Dead Write: A Forensic Handwriting Mystery (30 page)

“No, he didn’t commit suicide. He was hallucinating. He thought he was Superman.”

“Did you know the victim to take drugs regularly?”

“I don’t know whether he took drugs at all. I didn’t know him that well, just professionally. We’re in the same business; we’re both handwriting analysts.”
Were
in the same business, she realized with a shock. Andy would never face her in the witness box, lying about her, ever again. “Some of the other guests were acting strangely, too. I’m pretty sure someone spiked the drinks or the food with something hallucinogenic.”IT

“Nothing unusual about people getting high at a party,” Detective Campbell observed. She threw it out there, then waited for a response.

“Drugs are forbidden, not just at these parties, but club members can’t be users, period,” Claudia said, repeating what Ian McAllister had told her.

“Forbidden, huh?” Campbell sounded skeptical. “You sure about that?”

“The baroness doesn’t need that kind of trouble. She screens her members very carefully.”

“Not carefully enough if someone spiked the drinks. Who else was hallucinating?”

Claudia counted in her head. “Besides Andy, there were three that I saw, all women. I don’t know any of them personally. One was a model named Aisha. A girl named Mindy Jarrett. The other one I hadn’t been introduced to and I didn’t get her name. I just saw her behaving oddly.”

“Okay. So, you got any idea who might have planted a hallucinogen?”

Claudia hesitated, thinking of the absinthe. Finally, she said, “No.”

“You mentioned you knew the victim professionally, Ms. Rose. We have information that he was trashing you and Ms. Olinetsky earlier today on TV. Can you tell me what that’s about?”

There it was, out in the open. The
Hard Evidence
tape was probably on YouTube by now. It would be easy enough for the police to see exactly what Andy Nicholson had said about her and Grusha.

“He didn’t mention me by name, but he did say some, er, unpleasant things, yes.”

“Musta made you and Ms. Olinetsky pretty mad,” Detective Campbell said, doing her best to look sympathetic, but failing.

“Yes, it did make us mad, but not mad enough to drug a bunch of her clients—that only makes Grusha look bad, which was probably the objective of the person who did do it. And no one could have predicted that Andy would do what he did.”

The detective took a phone call, then returned her gaze to Claudia. “You think maybe somebody thought it would be funny to spike the punch?”

“There wasn’t any punch. If the drug was put into a drink, it had to be the glasses of wine that had been poured and left on the bar.”

“Did you see anyone hanging around by the bar who looked like they might be up to something like that?”

Claudia shook her head. “I’m sorry, Detective. I was invited to help with the guests. I wasn’t watching for suspicious behavior. But I did talk to Andy—the victim—over at the bar, and he was drinking the wine.” She paused, still trying to assimilate what had happened. A thought suddenly struck her that should have occurred much sooner. “I went to your precinct a couple of days ago and spoke with Detective Perez. Could I speak to him, please?”

Detective Campbell’s head snapped up from her notebook, where she had been making notes. “Mind if I ask what you were doing at the station house?”

“I wanted to talk to someone about my suspicions that Elite Introductions clients were being murdered.”

Detective Izzy Perez showed up and asked Claudia to come with him to the station house and make a formal statement. Grusha was already on her way over there with Detective Campbell.

Thinking of what she’d heard the lieutenant say earlier, Claudia asked him what “forty-nine” meant.

“It’s what we call an unusual report, something out of the ordinary. You know—when there’s gonna be something on the eleven o’clock news or in the papers tomorrow—we call it a forty-nine. If it was a regular report, like a complaint, it’d be a sixty-one.”

“Oh.”

If the amount of media they’d had to fight their way through to get to Perez’ car was an indicator, this story was definitely a forty-nine.

Back at his desk in the squad room, Claudia sat in the same hard wooden chair she’d sat in on her last visit to the precinct, and they went over the whole thing again. Everything she’d told him on Thursday, plus the evening’s events.

“Your friend the baroness has had quite a string of bad luck,” Perez said. “Wouldn’t wanna be one of her clients.”

