Dead Write: A Forensic Handwriting Mystery

by Lowe, Sheila

  “But this makes no sense,” Grusha protested. “He is the one who gives the members a medical examination. If somebody sneaked in vit a disease, it vould be his fault, not mine! And from what you just said, it was not one of my clients who infected her vit this loathsome scourge. He cannot blame that on me.”

  “It doesn’t have to make sense to you or me, as long as it makes sense to him.”

  “I did not vant to match that girl,” Grusha said, getting heated. “She was far too young—a child of eighteen. Ian insist that I find her a suitable man, and then he complain about everyone I introduce her to. Nobody good enough.” She paused, thinking about it. “Do you think he is the one who broke into Dr. Pollard’s office?”

  Claudia shrugged. “I don’t know. The guy was behind her when he hit her, so she didn’t see him. It’s possible that he was looking for Jessica’s file, to see if there was anything in it that might incriminate him—if he is the killer. I know it’s a stretch, but Jessica could have told him she had been seeing Donna Pollard for therapy, taunting him, knowing there was nothing he could do about it.”

  Grusha didn’t bother to ask how she knew so much about Jessica and her relationship with her father, and Claudia didn’t volunteer the information. What she had read in Jessica’s therapy file would remain between her and Donna Pollard. If, indeed, Ian had been Pollard’s intruder, he had gotten away without finding what he had been looking for. Unlucky for Donna that she had appeared just then.

  “There’s something else I want to ask you about, Grusha,” Claudia said, determined to bring up the subject that felt to her like the elephant in the room. “You’ve been adamant about not going to the police, and you’ve more than implied that the reason is something from your past.”

  The matchmaker gave her a wary look. “This has nothing to do vit what is happening to my business.”

  My business. To her, the dead clients represented dollars more than they did lives. It occurred to Claudia that Shellee, Ryan, and Heather were a means to an end to Grusha Olinetsky. She didn’t see them as individuals. She needed a steady stream of attractive people to introduce to other attractive people. Their deaths were a threat to her livelihood, and that made them more an inconvenience than anything else.

  Claudia hesitated, then plunged ahead. “I’d like to take a sample of your handwriting, Grusha. I should have asked for it before we ever began working together. Under the present circumstances, I’m not going to continue without it.”

  “I am not going to submit to this—this test!”

  “But you don’t mind asking your clients to submit to it? What are you afraid I’ll see?” It was the same question she had asked of Donna Pollard.

  “You already know what I am afraid of, and giving you my handwriting vill not change that.” Grusha rose from the sofa, went to the door and opened it. “I have an appointment vit a client. Ve shall have to continue this conversation at another time.”

  Downstairs in the lobby, Claudia got out her cell phone and punched buttons to pull up the calls that had come in. She scanned through them until she came to Susan Rowan’s number and pushed the call button.

  “Susan, it’s Claudia. I’ve got a question for you.”

  “First, I’ve got one for you: How do you like working for the barmy baroness?”

  “That’s what I’m calling you about. I remember you told me that she doesn’t want anyone looking at her handwriting, but by any chance did you ever find that sample you told me you have?”

  Susan chuckled. “She’s getting to you, isn’t she? As a matter of fact, I did dig up that sample and I am willing to share it with you. Where are you now?”

  “I’m just leaving her office.”

  “How about meeting for lunch?”

  They met at Hurley’s, a pub in the Theater District close to Claudia’s hotel. Having arrived well before the lunch hour, they managed to get in without a reservation. On the second level, the walls were lined with hundreds of books, shelved library style. Susan and Claudia were shown to a crimson velvet- padded booth with ceiling-high paisley-patterned walls that provided the seclusion of a private dining room. An old-fashioned lamp with a fringed lampshade hung over the table, which was set with crystal wineglasses.

  “This is very cool,” Claudia said, sliding into the booth. “It feels like we should be meeting with Don Corleone.”

