sake,” Claudia continued, “we’ll take the worst-case scenario and assume that all three were deliberately killed. My question is motive. Why these particular people? The victims were of both genders; this isn’t necessarily sexually motivated. From what I’ve read in their files I couldn’t find anything that seemed to tie the three of them together, personality-wise. Both Heather’s and Shellee’s handwriting looked pretty typical of a lot of young women of their age and their position in life. Since they were club members, they must have had financial means. Ryan had especially good handwriting in the sense that he was emotionally mature and had a healthy self-image. So, what can you tell me about them?”

  Grusha’s hand automatically moved to the Lalique nude on her desk. “They were beautiful girls. Heather was a little airheaded, but she was beginning to be successful in her modeling career. She come to me for introduction because she was afraid men vanted her for the way she looked.” She gave a rueful chuckle. “Is true—it was not her brains they were interested in. Men do not really vant those skinny girls, but I did not tell her that because I can sell the whole package. I give Heather what she vanted—three handsome rich men to choose from. She like Ryan best because he was sexy doctor. He was fourth-year resident and she saw potential for very nice future. He had family money, too. He was going to do very vell in plastic surgery. Poor boy.”

  “What about Shellee Jones?”

  “Ah, that Shellee. Her father is suing the restaurant where she die. She had horrible death.” Grusha grimaced. “Choking, could not get air. Poor Marcus, he feel so bad that he could not save her.”

  “Marcus?”

  “All he could do was vatch her die.”

  “You mean he was there?”

  “They were having dinner together. Was beautiful match. They were falling in love; vould have been vonderful vedding. He was devastated.”

  “He didn’t look devastated just now. She only died three weeks ago and he’s already complaining about being horny?”

  Grusha gave a fatalistic shrug. “It was terrible thing, but he cannot go along wearing sackcloth and ashes for the rest of his life. They went out few times, that is all. Life goes on.”

  Just now, you had the wedding planned.

  “Does Marcus have a motive to destroy your business?”

  “Nobody have motive that I can think of.” Grusha’s mouth turned down. “Believe me; I have thought about it very much.”

  “The surviving men whose handwritings have problems,” Claudia persisted. “Avram, John, and Marcus. There were red flags in all of them. Do you suspect them?”

  “I told you, I do not have suspects. I give the files to you because these men I introduce to both Shellee and Heather. What problems do you see?”

  “Okay, we’ll review the problems.” Claudia had brought the problem files in her briefcase. She pulled one out and riffled through the pages to the handwriting sample. “Let’s talk about Avram Cohen. He has the potential for violent behavior.”

  “Cannot be. He is gentleman.”

  “He may be a gentleman when things are going well, but what about when he’s under extreme stress? I believe he could lash out in a physical way and hurt someone.”

  “I cannot believe it,” Grusha said, shaking her head again. “He is like a kitten.”

  “Kittens have sharp claws. Did he pass the psychological exam?”

  “Sure, he did okay. Dr. Pollard never said anything wrong. And neither did the one before you—Nicholson.”

  “Yes, well, that’s why you called me in, isn’t it?” Claudia pointed out the tiny tics on Avram’s lower loops. “These are indicators of sexual problems. Were you aware of that?”

  A look of dismay crossed Grusha’s face. “Sexual problems? How could that be? He is virile young man. Cannot have sex problems.”

  “His handwriting shows sexual frustration. He could be having problems with impotence. He didn’t discuss that with you?”

  “Of course he did not! Maybe he tell Donna something, or Ian, not me. I don’t take someone into the club who could not perform in bed!”

  “Well, neither of the doctors is willing to discuss the clients with me, so that’s something you’ll need to follow up on. What about Marcus?” Claudia pulled out his file. “Charming con artist. He knows how to manipulate his way to success.”

  Grusha gave an indulgent smile and a little nod of acknowledgment, maybe even approval. “I see what you mean about Marcus; he is playboy. He love the game, the chase. He is good at—what is that vord—he exploit people’s talents.”