“Andy Nicholson wasn’t a client.”

“No,” he said thoughtfully. “But he sure pissed her off.” His desk phone rang and he excused himself to answer it, listened with an impassive face. Said, “Figures,” then rang off and gave Claudia a look. “Looks like the lady’s lawyered up.”

“Grusha?”

“She’s refused to answer any questions. Wants to talk to her lawyer.”

“Are you going to hold her?”

“Not at this point. So far, it’s just a witness inquiry.”

Seconds later, a door slammed and Grusha came steaming past the squad room without looking left or right. Ian McAllister was in tow, Detective Campbell bringing up the rear. Campbell looked over at Perez and shrugged, then went and sat at her own desk.

Ian’s doing double duty tonight
, Claudia thought. Grusha could probably use some hand-holding.

Chapter 29

Claudia got a cab back to the hotel and climbed into bed. Not having Grusha’s home phone or cell number, she left a voice mail at the office, asking her to call. Then she left a message for Jovanic and propped herself against the headboard with the covers pulled up to her neck, feeling empty and alone.

She considered calling Kelly or Zebediah, just to have someone to talk to about Andy, but what could she say? Impossible to absorb the fact of his appalling death, and impossible to comprehend that she had witnessed his free fall into eternity.

Whoever had drugged the drinks could not have known that the evening would end with Andy Nicholson’s death, but it was clear that the malefactor was upping the ante when it came to embarrassing Grusha.
Who could have drugged the drinks?

Any of the men whose handwritings had red flags—Avram, Marcus, John. Ian, too.

All of them had opportunity, but what about means and motive? Claudia had suspicions about Ian McAllister having a revenge motive because of his daughter, but she was unaware of any motive for Marcus Bernard or Avram Cohen, although their handwriting did show potential for bad behavior. But potential isn’t the same as acting.

What about John Shaw, with his PTSD? A head injury might cause him to act violently without a rational motive. Many serial killers had suffered head injuries before they started on that irrevocable path to violence.

She switched off the light and scooted under the covers, but one question kept her mind spinning:
Who drugged the drinks?

After two a.m., still lying awake in the dark room. Distant traffic sounds drifting up from the street making white noise.
The city that never sleeps
. Whoever coined that phrase got it right. Claudia rearranged her pillows again and rolled onto her back. She did some relaxation breathing and started counting backward from one hundred. She had reached fifty-nine when she heard a tentative knocking at the door. Before forming a conscious thought she was bolt upright in bed, heart slamming against her chest.

Shrugging into her robe, Claudia dashed across the room. Through the peep she could see a short woman in a winter coat standing in the hallway. Even with the lower part of her face covered by a scarf, the cotton candy hair and anxious expression gave her away. Donna Pollard lifted a gloved hand and knocked again, louder.

Flipping back the locks and switching on the entry light, Claudia blinked as her eyes adjusted. She opened the door wide enough for the psychologist to enter. “What are you doing here, Donna?”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry for waking you up. I’m sorry for everything. I couldn’t wait until morning to talk to you. I hope you’ll forgive me.”

“I wasn’t asleep. How did you get my room number?”

“Sonya.”

“Has something happened? Is Grusha—”

“I haven’t talked to her. I’ve tried calling, but there was no answer. I guess she doesn’t feel like talking right now, poor darling.”

“I saw Ian with her at the police station. It looked like he might be taking her home. Maybe they’re still talking.” Claudia cleared the chair of her purse and coat and offered it to Pollard. She took up her earlier position on the bed, sitting against the headboard.

Pollard loosened her scarf and coat, glanced around at the room. “She could have done better than this for you,” she said. “I hope you’re not too uncomfortable.”

“It’s okay, it’s fine. I’m hoping not to have many more nights here. Maybe now the police are finally involved, this thing will get cleared up.”

Donna Pollard sighed, a soughing whisper of sadness that seemed to come from the depths of her soul. “Yes, I expect that’s what will happen. That’s why I’m here. I had some last things to tell you.”

“Last things? That sounds pretty final, Donna. What does that mean?”

