Dead Write: A Forensic Handwriting Mystery (14 page)

“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.

She hid her melancholy behind a bright smile as Marcus opened the car door and gave her his hand to help her out. The appreciative flicker in his eyes told her what he thought of her appearance, even before he said she looked terrific.

Inside the restaurant, the maitre d’ greeted Marcus with the kind of deference accorded a longtime customer.

“Mr. Bernard, madam, good evening. How are you this evening?”

Marcus helped Claudia out of her coat and unwound the fine cashmere scarf from his neck, handing it, with their overcoats, to the coat checker. Indiana Jones of this morning had disappeared, leaving a well-turned-out gentleman in his place.

The indoor dining room gave the impression of an airy patio on the Riviera: pillars and arches; a stone fountain and potted orange trees; chandeliers with low lights. The conversation was subdued, the mood music barely audible. Nothing casual here. The servers were dressed almost as well as the diners.

Each table was generously spaced from other diners and ensured a sense of privacy.

“The food is excellent,” Marcus told Claudia as the maitre d’ guided them to their table. “I hope you like it. It’s next to impossible to get a reservation.”

The maitre d’ made a subtle show of drawing out Claudia’s chair and helping her into it. “Most of our guests have to call three months ahead,” he interjected, whipping a white linen napkin from the dinner plate that was already in place, and laying it across her lap with some ceremony.

Claudia looked at Marcus, wearing an innocent expression. “You’ve had a reservation for months?”

“Oh, not Mr. Bernard,” said the maitre d’ before he could answer. “We always make room for him.”

“Tomás is very accommodating,” Marcus said, taking his seat. He nodded at the man, who promised that their waiter would join them momentarily, and glided away.

“Too bad for the people on the waiting list,” Claudia said, not altogether comfortable at jumping to the head of the line.

Marcus gave a naughty-boy grin and rubbed his fingertips together, suggesting the exchange of a healthy tip for the good table. “I love this place. I come here a lot. They know me. And money talks. ”

The grin saved his remark from complete crassi tude, but wealth notwithstanding, Claudia could see that Marcus Bernard was a little rough around the edges.

The sommelier joined them, and he and Marcus began an animated discussion of the wine list while Claudia listened in, hoping to learn something. Then she and Marcus made desultory small talk until the wine arrived and Marcus made a ceremony of tasting it before giving the sommelier the go-ahead to pour.

Claudia thought it a shame to spoil the artful design by eating the starters they had ordered, but Marcus had no such qualms. He dug into his sea scallops, decimating the art in one bite.

“You’re very attractive, Claudia,” he said after swallowing. “I don’t usually find myself drawn to older women, but—”

“We were going to talk business,” she interrupted, piqued at being called “older.” Forty was the new thirty, wasn’t it? And besides, he was thirty-eight. Claudia picked at tortellini with chanterelles and a savory sauce, reminding herself that Heather and Shellee, both of whom he had dated, had been in their twenties. “You did say you need a handwriting analyst?”

“I do, but what’s wrong with mixing a little pleasure with business?”

“Not a good idea, I’ve found.”

He put on a contrite face. “I can see I’ve offended you. I didn’t mean to suggest that you were
old.
I just—”

“I’m not offended, but it doesn’t make any difference how old I am.”

“The mixing business with pleasure thing, eh?”

“That’s right. Why don’t we do what we came here for?”

“We are,” said Marcus. “I wanted to get to know you better.”

“Getting to know people is
my
job,” Claudia retorted. She smiled to take the edge off. “You don’t need to know me to have me analyze handwriting for you.”

He laughed. “Maybe I should have your handwriting analyzed before I hire you.”

“I have no problem giving you a handwriting sample. I’ll even refer you to a good analyst. But it could become like a hall of mirrors—you have someone analyze them, who analyzes them, who—”

“That could get out of hand, fast,” Marcus agreed with a chuckle. “I guess I’ll just have to trust that Grusha knew what she was doing when she picked you. Has she given you
my
handwriting?”

“Of course.”

“Well, come on, what did you say about me? Did you tell her I’m a perverted ax murderer?”

“Yes, I did, and the cops are waiting right outside to pick you up.” She grinned at him. “You have no idea how many people ask me that very question. They’re so afraid I’ll uncover their deepest, darkest secrets, they have to make a joke of it. Is that why you asked?”

“You’re not big on tact, are you?”

“Nope. But I don’t think you are, either, so I think you can take it.”

“You’re right. And I don’t have any deep, dark secrets. I’m an open book. Just ask me.”

“Actually, there
is
something I wanted to ask you—it’s a little delicate.”

He looked more interested than concerned. “Go right ahead.”

“I understand that you and Shellee Jones were dating.”

Marcus let out a breath that sounded like air rushing out of a balloon. “Dating. Yeah, I guess that’s what we were doing. Obviously you must know what happened. The restaurant is being sued. Tomás swears they never use peanuts or peanut oil, but—”

“Tomás? You mean it was
here
that she died?”