  “In other words, he’s a ruthless user who turns someone’s strengths and weaknesses to his advantage.”

  Grusha’s plump lips pursed into a rueful pout. “He is very good at getting what he vants.”

  “So, if he’s not a suspect, you gave me his file because—?”

  “Because he dated both girls.”

  It was a reasonable explanation, but was it the truth? Her body language was open, but Susan Rowan’s words echoed: She can be a cagey devil.

  “Let’s take John Shaw next,” Claudia suggested, watching for her reaction. So far everything she’d said, Grusha had shot down.

  “Heather liked John. She vould have gone out vit him again, but he was not so attracted to her after the first date. Said she was too—let me think—superficial.

  “Shellee vent out vit him a couple times, too, but something happen between them. She vould not tell me what it was, just said he was too old for her.”

  “Why do you think something happened?”

  Grusha tapped her temple with her fingertip. “Intuition, dahling. The vay she look at him, it was not the same, after.” She nodded, sure of herself. “Something happen.”

  “Do you think he could be capable of—”

  “John—I am not so sure about him. Another one that idiot Nicholson said was good. What did you see in his handwriting?”

  Claudia leaned down to remove a lighted hand magnifier from her briefcase. After pulling Shaw’s sample from his file, she switched on the light and let the lens hover over some of the upper loop letters that had indentations near the apex. “These dents suggest to me that at some point he’s probably sustained a major blow to the head.” She rotated the file so that Grusha could see what she was talking about. “See this? If I’m right, that kind of injury could affect the way he thinks. Seeing how he’s in the population of suspects, that’s worth serious consideration. But whether he has a head injury or not, he’s definitely marching to his own drummer.”

  “I see.” Looking thoughtful, Grusha hit the call button on her phone and asked Sonya to freshen their coffee, then peered through the magnifier again. “John is famous photojournalist. He photograph the soldiers in Iraq. A bomb vent off near him. He is lucky to be alive.”

  “So, at the very least, he might have had a concussion,” Claudia noted, filing away that interesting piece of data to mull over later.

  “I am having a little soiree on Saturday. You can ask him about it when you meet him there.”

  “I heard about the party. Dr. McAllister offered to take me.”

  “Is vonderful idea! You vill like Ian, trust me.”

  Claudia started to protest that she was in a relationship; then she remembered the video Annabelle had transmitted to her cell phone. “You’re matchmaking, aren’t you, Grusha? I’m not looking for a new man in my life.”

  A broad grin spread over Grusha’s face. “I cannot help myself. I am very good svacha—matchmaker. Ian is fascinating man; you enjoy him. Now, my dahling, I have to meet vit a new client. You go; think about what ve need to do next. Ve talk later.”

  During the ride back to the hotel, Claudia thought about the video. She resolved that when she spoke to Jovanic about it she
would be calm and self-possessed. She would not jump to conclusions. She would practice trusting him, and she would allow him to explain.

  Back in her room, she called his number, but the voice that answered was not his.

  “Detective Joel Jovanic’s phone.”

  Her self-possession deserted her faster than she could blink. “Alex? This is Claudia. Where’s Joel?”

  “Oh, hi, Claudia. He’s in the shower. Do you want me to have him call you back?”

  “What’s he doing in the shower when you’re there?”

  Alex gave a little laugh. More like a purr. “My bad. I spilled coffee all over him. He wanted to clean up before we went back to the office. It’s all totally innocent, Claudia, nothing to worry about.”

  “Who’s worried?” Liar, liar.

  “Wait a second, I think he just turned off the water.” Claudia heard her call out, “Hey, JJ.”

  JJ?

  The blood was pounding in her ears as she clicked the end button.

  Jovanic called back a few minutes later, but she let it ring through to voice mail. She couldn’t trust herself to speak to him right now. Instead, she phoned Marcus Bernard and arranged to meet him for dinner later.

  Stay busy; don’t think about Joel and Alex.

