Dead Write: A Forensic Handwriting Mystery (4 page)

She got on the elevator with a couple of men with briefcases and two women who chatted loudly to each other as if they were alone. By the fourteenth floor, Claudia was glad to be the only one left on board. Exiting, she navigated the silent corridor, arriving at a door with
Elite Introductions
engraved on a brass nameplate.

A disembodied voice sounded over the intercom when she rang the bell. Claudia gave her name, heard a subtle click, and the door cracked open.

She entered, stopping for a moment at the wrought-iron entry table to admire a bouquet of three dozen perfect yellow roses artfully arranged in a silver champagne bucket. The soft glow of a Murano glass chandelier bathed them in a romantic light.

As she glanced around, the large space appeared empty, but a voice drifted across the room.
Someone
knew she was here; they’d given her entry. She moved around the table and called out a hello.

A young woman stuck her head out from what Claudia recognized as a glass-enclosed conference room. Petite, attractive, mid-twenties, dark hair that covered her shoulders, bangs low on her eyebrows and blunt cut. She gestured at a telephone headset hooked over her ear, holding up one finger, asking Claudia to wait.

So Claudia waited, taking advantage of the opportunity to absorb the understated grandeur of the place. It was easy to imagine wealthy clients feeling comfortable in these surroundings as they waited to discuss a prospective love match with Baroness Grusha Olinetsky. Whitewashed walls and eleven-foot ceilings in a rectangular open plan. Spectacular views of Madison Square Garden and the Empire State Building through windows that ran the length of the space. Beautifully embroidered Oriental screens that offered the illusion of privacy.

The young woman ended her call and left the conference room. Pencil-thin in a dove gray sweater and black ruffled miniskirt, she wore gray tights that matched the sweater and ended in suede ankle boots. “Sonya Marsi,” she said, extending a hand with nails painted bloodred and decorated with tiny silver rings. Her nasal twang—which, despite her alabaster skin, dispelled any notion of delicacy—reminded Claudia of the actress Fran Drescher’s whiny TV nanny. “I’m the baroness’ executive assistant,” Sonya Marsi said. “I’ll be coordinating with you while you’re here.”

Claudia quickly released the limp fingers. “Claudia Rose. Is the baroness ready to see me?”

“She’s finishing up with a VIP client. She’ll be with you in a few minutes.” Sonya started to walk back the way she’d come, beckoning Claudia to follow her to a sofa. “Have a seat, Ms. Rose. How was the flight over from L.A.? Everything okay at your hotel? How about coffee?” She tossed the questions over her shoulder one after the other, already walking away as she made the offer.

“Don’t trouble yourself,” Claudia said with a thin smile, recognizing that Sonya Marsi’s attention had already drifted to something else. Her handwriting would be large in the middle zone, short in the upper and lower zones—short attention span.

It was nearly twenty minutes later that a pair of French doors at the rear of the loft swung open and a woman swept through, accompanied by a hunk in his mid-thirties.

Even if Claudia had not looked up Olinetsky’s Web site or found a couple of videos about Elite Introductions on YouTube, she would have immediately recognized her new client. Tall at five-eleven and slender, the matchmaker’s chic silk dress swayed as she walked. As tall as she was, she wore high-heeled pumps that put an emphasis on muscular calves. Sensual lips liberally daubed with a deep crimson gloss drew the eye upward. Hair the color of jet had been rolled into a tight French twist that made her resemble a darker Ivana Trump.

“You are Claudia Rose,” the baroness said unnecessarily, her husky voice sounding like bourbon and cigarettes as she came toward Claudia. “I am Grusha.”

Claudia stood and went forward to meet the pair, offering her hand. “I’m happy to meet you, Baroness Olinetsky.”

The matchmaker dipped her head graciously. Her handshake was much firmer than her assistant’s. “This is Avram Cohen,” she said, indicating the hunk with a wave of her hand and a broad smile. “He is one of my favorite clients, but do not tell him I said so. Claudia, I vant you should show him how to make handwriting analysis sample for you before he leave. Then ve talk.”

The abruptness of the demand came as something of a surprise. Claudia had expected that the matchmaker would want to sit down and have some conversation, get to know her a little before she was expected to start work. Apparently, she had other ideas.