  Susan laughed. “Well, this is a sort of clandestine rendezvous, after all. I wouldn’t want you-know-who to know what we’re doing.”

  Claudia ordered the grilled portobello mushroom, and Susan the tuna salad. When the waiter left, Susan dug into her purse and took out a folded piece of paper. “It won’t be what you expect,” she warned, handing it across the table.

  Claudia unfolded the paper. Susan wasn’t joking. The few words written on it were like nothing Claudia might have imagined Grusha Olinetsky’s handwriting to have been. The writing had a childish look, not what a handwriting analyst would expect from a successful businesswoman. She noticed the many covering strokes—strokes that went back over a previous one. People did that when they had something to hide.

  “Are you sure this is her handwriting?” She was experiencing a little paranoia in case someone heard them, and didn’t want to say Grusha’s name aloud.

  “It’s an old sample,” Susan said. “But it’s definitely hers. I saw her write it. She didn’t know I snagged it before I left the office that day.”

  “How long ago was it written?”

  Susan scrunched her eyes shut and turned her face toward the ceiling as she did some mental calculations. “Must be about three or four years. That’s right about when I started working for her.”

  Claudia gave the sample a second look. She had expected to see signs of the Russian Cyrillic script in Grusha’s handwriting, and there were some, but the writing was definitely atypical of that culture. But she had learned over the years that handwriting was not always what she expected it to be. It was better to keep an open mind and listen to what a sample told her, rather than to force her own preconceived notions onto it.

  “Do you know anything about her background?”

  Susan grinned. “I’m happy to say I do. Not her childhood or anything like that. More recent. I made it my business to do a little investigating, and I found some interesting info. Didn’t stop me from working for her. Maybe it should have.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Our baroness is a jailbird.”

  So Ian had been telling the truth about that. Claudia asked what she had been convicted of, but her loyalties were torn. On one hand, Grusha deserved her privacy. On the other, if she or her clients were being targeted by a murderer, there was no such thing as privacy.

  Susan didn’t have Ian’s excuse of having drunk too much wine, and she showed no reluctance about sharing what she knew. In fact, she looked downright pleased with herself as she leaned forward and said, sotto voce, “She was convicted of pandering. Solicitation of prostitution.”IT

  Chapter 20

  “Pandering?” Claudia stared back at Susan in shock. “She was a pimp?”

  “Not here in New York. This was a while back. She was living in a hick town at the time, running an introduction service. Not a high-priced one like Elite Introductions. From what I could tell, it seemed more on the level of a massage parlor. The way it sounded, someone didn’t like her and there was this big exposé. The mayor and his good old boys wanted to run her out of town on a rail—I bet they were probably some of her best clients.” Susan paused for breath. She made a moue of disapproval. “Somebody else might have let her off with a warning, but it was pretty clear from the newspaper stories that this prosecutor had political ambitions. Politics and small-town crime—a lethal combination, if you get my drift.”IT

  The Theater District lunch crowd had begun to filter in. A dozen conversations boosted the noise level to the sound of a jet engine at full throttle. Claudia leaned in closer so that Susan could hear her question. �
�What was it that prompted you to investigate her?”

  “Oh, you know—Grusha’s such a trip. It was just one of those Internet searches. You pay a few bucks and voilà! You get a report that tells you all about the person, practically down to what brand of toothpaste they use. Everything is on the Internet these days; it’s not hard to find stuff out.”

  “That doesn’t sound like much of a reason to spend money on an Internet search. Because she’s a trip. What else was there, Suze?”

  Susan toyed with her salad, digging her fork around in the diminishing mound of tuna. “I always check out new clients on Google. But it’s true, I did go further with Grusha than I normally do. I was getting worried about the way she operated.” She paused to drink some water before continuing, then took a forkful of her salad and chewed thoughtfully. When she’d swallowed, she said, “Most of the clients she sent me to analyze looked okay. But there were several handwritings that I analyzed from subjects who I thought might cause problems somewhere along the line. Apart from the blatant red-flag ones, I mean.”IT

  “Like Heather Lloyd’s twisted lower zone loops?”