  Easier said than done. She threw herself into Internet research on Heather Lloyd. That would eat up some time. She looked up the ski lodge in Stowe, Vermont, that had been mentioned in the article about Lloyd’s death. She called the number and asked to speak to the manager.

  The manager’s manner was obsequious until he learned the reason for her call. As soon as she told him she was inquiring about Heather Lloyd’s accident, his attitude did an about-face. “You’re a reporter,” he accused her with disdain.

  “No, I’m a, er, a friend of the family,” Claudia said, fumbling over the lie.

  “Our insurance company is handling the matter. Why don’t you call them, or the police? They both took a report.”

  After a couple of abortive attempts to get him to talk about the skiing accident, she gave it up as a bad job. Maybe she would get better results in person. If she went to the ski lodge and checked in as a guest, she could question the staff about the death. If she appeared as someone who had read about Heather Lloyd’s accident in the newspaper and was curious about what had happened, she might get a better reception than with the more direct approach, which had gotten her nowhere. Would Grusha spring for a trip to Stowe?

  Maybe I should get a PI license. She quickly rejected the idea, laughing at herself. She would do better to stick to her assignment, which was to analyze handwriting and give her opinion on the personality traits she found there.

  The latest batch of e-mail contained one from Peggy Yum, the Hard Evidence producer.

  Sorry you weren’t willing to work with us on this segment. We found someone who didn’t have a problem with it.

  Does everybody have to have an attitude today?

  Claudia shot back an e-mail, asking who they were going to use. Yum must have been at her computer, as her reply was as fast as an instant message.

  Andrew Nicholson. Do you know him?

  Shit! She knew she would have to warn Grusha about his upcoming appearance on the show. She knew from personal experience that Andy had no scruples. There was no telling what he might say to Peggy Yum about Grusha and Elite Introductions now that he had lost the account.

  It hadn’t taken him long to find another job—her job. Claudia clicked back to her in-box, wondering what dark forces had prompted Yum to seek out her nemesis.

  Some handwriting samples had arrived by e-mail attachment from one of her major clients, an employment agency. They were seeking to fill the position of project manager of a large hotel being constructed in Portland.

  The remainder of the afternoon passed quickly. One by one, Claudia analyzed the samples of the top three candidates and typed up her report. One candidate in particular stood out as having the personality traits required for the job. She was happy to give the positive feedback, and clicked the send button with a sense of satisfaction.

  There was still some time before she needed to get ready for dinner. The work had left her tired and she stretched out on the bed. The moment her eyes closed, the mind chatter began: Joel and Alex. Heather Lloyd’s death. Shellee Jones’ death. Alex and Joel. Ryan Turner’s death. Alex and Joel. John Shaw’s possible concussion. All the other players in Grusha Olinetsky’s drama. Alex and Joel. Alex and Joel. Alex and Joel.

  The room had darkened and fat raindrops splattered against the window like bugs on a windshield. Even after she’d gotten up and switched on all the lamps, the light didn’t help to lift her spirits. She felt as gray and gloomy as the winter afternoon sky.

  Her eyes kept roaming to the desk, to the cell phone tempting her to pick up the voice mail she knew Jovanic had left. She started toward it a couple of times, but something stopped her. What could he possibly say that would make her feel better about what she’d seen? She had allowed him to get too close, and now it felt as if he had betrayed her.

  She fought the impulse until it had swelled and taken on a life of its own. When the battle had finally given her a headache, Claudia gave up and dialed voice mail.

  Jovanic’s recorded voice was normal, no inflection of guilt or worry in his tone. Not as though he had double-dealt her. “Hey, babe,” he said. “I saw your number on my phone. Why didn’t you leave a message? Call me back.”

  She hooked the wireless headset over her ear and tapped the button for voice command. “Call Joel.”

  He picked up right away, as if he had been waiting for her. “Hey, babe. I’ve been waiting for you to call. Where are you?”

  “Didn’t Alex tell you I called?”

