Dead Write: A Forensic Handwriting Mystery (10 page)

“I intend to.” Claudia set her cup in the saucer and began to gather her briefcase and coat. “But first, I have an appointment with Dr. Pollard. I believe her office is also in this building.”

“Yes, she’s up on fifteen. Do give her my best.”

“I will. Thank you for the coffee, Ian. It was a pleasure meeting you.” Claudia stood and held out her hand. “Though I have to say, I’m not entirely clear on why Grusha felt it was important for us to meet.”

Rising, McAllister held on to her hand for a split second longer than he needed to. “Before you go, Claudia . . . er . . .” He looked down and began fiddling with the few objects on his desk, although the blotter already made a sharp perpendicular line to the left edge of the desk, and the business card holder and prescription pad were at acute right angles to each side of the blotter. The pen remained a dividing line at the center.

He said, “The baroness hosts a monthly cocktail party. It gives some of the more select members and potential members a chance to look one another over in a neutral environment. Dr. Pollard and I usually attend because the members have already met us, so they don’t feel like total strangers.” He paused and Claudia noticed that he was blushing. Obviously, the attraction was mutual. He cleared his throat. “As it happens, this month’s event is this Saturday evening. I suspect it’s one reason Grusha sent you to meet us today. She’ll want you to attend. So, what do you think?”

“What do I think of—you’re asking me out?”

“No need to panic. Remember, we’re on the same team. Do you have any objection to going with me?”

“No, of course not, but I don’t expect to be here that long.”

He smiled faintly. “Oh, knowing Grusha, I suspect you will be.”

Chapter 8

She took the stairs up to Dr. Pollard’s suite, examining the little fizz of interest that had bubbled up at Ian McAllister’s invitation. No denying he was an attractive man who had an intriguing air of much left unsaid.

She stepped from the stairwell into a quiet hallway and hooked her cell phone earpiece over her ear. Giving a voice command, she moved over to a window for privacy. Below was Central Park, the bushes and trees still laden with snow, making a pretty Currier and Ives picture.

On the third ring, Kelly Brennan, her best friend since childhood, answered in a sleepy voice. “Yo.”

“You’re still asleep? It’s nearly noon.”

“Aw, hell, Claudia, who gave
you
a grasshopper suppository? Or have you forgotten you’re in the Big Apple?” She could hear Kelly yawn. “I was up all night, going through briefs.”

“Fruit of the Loom or Jockeys?”

Kelly snickered.
“
That’s just wishful thinking. So, are you waking me up just to remind me that you’re gadding around New York while I’m stuck here, prepping for trial, or was there actually something on your mind?”

“Right now, I’m looking at Central Park. It’s been snowing and . . .”

“Tell me that’s not why you called.”

“No. I think something’s going on between Joel and Alex.”

“No freaking way!” Kelly was wide awake now.

“
Yes
freaking way. Every time I talk to him she’s there, too, but he avoids talking about her, and . . .”

“Jeez, Claudia, you’ve been bitching about him
hovering
over you and being too protective. Time to make up your mind.”

“I know, I know. Maybe it’s just . . . Maybe I’m feeling a little guilty.”

“Guilty? Whatcha been doing, hoochie mama?”

“Nothing. I just, well, I had a . . . reaction . . . to a man I just met. I’m not going to pursue it, but . . . would I have a
reaction
if I were really in love with—”

Kelly wouldn’t let her finish. “You’re human, aren’t you? You can love Joel and still get your knickers in a twist over another guy—trust me.”

“That’s not quite the right cliché, but thanks for the thought.”

“Okay, Claud, cut the bullshit. Really. What’s going on over there?”

“Actually something pretty strange
is
going on. I just found out . . .”

The elevator doors opened across the hall and a woman and child stepped out, the child chattering loudly. Claudia swivelled back to face the window and lowered her voice. “Sorry, can’t talk about that right now. Later.”

“Okay, so tell me about the guy.”

“He’s a doctor who works for my client. Kind of reminds me of Alan Rickman, the actor.”

“You mean
Professor Snape
?”

“Rickman isn’t Snape in real life, you dork. He doesn’t have long, greasy hair.”

“If we’re doing Harry Potter bad guys, I’ll go for luscious Lucius Malfoy.”

