Dead Write: A Forensic Handwriting Mystery (22 page)

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.”

Claudia thanked him and moved over to the plastic chairs. Too restless to sit, she roamed the room, avoiding eye contact with the other occupants. She read the Wanted posters on clipboards attached to the wall. Bench warrants for failure to appear. Robbery with a deadly weapon. Missing persons. Violation of probation. Grand theft. Money laundering. Uttering a forged instrument. The kinds of announcements one would expect to find in a police station. A depressing reminder of the amount of crime that was perpetrated in the city on a daily basis. Crimes that were far too close for comfort, Claudia thought with an uneasy frisson
.
Criminals were not always caught.

“How can I help you, ma’am?”

Claudia swung around to face a tired-looking man about her own height. His receding hairline, pudgy face, and a nose that had been broken at least once reminded her of Grumpy of the Seven Dwarfs. The faint outline of a scar at eyebrow level stood out against coffee-colored skin. He wore an inexpensive button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, a darker blue tie. Claudia noticed that, unlike the spit-shined desk officer, his shoes were worn and scuffed. Probably too busy fighting crime to think about polishing them.

She became aware of the interested looks they were getting from the other people in the reception area. “Is there somewhere we can talk privately?” she asked.

The detective gave her the once-over the way the desk officer had. Her business suit and briefcase apparently satisfied him that she wasn’t just some street crazy here to waste his time. He said, “Okay, ma’am, come this way.”

He led her through a door to a long hallway. A couple of men and one miserable-looking woman were handcuffed to benches, waiting to be booked. They glowered at Claudia and the detective, who had introduced himself as Isadore Perez, calling out profanities as they passed.

Perez guided her past interview rooms with meshed windows set in the doors. Claudia had seen rooms like these before and she knew what the inside would be like. A metal table bolted to the floor to prevent an offender from turning it into a weapon. A couple of chairs. A video camera mounted high. Walls covered with yellowing acoustic tile. The pungent smell of desperation, fear. Scuzzy, like the man in the reception area who needed a bath.

They rode an elevator to the second floor and went along another short corridor. Perez didn’t make small talk and neither did Claudia. He took her to the squad room, a large, open area with eight or ten desks, some of which were currently occupied by detectives doing paperwork or talking on the phone.

The lieutenant’s office was half wall, half glass, allowing the commanding officer to look out at his squad of detectives as they worked at their desks. For now, it was empty. In a holding cell, Claudia could see a mean-looking detainee in a dirty jacket with a Jets logo emblazoned across it, and baggy pants.

She took the chair next to Perez’ desk, filled with a sudden compulsion to get up and run out the door. She knew what it was like for someone else to have the upper hand. The thought of being handcuffed to a table, not allowed to leave, made her feel sick. And as panic started rising in her, she knew that coming here had been a mistake.

Forcing herself to remember that she
could
leave at will gave her a sense of control and relief that was nearly overwhelming. The squeezing sensation in her chest that made it painful to breathe began slowly to subside and her heart rate gradually returned to normal.

Detective Perez was speaking to her. “So, Ms. . . . ?”

“Rose.”

“What’s your last name, Rose?”

“That
is
my last name.”

“Okay, Ms. Rose. What can I do for you?”

Claudia cleared her throat, not sure where to start, now that she was here. “I’m in New York for a few days, visiting. I’ve come across some information that—well, I think it’s possible that a crime has been committed.”

“Uh-huh.” He picked up a pen and asked what crime she wanted to report. He shuffled through some of the many papers on his desk until he found a form printed on only one side, flipped it over and prepared to make notes. “Tell me about this crime.”

Claudia had a feeling that if he had been interested in what she had to report, he would probably be taking down her information on a reporter ’s pad like the one Jovanic used.

“I should have said crimes, plural,” she amended. “If I’m right, several murders have been committed.”

Detective Perez had begun doodling a series of boxes stacked one on top of the other. Closed boxes, she noted. A need for closure. He gave her a sharp glance. “Murders, you say?
Several
of them?”

“I think it may have to do with revenge. It’s the only motive I can come up with.”

“And you’re here visiting? Where do you live, ma’am?”

When she said Los Angeles, his expression confirmed her fears. He had already passed judgment:
Oh, L.A., land of fruits and nuts.
But to his credit, he had ceased doodling and asked her to tell him what she knew. She outlined the basis of her suspicions and Detective Perez began to listen more closely.

Claudia laid out the facts as she knew them, taking care to avoid any show of emotion. It was important for him to know that she was compos mentis and reasonable. Even so, when she was done, he didn’t try to hide his skepticism.

“So, tell me again, Ms. Rose. What makes you think these individuals are
homicide
victims?”

“They were all young, all members of the same dating service, they died within a short time of each other—a few weeks, really. Don’t you think it’s a little strange?”

He chuckled without amusement. “Lady, I see strange every day of my life. Strange is a naked guy playing a guitar in Times Square. Strange is a dead woman in the morgue who’s still breathing. Strange is—”

“Okay, fine. I get the point.” She had failed to convince him, and she didn’t know what else she could say to make him take her seriously.