  “You got it. Heather needed counseling, not dating. Someone with sexual issues is the last thing Grusha should have in the club.”

  “I take it you told her that?”

  “Naturally I told her. But she didn’t want to hear it. Just argued with me that everything looked good on the background report and the medical; she was a beautiful girl, yada yada. Then I found out that she’d actually changed my report!”

  “She redacted it herself?”

  “She denied it, but she was lying and I was furious. Told her I wouldn’t work for her if she didn’t guarantee me that she would never do that again.”

  “Makes you wonder why she would bother to hire a graphologist.”

  “Just to cover her ass is my guess. I told her that it was unethical for her to change even one word of my report. I also told her that it would be unethical for me to leave out important information—it’s part of what she was paying for. She freaked about having it in black and white, and the truth is, it doesn’t have to be in writing. As far as Heather’s problems went, I did my due diligence by telling her verbally. Grusha was my client, not Heather. It was up to her what she did with the information after I’d given it to her. I made her sign a contract with a hold-harmless clause, so that if there were any legal problems later, I was covered.”

  “That was smart.”

  “I’ve been blindsided before. I learn fast.”

  Claudia guided her back to the more pressing matter. “So, you found out she had a prison record. I can’t believe they actually filed charges and tried her.”

  Susan nodded. “She was charged with promoting prostitution, and convicted by a jury. Although I can’t imagine any twelve people in that kind of town being her peers. Whatever it was really all about, well, your guess is as good as mine, but she went to prison for two years.”

  “Heidi Fleiss revisited.”

  “Except Heidi Fleiss was a Hollywood madam catering to celebrities. Our gal was strictly small-time back then. Now she’s got a clientele Heidi Fleiss would die for.”

  “And that’s the catch,” Claudia said under her breath. “People are dying. The question is—” She hesitated. Susan was aware of Ryan Turner’s death and Heather Lloyd’s, but she didn’t know about Shellee Jones, and Jessica McAllister was an unknown quantity. “You don’t think she’s running an escort service now, do you? Everything I’ve seen looks legit.”

  “My search didn’t uncover any other legal problems or I wouldn’t have kept working for her. As far as I can tell, everything she’s doing is on the up-and-up. Except for ignoring my advice.”

  The portobello mushroom was good and juicy. Claudia laid down her fork and dabbed her lips with her napkin. “She told me there was a disgruntled former employee who made trouble for her. I bet that’s how the DA got the scoop on her operation.”

  “You’re probably right about that. I think it’s so unfair. She may be a little crazy, or, shall we say . . . eccentric? But I’ve always liked her.” Susan’s cheeks were flushed and her words were heating up, too. “It’s outrageous. If someone wants to pay for sex it ought to be their choice.”

  Before she could get any more wound up, Claudia interrupted the flow. “What do you think of Dr. McAllister?”

  “Yummy. But a little too OCD for my taste.”

  “That’s not what I meant, Susan, and you know it. Did you ever wonder whether he could be involved in what happened to Heather and Ryan?”

  Susan’s brows rose in surprise. “Ian McAllister involved? In what way?”

  “Never mind; forget I asked.”

  “If anybody’s got me wondering, it’s that Donna Pollard. There’s something peculiar about that woman.”

  Claudia pushed away her plate. “I know what you mean. When I met her, the first thing she did was try to get me to tell her my deep, dark secrets.”

  “You, too? She is so nosy.”

  “What do you think is the problem with her?”

  “Not sure, but I got a funny feeling about her as soon as we met. Methinks she’s hiding something under that überdefensive attitude.” Susan gave her a pointed look. “Lots of secrets in this group.”