“We’re not
doing
anyone—I’m just noticing. He invited me to a party.”

“Well, go, for fuck’s sake; enjoy yourself. You don’t have to
sleep
with him.”

Claudia thought of the meticulous way Ian McAllister had arranged the accessories on his desk. His almost-mocking demeanor. “No, I certainly won’t do that. Anyway, I’m really not sure what I think about him. He has a couple of quirks—” She glanced at her watch. “Hey, sorry I woke you. I’ve gotta go see a psychologist.”

“My god, Claudia, you went all the way to New York to get shrink-rapped?”

“Not
me.
She shrinks the applicants for my client.”

Kelly’s voice was always as expressive as her face. This time, it held a laugh. “If you say so, Grasshopper. Just don’t let her give you any lotions, potions, or untowardly motions.”

Unlike Dr. McAllister’s fashionably appointed waiting room, Donna Pollard’s had the ambience of a homey den. You could imagine friends and family members gathering for an informal chat on the high-end home-style sofa. On the wall opposite the entry door, a soft-focus Kinkade painting drew the eye: a rose-festooned stone stairway that led upward into unknown places. Cutesy symbolism for someone engaged in self-exploration?

The air was at least ten degrees warmer than the hallway, and three times as stuffy. Feeling as if she stepped inside a marshmallow bunny, Claudia slipped out of her trench coat and folded it over her arm. She crossed to the interior door and followed the instructions on a small card to ring the doorbell upon arrival for an appointment.

The thick pile carpeting muffled the sound on the other side of the wall, but she thought she heard a faint ring. A few seconds later the door opened, framing a short, slender woman who looked like a middle-aged schoolgirl from the fifties: gray hair clipped back into barrettes, a light blue twin set and plaid woolen skirt with sensible black pumps.

Claudia held out her hand with a smile. “Dr. Pollard? I’m Claudia Rose. I’m the new graphologist for Elite Introductions.”

The woman didn’t smile back. Her body language was stiff, protective—elbows held close to her sides, putting up barriers. “I’m not Dr. Pollard,” she said, keeping a grasp on the doorknob and ignoring Claudia’s hand. “I’m her secretary, Dorothy French. Unfortunately the doctor is not going to be able to see you.”

“I don’t understand. Grusha Olinetsky’s assistant said she’d made an appointment for me. Is Dr. Pollard not here?”

“She
is
here, but there’s been a . . . a situation.” The muscles around the woman’s mouth bunched into a tight grimace. “We had a break-in this morning. It’s all very upsetting. The doctor is lying down.”

“Someone broke in?” Claudia echoed. “Is she okay?”

“That all depends on what you mean by
okay.
She needs some time to herself.”

Borrowing from Dr. McAllister’s “same team” reasoning, Claudia urged her. “Ms. French, please, if there’s something I can do, let me help. We’re both consultants for Elite Introductions.”

Conflicting emotions played out across the woman’s face. Longtime habit of maintaining professional distance probably made it difficult for her to share her concerns. Claudia nudged a little more. “It’s okay, you can talk to me. I’m not a client.”

Dorothy French’s small frame shuddered, and the act seemed to release something in her. She stepped into the waiting room with Claudia, shutting the door behind her, and moved over to the sofa. She sat on the edge, her back so straight she could have held a stack of books on her head. Finishing-school straight. Tension straight. But the hands clasped in fists on her lap betrayed her agitation.

Claudia could see that if she wanted to learn what had happened she would have to let Dorothy French ease into the story on her own. She sat at the other end of the sofa, allowing the woman time to gather her thoughts.

“All right,” Dorothy said at last. “All right.” Having decided to unburden herself, her words came tumbling out. “As I said, there was an intruder, and Dr. Pollard
has
been hurt.” At Claudia’s indrawn breath, she put out a restraining hand. “Not
seriously
hurt. At least, not in a physical way as far as I can tell. I mean, he struck her, but . . . As you can imagine, it was very upsetting for her. For us both.”

“I’m sure it must have been. Did she walk in on someone?”

French gave an impatient shake of her head. “No, no, it was the other way round. She was in the kitchen, making herself a cup of tea. If I’d been here, he wouldn’t have escaped, I can tell you that!” The fierce spark of anger in her eyes was convincing.