“Grusha didn’t fill you in?”

“No. She certainly didn’t tell me where it happened.” There was something distasteful in his bringing her to the very place where the woman he had been dating expired only a few weeks earlier, and she didn’t like it.

“We were having dinner,” Marcus went on, not seeming to notice her coolness. “Just like you and I are right now. We were talking about me taking her to see a new condo site where we were having a groundbreaking. She said her throat was hurting; she thought she was catching a cold. Then a couple of minutes later, she starts wheezing. All of a sudden, her eyes get big, she’s trying to say something. I thought she was choking on her filet. I jump up and run around the table, trying to help. Next thing I know, she’s on the floor and her face is all swelled up. She’s clutching at her throat, gasping for air like a—a landed fish.”

Marcus set his wineglass on the table and Claudia saw that his hands were trembling. “God, it happened so fast! Someone called 911, but she was dead before they got here.” He shook his head, as if he couldn’t believe what he was saying. “Later, I heard she had an epinephrine kit in her purse that could have saved her. She was probably struggling to get it while I was trying to give her the Heimlich. You can’t imagine the guilt.”

“You can’t blame yourself for her allergic reaction.”

“You know what’s really crazy? Dr. McAllister was here that night—you know, the club doctor? He’d stopped by our table only ten minutes earlier, on his way out. If he had still been here when it happened, he might have known what to do. He might have been able to save her.”

“Ian McAllister was here when she died?”

“He was with some guy. When he saw us he said hello, kissed Shellee on the cheek, messed around with her silverware—then they walked out.”

“What do you mean, he ‘messed around with her silverware’?”

“I guess he thought Shellee’s salad fork was tilted, so he straightened it up. You probably don’t know him, but he’s what you might call a real anal type. Personally I think he’s more than a little nuts. And he was jealous; he wanted her. She was one hot chick.”

“You think Dr. McAllister had a crush on Shellee.”

Marcus grinned. “ ‘ A crush’? I haven’t heard that one since high school. I guess you could call it that. But he couldn’t have her because she was Grusha’s client. And, of course, she was seeing me.” The grin faded. “And now she’s—”

“I’m sorry you had to go through that,” Claudia said, her brain racing through this new information. Could
McAllister
have had something to do with Shellee’s death? More pieces of the puzzle would have to surface before that question could be answered. She would like to see his handwriting.

“You dated Heather Lloyd, too, didn’t you?”

“Is that why you won’t have a personal conversation with me? You think I’m the angel of death?”

“I just prefer to keep my business and personal life separate. Anyway, you could just as easily be afraid to get near me. I’ve been close to death myself a couple of times.”

“There are very few things I’m afraid of, and I can tell you one thing—getting near you isn’t one of them.”

Marcus reached out and took her hand. She withdrew it.

“Marcus, please. Let’s not. I’ve got too much happening in my life for any more complications. Now, what about Heather?”

“What is this, the third degree?” He was getting irritated. “Sure, I dated Heather a couple of times. So what?”

“What was the problem with her?”

“We just didn’t hit it off—nothing particular. She started seeing someone else.”

“Someone from Elite Introductions?”

“You’d have to ask Grusha,” Marcus said, drumming his fingers on the table. Two servers arrived and uncovered plates of spiced chiboust and chocolate fondant in front of them at precisely the same moment.
Fancy.

After the servers had departed, Marcus said, “Okay, so Shellee is dead and Heather is dead and yes, I dated them both. It’s like a bad joke and the joke is on me.”

Claudia spooned rich chocolate fondant into her mouth.
Comfort food
, she told herself. “Do you ski?” she asked.

“One of my passions,” he said. “I have a ski house on Lake Rescue near Killington. I guess next you’re going to suggest I helped Heather into that tree?”

“You don’t have to get defensive. I was just thinking about going to Stowe. I’ve never skied myself. In fact, I’ve seen snow only a couple of times in my life—when my parents took us up to Big Bear Mountain when I was a little kid.”

“You don’t know what you’re missing. Let’s drive up to my place tomorrow. There’s still plenty of snow. Maybe I can talk you onto some skis, show you the ropes.”

“Thanks for the offer, Marcus, but I’m not quite ready for that.” She grinned at him. “Remember, I’ve seen your handwriting.”IT

Chapter 13

“I want to know how you got that video of Joel and Alex.” Claudia flopped onto her hotel bed, earpiece in place, and prepared to listen to Annabelle’s story.

Grilling the girl felt wrong. She suppressed a flicker of shame for using Annabelle to back up Jovanic’s version. Wouldn’t a good surrogate mother make it clear that what the girl had done was unacceptable, and then refuse to listen to the explanation? But the gnawing pain of betrayal felt even worse, and she
had
to know.