Dead Write: A Forensic Handwriting Mystery

Table of Contents

 

 

“A fascinating and complex murder mystery that keeps readers involved and guessing till the exciting climax.”

—American Chronicle

 

“Readers will relish Sheila Lowe’s fine tale.”

—The Merry Genre Go Round Reviews

 

“Sheila Lowe’s mysteries just keep getting better. Her writing is crisp, and she deftly incorporates interesting information about handwriting analysis along the way. Her characters are rich and fully developed and her plots sizzle.”

—Armchair Interviews

 

“If you enjoy forensics, then give these Forensic Handwriting Mysteries a try. It’s a different slant on the field wrapped in some pretty believable story lines.”

—Gumshoe

 

 

“Suicide or murder? Only the graphologist knows for sure in this dynamite debut, the first in a new series, from forensic handwriting expert Lowe. The author’s large nonfiction fan base augurs well for the series.”

—
Publishers Weekly
(starred review)

 

“[A] fast-paced, crisp, and gritty novel that penetrates the world of celebrity and the dark appetites of those who live in that world.”

—Armchair Interviews

 

“Debut novelist Lowe wins readers over with her well-developed heroine and the wealth of fascinating detail on handwriting analysis.”

—
Booklist

 

“The well-paced plot develops from uneasy suspicions to tightly wound action.”

—Front Street Reviews

 

“A perfectly paced mystery with an easy fluidity that propels the reader through the story at breakneck speed.”

—BookPleasures.com

Also by Sheila Lowe

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First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

First Printing, August 2009

Copyright © Sheila Lowe, 2009

eISBN : 978-1-101-10881-9

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Acknowledgments

There are special challenges to writing about an unfamiliar neighborhood. After all, Google goes only so far. With that in mind, I want to give a big thanks to Detective Steve Giaco of the NYPD for filling me in on procedure and terminology in the 18th Precinct, and for the LAPD side, Bob Brounsten (no clichés here, BabBob!). Thanks to Doug Lyle, MD, who always makes himself available for medical questions. To Jane Myers, who reviewed and gave helpful comments on narcissistic rage. This is beginning to feel like an Oscar acceptance, but there are a few more. . . . Thank you, Suzanne Bank, for decorating Grusha’s office. Thank you, indefatigable Bob Joseph, for listening to me read, even from afar. Thank you, Ellen Larson, for always reminding me of Claudia’s strengths. And to a special friend, Roger Rubin, for loaning part of your persona for a minor but important series character, and for all the cyberhugs, sent as needed. And how cool it is to be able to say, “Thanks to my agent, Irene Webb,” as well as Kristen Weber, my editor at Obsidian. Also, to Rita Frayer, who bid on and won a character name to benefit the Ventura County Professional Women’s Network. And finally, it would have been much harder without my wonderful critique groups; you know who you are.

Chapter 1

The Olive Avenue off-ramp materialized out of the predawn fog like something from a dream. The exit sign, chalkboard green during daylight, looked almost black in the darkness. Claudia Rose steered the vintage XJ6 off the Golden State Freeway, melting smoothly into the light stream of street traffic.

The late-winter morning had started cold and early—three thirty. Chill bumps had rippled her skin as she slipped from under the covers and silently gathered her clothes. Jovanic had stirred and mumbled a promise to keep the bed warm. Working as a detective for the LAPD, he was accustomed to being roused in the middle of the night. But though he had urged her to hurry back, Claudia had known he would be asleep again before she closed the front door behind her.

The GPS was telling her to turn left, then right on Front Street, not far from the Metrolink Station. Another left, another right. She followed the directions blindly, scanning the row of industrial buildings for the television studio. With any luck, she would get her
Hard Evidence
interview done and make it home to Playa de la Reina and Jovanic by six thirty.

A segment producer for the faux-news show had called the day before, needing a handwriting expert for the weekend’s lead item: the latest celebrity misbehaving. The producer, Peggy Yum, said that the early-morning show aired live on the East Coast at eight a.m. Given the three-hour time difference, Claudia would need to arrive at the Burbank studio before sunup.

She had almost turned it down. But Peggy Yum didn’t easily take “no” for an answer. Her pretty face and misleading smile hid a personality tougher than a strip of rawhide. She’d been quick to point out that if Claudia refused the job, there were other handwriting analysts, some perhaps less ethical, who would be more than happy to fill the breach. Besides, the free advertising Claudia would get in terms of TV time was worth more than she might earn in six months.

The handwriting Yum wanted examined stemmed from the DUI arrest of a young female singer who had taken over the headlines. Her third arrest. Worse, this time the disgraced diva’s two-year-old son had been in the car with her, which added child endangerment charges. Yum had somehow obtained a copy of a note the singer had written to her boyfriend while in custody at the Lynwood Jail, Los Angeles County’s main lockup for women. Despite the singer’s star status, the Beverly Hills judge who’d sent her there had run out of patience and was threatening to extend her stay to thirty days.

Claudia had agreed to analyze the handwriting, which Peggy Yum subsequently scanned and e-mailed to her, but as soon as Claudia opened it she could see that there was little she would be willing to publicly discuss. The first thing she noticed was the large size and extreme roundness of the letters, which reflected the singer’s profound need to have the world revolve around her
.
The girl had already proven the truth of that assessment by her behavior. The lower loops were left open in a hook shape that pointed to the left. After studying the writing, Claudia formed the opinion that the young woman had probably been the victim of childhood sexual abuse. But she wouldn’t say that on the air. Even misbehaving public figures deserved some privacy.

Greeting her in the studio’s reception area, Peggy Yum led Claudia to a small room, explaining that the production company rented the remote space when they needed to interview someone far away from the in-studio hosts. She wouldn’t be able to see the New York hosts as they questioned her about the handwriting, but they, and the audience, would see her on the monitor.

With the exception of a club chair, a television camera mounted on a tripod pointed at the chair, and a monitor, the makeshift studio was bare. A swath of black fabric had been draped behind the chair where Claudia would sit for the interview, providing a backdrop.

The videographer, a youth in a sweatshirt and jeans, was doing double duty as soundman. He hooked her up with an earpiece and a lapel microphone, snaking the wire up under her suit jacket and clipping it to her collar. When he was satisfied that both were as unobtrusive as he could get them, he stepped away and asked her to count to ten for a sound check. Yum said to sit tight; she would be on after the next commercial.

Waiting for the signal that they were going live, Claudia rehearsed in her head what she was going to say. Then Yum came to stand behind the monitor and held up three fingers . . . two . . . one . . . mouthing the countdown.

The host’s voice came through her earpiece: “Next, internationally recognized handwriting expert Claudia Rose, who is going to give us her opinion on the handwriting of . . .”

Almost before she could blink, the segment was over and she was being de-miked, gathering her briefcase and jacket, getting ready to head out. It didn’t feel as if the segment had been her finest five minutes.