Claudia said, “Lucky for him you
weren’t
here. He must have been pretty brazen to just walk in.”

“It was very early. He wouldn’t have expected anyone to be here at that hour. When Dr. P has trouble sleeping, she comes here to the office and works on her progress notes. It’s dead quiet early in the morning, no phone calls or appointments.” Dorothy paused to take a breath. She continued to squeeze her hands tightly together, as if holding on to them gave her a sense of security.

“That’s what she’d done this morning, arrived before five o’clock. As I said, she was in the kitchen. She heard the back door open—the private entrance. It was locked, of course, but that lock
was
a bit flimsy. In fact, I’ve been at the building super for ages to have it seen to. This fellow must have used a credit card or some such, if the television shows are to be believed. Poor Dr. P was literally
petrified
when she heard him. She couldn’t move a muscle.”

“I don’t blame her,” Claudia said. “It sounds very frightening. What was he looking for? Drugs?”

“Heaven knows what he was after. We don’t keep anything of that sort here, other than our own prescription meds. Dr. P hid behind the kitchen door and then she heard him going through things in her office. She thought it would be safe to go out the back, the way he’d come in. Unfortunately, he heard her and came rushing out into the hallway and knocked her down. Bashed her over the head. I don’t know what he hit her with, but it was heavy enough to leave her senseless. He got away while she was unconscious, the bastard.”

“Was she able to describe him to the police?” Claudia asked.

But Dorothy French had reached the end of her willingness to dispense information. “As I told you earlier, the doctor is resting,” she said, rising from the sofa. “And now that you know the circumstances, you must understand why she’s unable to keep the appointment.”

Claudia was getting a bad feeling. She didn’t believe in coincidences any more than Jovanic did. She stood. “Ms. French. Dorothy, wait. I do understand, believe me, I do. But I need to speak to Dr. Pollard now, more than ever. It’s urgent. There’s a very serious matter I need to discuss with her before I return to the West Coast.”

“Out of the question.”

“Look, three people are dead. I think it’s entirely possible this break-in you’ve had could be connected to their deaths.”

Dorothy French stared at her. “What on
earth
are you talking about?”

Claudia struggled to put her suspicions into the right words. There were just too many bad things happening to people connected to Elite Introductions, too close together. But if she was wrong, and what she said got back to Grusha Olinetsky, she could find herself on the butt end of a defamation lawsuit. “Would you
please
just ask—” She broke off as the interior door opened and a woman appeared in the doorway, holding an ice pack to the base of her skull.

Chapter 9

Dr. Donna Pollard reminded Claudia of Mrs. Santa Claus. Her eyes were the blue of stonewashed denim, and a halo of white-blond cotton candy hair framed the round face. Two high spots of color blotched a complexion that was currently a light shade of pale. Claudia’s grandmother would have described the doctor as
zaftig
.

Pollard adjusted the ice pack and reached out to grasp Claudia’s hand in her own. “Come along with me,” she said. “We’ll talk.”

Behind them, Dorothy French made a huffing sound in protest. The psychologist turned to her and put a hand on her shoulder. “It’s
all right,
Dorothy. Stop fussing. I’m fine.”

They went to a small room with subdued lighting. Furnished more simply than the anteroom, it contained a low-slung easy chair and a love seat, a coffee table crammed between them. On the table, a box of tissues had been strategically placed for emotional clients. The walls were a muted shade of cobalt with matching drapes. Framed abstract artwork looked like Rorschach inkblots, waiting to be interpreted by the viewer.

Donna Pollard lowered herself into the easy chair and gingerly laid her head back, cushioning the ice pack behind her neck. “Please, sit anywhere.”

“That looks pretty painful,” Claudia said, opting for the middle of the sofa. “Are you all right?”

The psychologist’s lips twisted into a crooked smile. “Well, it’s certainly no fun, but it’ll heal. I’m sorry for the misunderstanding about your appointment.”

“You’ve had a very upsetting experience. Under the circumstances, I wouldn’t have pressed to see you, but there’s an urgent—”

“Dorothy is just being protective,” Pollard interrupted. “It’s her job.”