“Of course,” Claudia said, smiling at Avram Cohen. “I’ll be happy to.” Cohen smiled back, shrugging his splendid shoulders in acceptance.

“Sonya,” Grusha called out. “Ve are ready to make the handwriting.”

Her assistant returned and led them to a small writing desk and two chairs concealed behind one of the screens. With the confidence of someone who had gone through this process numerous times before, Sonya opened a drawer in the desk and removed several sheets of bond paper, which she placed on the desktop along with a leather pen cup containing what appeared to be some fine writing instruments.

Sonya straightened, and darted a quick look at Avram before she sashayed away. The special smile she directed at him didn’t escape Claudia’s notice, nor Grusha’s, as Claudia could tell by the way the matchmaker narrowed her eyes in disapproval.

“I come back when you are finished,” Grusha said, stalking after her assistant.

“I think that young lady is in trouble,” Claudia said, taking one of the chairs.

Avram Cohen raised brows as thick as two black caterpillars. “She’s very young,” he said with a slight accent. “Young girls like to flirt, and men like them to do it.”

Claudia glanced at his handsome face and had no trouble understanding Sonya’s attraction to him. “No doubt. Okay, this will be painless, I promise. It won’t take long at all.”

“It’s okay. I’ve done this before. In Israel, graphology is used to select kibbutz members.”

“Is that where you’re from?”

He said that it was. Claudia said, “In that case, I’d like you to include a paragraph in both Hebrew and English. I expect you know that it doesn’t matter
what
you write about—maybe what you’re looking for in a woman?”

There was a glint of humor in the look Avram gave her from under the fringe of dark lashes. “I think the baroness has her own ideas about what sort of woman is good for me.”

“I expect you’re right about that.”

She watched him spurn the selection of pens that Sonya had offered, reaching instead for a distinctive Waterman fountain pen from an inside pocket of his jacket. Placing the nib at the right margin, he began to write, moving his hand rapidly across the paper to the left, then back again on the next line, the strokes forming Hebrew words. He followed up with a few lines written from left to right in English with almost the same degree of fluid rapidity.

His choice of pen had already told Claudia something about him. Even before she began to analyze the handwriting, she knew that he cared about the way things looked, that he had an eye for color and texture. And it was unnecessary for her to read the text of what he had written to understand what the symbolism meant in terms of the movement of the writing across the paper, the spatial arrangement, the writing form.

Avram finished writing and laid down the pen, looking up at Claudia with the magnificent brows raised. “Will that do?”

She glanced at the specimen from across the desk. “Yes, that’s fine. I don’t do an instant analysis, but I’ll examine this later and give the baroness the results for you. I’m sure you’ll come out with flying colors.”

He tipped his dark head just a little, which gave him an air of courtliness and made him seem older than his years. “I’m sure you’re right.”

Grusha reappeared just as Claudia slid Avram Cohen’s handwriting sample into her briefcase. The timing made her wonder if the matchmaker might have a video feed that allowed her to watch them from her office.

“Finished, my pets?” said Grusha.

“Baroness Olinetsky, perfect timing.” Avram rose from his seat and took her hand, covering it with his own. “I hope to hear from you soon.”

Claudia would not have been surprised if he’d clicked his heels. She watched his retreating figure, admiring the graceful way he moved as he crossed the loft, sartorially splendid in a charcoal pinstripe suit
.
He took the time to stop and say good-bye to Sonya before exiting the office.

Grusha gave a suggestive quirk of a penciled eyebrow. “A lovely little bottom, don’t you think? If only I were ten years younger, I vould keep him for myself. But no. Avram is very vealthy client. He pay one hundred thousand dollar for me to make him perfect match.”

“A hundred thousand dollars? I didn’t realize matchmaking was so—”

“Profitable,” Grusha inserted with a self-satisfied smile. “For someone like me, who is very good at what I do, the money is there. Now, Claudia, ve go into my office and ve talk.”