Perez said, “You don’t even know where the girl’s suicide occurred. You got one deceased in the Bahamas, one in Vermont. It’s all very interesting, but those are way out of this jurisdiction. Maybe if you talk to the cops in—”

“I’ve already talked to the detective who investigated Heather Lloyd’s death in Vermont. He was more open to what I’m suggesting than you are.”

“Yeah, well, Stowe’s not exactly a hotbed of criminal activity. He probably wouldn’t mind seeing a little bit of action up there. So, you feed him this story, he jumps on it.”

“Shellee Jones died in Manhattan.”

“Anaphylactic shock—you said so yourself. Peanuts.”

She just looked back at him until he said, “Fine, I’ll look up the aided card on her.”

“A what?”

“Someone called the paramedics, so a patrol car would’ve rolled out, too. They’d have taken down her name and address, the name of the person who contacted them. Information about who aided her. Like that. You know: fell ill while eating at so-and-so restaurant; name of witnesses. She would have been taken to Roosevelt Hospital. Everything about the incident goes on the aided card.”

Claudia got the feeling that he was throwing her a few crumbs to get her off his back, but she decided that she might as well push her luck.

“While you’re checking on that, would you please take a look at Dr. Ian McAllister? See if anything comes up on him? He’s one person who’s connected to all these people who have died. He told me that his wife left him when their daughter was just a little kid. Maybe you could find out whether the wife was ever seen again. And last night he had all those clients’ files in his car.”

“Had their files in his car? Now,
that’s
incriminating for a doctor who saw them in his office.”

“You don’t have to be sarcastic.”

Perez gave her the squint eye and it made him look tough. “Do you have something personal against this doctor, ma’am? Were you dating him and he dumped you?”

“I told you, I just met the man.”

“So what makes you think he’s guilty of a crime?”

Claudia’s frustration was growing. “I’ve just told you why I think he
could
be guilty. I don’t know for sure. That’s for you to check out. But you think I’m all wet, don’t you?”

“I’m still sitting here listening, aren’t I?”

“You may be sitting here, but you look—hell, why do I feel like
I’m
the suspect?”

“I don’t know, Ms. Rose. Why
do
you feel that way?”

Well, Detective, I’ve been under a lot of pressure lately and not long ago, I came close to being murdered myself . . .
Yeah, that’d do it.

She hadn’t wanted to use the connection, but she laid out her ace. “Detective Perez, my boyfriend is a detective with LAPD. You can call him if you like. He’ll tell you I’m not prone to making things up and I don’t have a vivid imagination, as you seem to think.”

Perez’ gaze sharpened. At last, he took out his reporter’s pad. “Okay, gimme your boyfriend’s info. His name? Where’s he work out of? And give me that doc’s name again. We’ll probably have to go through the AMA or one of the medical boards, but I’ll run him through our databases, see what comes up.”

“McAllister. Dr. Ian McAllister. His daughter was Jessica.” She gave him the names of all the dead clients, which he dutifully wrote into the notebook, and Jovanic’s information.

“There are also a couple of other dating club clients that you could check out,” she added, thinking of the red flags she’d found in the handwritings of John Shaw, whom she had not yet met, as well as those of Marcus Bernard and Avram Cohen.

Perez looked unhappy, but he added the three names to his list. “So now we got four suspects? What makes you think—”

“Detective, I’ve worked in the legal system as an expert witness for more than ten years. I do have some credibility where I come from. Maybe you could withhold judgment until you check me out, too.”

“That so? And what do you expert witness about, Ms. Rose?”

“I’m a handwriting expert. I mostly testify in cases of handwriting authentication, but in this case, I was brought here to analyze all these people’s handwriting for personality traits.”

She thought she would see him mentally rolling his eyes, but the doubt on his face actually eased somewhat.

“Okay, Ms. Rose. You sit tight. I’ll be back in a few minutes. Get you some coffee?”

“No, thanks. Please just hurry. I have an appointment.” It was a white lie, but the lack of sleep was catching up with her. Not all the hours of the night had been devoted to thinking about Grusha and her situation, or Ian and his foul temper. She had also been going over her final conversation with Jovanic.

In her heart, she wanted to believe that he was right when he said she should trust him. But everything in her past had taught her that trusting was the fastest road to more pain. That was the most brutal demon she’d fought with while she tossed and turned.

You’re letting your doubts ravage the best relationship you’ve ever had,
an insistent voice had whispered in her head until she’d sat up in bed and dialed his phone number. The call went straight to voice mail and Claudia told the voice to shut the hell up.

She was checking her watch for the fifteenth time when Detective Perez finally reappeared.

“Okay,” he said, plunking down in his chair. “Your boyfriend wasn’t available at his station or his mobile number. I left messages. I ran this Dr. McAllister through our database, made a couple of phone calls. His record is clear and he’s well respected in the medical community. Hasn’t so much as written an illegal prescription that I can find.”