  “Alex?” Was his tone guarded, or was it her imagination, playing overtime? She’d churned it over so much, she could no longer be sure.

  “Alex didn’t tell me anything. When did you talk to her?”

  “When you were in the shower,” Claudia snapped, then added a sarcastic, “JJ.”

  The sarcasm went over his head. “What the hell is she doing answering my cell phone?”

  “What the hell was she doing at your apartment while you were in the shower?”

  His hesitation went on a tick too long, leaving Claudia to wonder whether he was cooking up a story intended to mollify her. She had never known him to lie to her, and it came as a small relief when his account matched Alex’s.

  “Alex spilled coffee on my shirt. It was easier for her to wait for me here while I cleaned up. Otherwise, I would have had to dump her at the office, come home, change, and then go back over there to pick her up again.”

  “It might be easier for me to buy that if you two hadn’t been liplocked this morning. So, what’s the explanation for that?”

  “What? Where did you—”

  “Annabelle took it upon herself to play shutterbug, so don’t bother denying it.”

  Through the phone, Claudia heard an angry exhale. “Annabelle is a royal pain in the ass. There’s nothing to deny. We were staking out this house over on Sawtelle. I stupidly drank too much coffee and had to run down to the gas station on the corner to take a leak. I was almost back to the car when the suspect came out of the house and started walking in our direction. Alex jumped out of the car and pretended to kiss me so the guy wouldn’t see my face. That’s all it was.”

  “Really? It looked pretty convincing to me. You didn’t even notice there was a kid taking video of you.”

  “Hey, you try sitting on a stakeout three nights in a row. Your mind starts to numb out, not to mention your ass. After a while you lose your sharpness. And we were focused on the suspect, which wasn’t a teenage girl with a cell phone.”

  “Yeah, you were focused all right. I could see that for myself.”

  “She’s twenty-eight, a baby. Anyway, if I was doing something bad with Alex, don’t you think I’d be more careful about it?”

  “Gosh, honey
, that’s a big comfort.” Claudia packed as much irony as she could into her words.

  “Listen, I have something else to tell you,” Jovanic said, apparently finished with the subject of Alex, even if she wasn’t. “I did a background on this Olinetsky character you’re working for. She—”

  Claudia angrily interrupted. “Do you think I want to talk about Grusha right now?”

  “But you’ve really gotta hear this—”

  “No, Joel, I really don’t. Seeing you kissing someone else kind of ruined my day. I had a feeling Alex had the hots for you, but—”

  “Ahh, fuck it, Claudia. I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “Now you sound like Annabelle.”

  “Well, shit.”

  “Look, I don’t want to talk about our relationship over the phone, but we have to talk about it when I get back home.”

  “What’s there to talk about? Hold on a sec . . .”

  It was not a good moment for her to hear Alex’s voice close to the phone. Claudia clicked end and flipped the phone shut.

  Chapter 12

  Marcus Bernard sent a car for her. His driver, dressed in a dark suit and tie, was a thirtyish, wiry guy with a crew cut. After he’d told her that his name was Mike, he remained silent for the duration.

  He looked more like a marine than a chauffeur, and Claudia wondered whether he did double duty as bodyguard. Her Internet search had given her the impression that Marcus was a big player in the world of construction. She’d found his name on several lists of charitable contributors—always in the Golden Circles, which meant he had donated large amounts. Because his handwriting had showed him to be a smooth operator, she wondered how much quid pro quo he received from his contributions.

  Mike stopped the car outside a classy restaurant with potted palms in front, and wide rough-hewn wood doors. Refusing to allow her dour mood to keep her down, Claudia had dressed with care for the meeting with Marcus. He was a sexy guy and, more important to her, he was a potential new client.

  Under her coat, the black silk of her suit felt cool and smooth against her skin. Claudia was an impatient shopper, but she knew the suit had been a good purchase. Accessories toned it up or down. To go out for dinner, she had added diamond stud earrings and a necklace with three diamond teardrops. The teardrops felt appropriate after her conversation with Jovanic.