Chapter 3

Grusha Olinetsky might or might not actually be a baroness, but as she motioned for Claudia to be seated in one of the Louis XV gilded armchairs, she exuded the stately demeanor of nobility, and her private office had the character of a grand European palace. She seated herself in a chair, the burgundy velvet back of which was embroidered with her initials and a gold crest. Her desk was elegant rose-wood and stood on carved ormolu legs, the front feet formed into lion’s paws.

As Claudia sat down and waited for her new client to begin the meeting, her eyes wandered to a curio cabinet against the wall to her left, filled with fascinating objects.

“Copies,” Grusha said before she could ask about the collection of Fabergé eggs.
“Imperial
eggs are vorth many million dollar.”

“I wouldn’t have known the difference,” Claudia said, wondering if she ought to have curtseyed. “They’re beautiful, copies or not.”

“Secret copies my grandfather had made. His father’s family work for the Romanovs—you know it was Tsar Nicholas who commissioned the original eggs?” Grusha sat back in her chair and steepled her fingertips, the long fingers coming together prayer-like at her lips. She looked down for a moment, then lowered her hands and leveled her gaze at Claudia.

“So, Claudia Rose. After ve talk last week I read about you on Internet. You are famous expert in your field. Almost as famous as I am matchmaker.”

Claudia suppressed a smile. “I’m not so sure, Baroness Olinetsky. I don’t have a TV show, and I’ve never been on Oprah.”

“Call me Grusha,” she said. “Is true, I am vorld famous. I make many, many successful matches. They pay me big fee. I give them joy.”

“And you’ve found that graphology is helpful in making good matches.”

“Da, da
, graphology is good test, tells me what the person want to hide.” She gave a self-congratulatory grin. “I introduce many couple who get married, live happy, like fairy tale.”

“That’s wonderful,” Claudia said. “Obviously, you’re very successful. But . . . I think you wouldn’t have brought me here if
everybody
was happy. You mentioned that your previous graphologist had made some mistakes?”

The grin instantly vanished and Grusha’s lips pursed in contemplation. Her hand strayed to a smoky Lalique paperweight on her desk—a nude kneeling Venus—and she began absently stroking a manicured fingertip along the figurine’s delicately sculpted back.

In the end, she ignored the question altogether. “Come, Claudia,” she said, rising. “I show you what ve do.”

Claudia followed her across the room to a black walnut cheval bookcase, its shelves filled with rows of slim leather-bound folders.

“These are my client files,” Grusha said, brushing her finger across the folders at eye level. The titles appeared to be names embossed in gold leaf along the spines. She scanned them and, finding the one she wanted, removed it and handed it to Claudia. “Here is Shellee. A beautiful girl.”

The name
Shellee Jones
was printed in a decorative font on the title page. The next page showed a glamour shot that could have been captioned
All-American Girl.
The button nose and mischievous smile invited you to like her. Burnished blond curls tumbled over her shoulders.

A series of candid snaps followed: Shellee Jones, lounging on the deck of a yacht, perfect body in a string bikini; seductive in a business suit; exquisite in evening dress.

Next, her vitals: twenty-nine, born in Lincoln, Nebraska; five-six, a slender one-twenty. There was a one-page bio and a summary of what Shellee desired most in a life partner.

Thumbing through the pages, Claudia skimmed past a letter from a physician, reports from a private detective, a credit agency, a psychologist, not taking the time to read any of it in detail. Near the back of the folder she came to a report signed by Andrew Nicholson, and what she was most interested in seeing—Shellee’s handwriting sample.

Rich blue ink had been lavished on cream-colored paper in thick, sensuous strokes. This was a woman who appreciated her creature comforts and drew them to her naturally, expending as little effort as possible in the process. The handwriting was large, the lower loops wide, which suggested to Claudia that Shellee enjoyed an active social life. She was the type of person who lived to have fun and who lived life to the fullest.

Lifting her eyes from the file, Claudia found herself under Grusha’s scrutiny. “Is this one of the problem clients?” she asked. “Where mistakes were made in the analysis?”

Grusha brushed off the question. “You vill take it vit you. Read report, look at handwriting, then you vill tell me what you think.”

“I’m not sure I understand what it is you want from me, Grusha. Am I supposed to critique Andy Nicholson’s work, or do you want me to write up a new analysis, or just give you a verbal opinion?”