  “Yes, and that brings up another question.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You told me you were the one who suggested Grusha call me. Why did you do that? I know you didn’t want to go back to work for her after your illness, but was there anything else to it than that? I mean, why me?”

  Susan made a show of folding her napkin and neatly placing it on the table. “Do you want dessert? No?” She sounded disappointed when Claudia declined. “Okay, here’s the god’s honest truth. When I read the newspaper story about that girl’s death, I thought it was a damned shame. But when I read about the young doctor—Turner, I think was his name—it started to really bug me. So I phoned Grusha and asked what the hell was going on. She acted like she didn’t know what I was talking about; kept insisting that it had nothing to do with her or the dating service. It was just coincidence. Okay, fine. I could accept coincidence.

  “But it was pretty clear to me that there was something she wasn’t telling me. I got the impression that she wanted to talk, but couldn’t make herself get the words out. I thought maybe she was in some kind of trouble, but couldn’t go to the cops because of her criminal record. She needed help. And that idiot she’d been using—Andy Nicholson—he’s worse than useless. So, when I saw you on Hard Evidence that morning, I got this wild hair that Grusha ought to contact you. You’ve been involved in high-profile cases, so I thought you could help her.”

  “Well, thanks so much,” Claudia said. “You might have warned me what I was getting into.”

  “I did try to give you a clue that day at breakfast.”IT

  “Don’t you think that was a little late?”

  “I was trying to help. The thing is, I don’t even know if there really is a problem.”

  Oh, but there is, thought Claudia. Four young people are dead.

  “I’d like to know where my handwriting reports are,” Susan added. “Why aren’t they in the files you looked at?”

  “My guess is Grusha replaced the ones that didn’t suit her with Andy’s, which don’t say anything of any consequence. That way she’s got deniability. You didn’t put anything terribly negative in writing, so she can say she never knew there were problems.”IT

  Claudia grabbed the bill and flagged down their server. “Thank you for letting me see that handwriting, Susan, and for telling me all this. I’ve gotta run. Lunch is on me.”

  The Theater District was located in Manhattan North, NYPD’s Eighteenth Precinct. The dating club deaths had all taken place in different geographic areas. Since Claudia knew nothing about New York police jurisdictions, she Googled Manhattan precincts and found thirty-four listed. Manhattan North was the one closest to her hotel, so she made tha
t her starting point.

  The weather had brightened and a weak sun shone through the crammed-together buildings as the taxi dropped her off at 306 West Fifty-fourth Street. The old station house was bathed with a shell pink aura in the early afternoon light, the effect somewhat spoiled by the grimy stains mottling the walls from rain that had pooled on dirty windowsills and spilled over.

  Passing a row of police vehicles parked in front of the station house, Claudia ascended the three granite steps and entered through the Eighteenth Precinct’s heavy green metal entry doors. In the reception area, a row of seats was occupied by an unhappy woman trying to corral a toddler, an obese man in a sweat-stained shirt who looked and smelled like he needed a shower, and a sullen teenager, staring at his shoes.

  Claudia approached the front desk, where a telephone operator-receptionist was on the phone. She was trying to explain to someone on the other end of the line that officers would be out to talk to them later in the afternoon. The caller must have been giving her grief, as her voice quickly developed an attitude.

  The desk officer came over, a trim African American man in a uniform that looked as if it had just been pressed and taken off the hanger. “Ma’am, how can I help you?” he asked.

  “Could I talk to a detective, please?”

  “What’s the issue?”

  “I need to talk to someone about a possible crime.”

  “What kind of crime, ma’am?”

  “It’s rather a long story. Is there someone I could talk to from homicide?”

  “Homicide?” He sized her up, probably deciding whether she was delusional. “I’ll check if someone’s available.” The officer turned away, picked up the phone on the desk and punched in a number. He spoke to whoever answered in a low voice, then hung up and jerked his head at the row of chairs. “Ma’am, you can wait over there. Someone will be down to talk to you.”