A soft smile. “It means this is the last time I’m going to be telling you anything about this situation. I’ve given it a lot of thought, and something has occurred to me that I believe might be important, and I want you to know about it. First, though, I want you to know why I didn’t call the police when my office was broken into.”

Claudia nodded. “Okay, I’m listening.”

Donna Pollard spoke slowly, as if parting with the words required a great deal of effort. “I’d lost my license to practice psychology, you see. Not in New York—in Idaho. I appealed, but the licensing board ruled against me. They said I didn’t have my clients’ best interests at heart.” Her voice thickened with emotion. “Claudia, helping people is my
life
. I can’t not help when there’s a need. To be thrown out of a profession that has given me a chance to nurture and help my clients was like a living death for me.”

“What did you do to put your license at stake?”

“I was working with a mother and daughter in therapy. The mother was a real ogre, I can tell you that. A
smother mother,
that’s what I call the type. She wouldn’t let the girl have any identity of her own. The daughter was fifteen, crying out for help.” Donna turned pleading eyes to Claudia, silently begging for understanding. “The daughter used to phone me at all times of the day and night. She really
needed
me. After a few months of therapy and not seeing any progress, I couldn’t stand it any longer. I let the daughter move in with me.”

Claudia remembered when she’d read the notes about Jessica McAllister, how she’d thought it would be hard for the psychologist to keep an appropriate distance. The crowded words meant that being able to get close to people, to get really involved in their lives, was what made her feel good about herself. But it wasn’t a good trait for a therapist. “Was the mother abusing her?” she asked.

“Not physically, but in some ways she was a lot like Ian McAllister with Jessie. Constantly on the daughter’s back, wanting to know everything she was doing. She was a crazymaker. She constantly put the daughter in a double bind.”

“Like what, for example?”

“Oh, she might pile a plate high with food and put it in front of the daughter and nag her to eat every bite. Then, when the plate was empty, she’d berate the girl and call her a fat pig. A double bind. There was no way she could win.”

“But if the mother was psychologically abusive and you felt it was bad enough that the girl needed to be taken out of the home, wouldn’t it have been more appropriate to put her in care somewhere?”

Pollard wrung her hands, getting upset. “That’s what
they
said, but I couldn’t do it. You know what those foster care places can be like, don’t you?”

“So, the mother reported you?”

She gave a bitter laugh. “Only after the money ran out. She was okay with me taking her daughter, as long as I paid for her silence.”

“She
blackmailed
you?”

Dr. Pollard nodded. “She insisted on cash so there was no money trail, except on my end with the withdrawals, and I couldn’t prove I’d given the money to her. I told her I couldn’t do it any longer and she called my bluff. She reported me. I lost my license and the daughter ended up in foster care anyway. God knows what happened to her after that; they wouldn’t give me any information. So I changed my name and moved here to the East Coast, I met Grusha, and the rest—well, here we are.”

“Does Grusha know you’ve been practicing without a license?”

“Of course, but she’s been flying under the radar herself, so we figured we would watch each other’s backs.”

“I don’t understand why you’re telling me all this,” said Claudia.

“Partly because I believe that’s why my office was broken into. I think the intruder might have been looking for proof of my past so he could use it against me and embarrass Grusha. I did a pretty good job of covering my tracks, but my files could be taken to the New York State Licensing Board. I could go to jail.” Her voice caught and she sobbed on a breath. “Like I said, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, and . . . well, I may have let my involvement with Jessie McAllister affect my judgment in allowing you to see her file.”

Claudia got off the bed and handed her a manila folder that was lying on the desk. “Here are your notes. I was going to mail them back to you on Monday.”

“It doesn’t matter now. It’s just that, well, I think I may have been looking in the wrong direction when I pointed you there. It’s true Ian was overbearing and controlling of Jessica, but there’s something else that you should know, seeing as you’ve gotten yourself so deep into this mess of Grusha’s.” Another long pause. “When Marcus Bernard joined the club, he and Grusha were strongly attracted to one another. In fact, they started dating and Grusha fell in love with him. Or something approximating love.”