Dead Write: A Forensic Handwriting Mystery (9 page)

She clicked end on her cell phone and went back to her laptop with her stomach churning.
Why is Alex with him when he’s off duty?

The article she had pulled up about Shellee Jones before Jovanic’s phone call was waiting behind the screen saver. She ran her eye over the short piece, looking for anything that would add to the scant information she already had. Her hand went to her mouth.
Oh crap.

It wasn’t a common spelling of the name, but Claudia might almost have convinced herself that the article referred to some other Shellee Marie Jones if the head shot published with the article had not been identical to the one in the leather folder on the bed behind her.

She located the publication date. What she read unsettled her further. Jones’ death had occurred only three weeks earlier. The article made no mention of the dating service, but according to her Elite Introductions file, Shellee Jones had been a member of the club only since January. Even if Susan Rowan had seen the article, she wouldn’t have made the connection to Jones, as the young woman had joined well after Susan ceased working for Grusha.

Three
dead clients.

“Yep,” she said aloud. “That’s one coincidence too many.”

She ran over in her head what she knew of the men whose files the matchmaker had given her. At least she knew that Avram Cohen was alive.

She didn’t have the same knowledge about the other clients. One by one, she typed in their names and information. She browsed their Web sites and Googled them. Finding nothing alarming on the clients whose handwritings had raised no concerns, she went on to Marcus Bernard, one of her red flag handwritings.

Copying from his file, she keyed into the search field “real estate developer, hotels.”

Several links came up to East Coast projects that had been developed by Bernard’s company—a four-hundred-room hotel in Boston whose top floors contained luxury condos; a similar one in Philadelphia; another in Jupiter, Florida.

Navigating to his company’s Web site, Claudia clicked through the links until she found one for a photo gallery. The sixteen thumbnails led to glossy photos of Bernard’s buildings and high society events he had attended. The bearded, tuxedo-clad Marcus Bernard matched his Elite Introductions file photo.

As she skimmed through photos that had been shot at a charity fund-raiser the year before, her gaze caught on another familiar figure at the black-tie event: Grusha Olinetsky, recognizable despite platinum blond hair rather than her current jet-black, but twisted into the same French roll she still favored.

Pear-shaped diamonds dangled from her ears and glittered across her throat. A clingy gold lamé strapless gown showed off pale shoulders. Grusha’s gloved arm was tucked possessively through Bernard’s and his hand covered hers.

Claudia clicked the back button and paged through some of the other links without finding anything of interest. What she had discovered about Ryan Turner and Shellee Jones left her with the almost certain knowledge that she had been duped into coming here. She went and poured herself a glass of tap water from the bathroom faucet and downed a vitamin.

It was a question Claudia intended to ask her client. But first, she would keep the appointments that Sonya had made for her with the club’s doctors. She intended to glean whatever information she could arm herself with before the inevitable confrontation with Grusha Olinetsky.

Returning to the laptop, she tried one last search, this time on John Shaw, whose file was the last in the pile. But even with the additional demographics she entered, the name was too common to bring up anything useful.

Maybe no news is good news for him
, she thought, contemplating the array of perplexing information she had accumulated so far.

Ten fancy leather file folders, three dead clients.

Chapter 7

Yellow cabs and honking horns. Steel-colored skies and overcoats. Grusha’s town car at the curb, the chauffeur at the car door, his cheeks chapped red in the biting cold.

Claudia left the hotel, the lower half of her face wrapped in a woolen scarf, and hurried over to the town car. She sank into the backseat and ripped away the cloying fabric, the sheer numbers of people thronging the midtown sidewalks making her feel claustrophobic. An unexpected yearning to be home in L.A. struck her and she laughed at herself. Sitting in her car on the 405, bumper-to-bumper with a million other motorists, would hardly be an improvement.

About ten minutes later, the car stopped before a stately building on Central Park South. The driver informed her that both Dr. McAllister and Dr. Pollard maintained their practices there. She figured it made sense that clients who were paying a steep membership fee would expect to see the club’s physician and psychologist in an exclusive office.

Apart from two pretty nurses in neat blue scrubs sitting behind the front desk, Dr. Ian McAllister’s third-floor waiting room was empty. The nurses were a matched pair with long black hair and exquisite skin. Either could have posed for a cosmetic surgery brochure. Claudia had a suspicion that they might have been hired as much for their attractive appearance as for their medical and clerical skills.

One of them jumped up right away and said she would let Dr. McAllister know that his visitor had arrived, and to please have a seat.

Expecting to be kept waiting as she inevitably was at her own doctor’s office, Claudia began riffling through a glossy upscale fashion magazine on the coffee table. There wasn’t an item in it that wouldn’t crush her budget, but it was interesting to see how the other half dressed. The doctor’s appearance at the reception room door just a few moments later took her by surprise and made a good first impression.

In his mid-forties, McAllister was tall and imposing. Claudia took in the neatly trimmed gray-streaked beard and moustache that gave him the look of a college professor; the classic blue dress shirt with a mauve patterned tie worn under a pristine white lab coat; the lock of chestnut hair that flopped onto his forehead. A faint squint had chiseled vertical lines between his brows. Although his smile was welcoming, the squint made it seem as though he were frowning at the same time, creating a disturbing disharmony. He took the hand she offered in a firm grasp. “Delighted to meet you, Ms. Rose.”

The doctor led her to his private office, asking all the right questions: Where was she staying? Was she rested? Was this her first time in New York? His politeness felt a little forced, as if making small talk might be uncomfortable for him.

Dr. McAllister installed her in a comfortable leather guest chair across from his desk, then moved around the desk and seated himself, clasping his hands on the blotter in front of him.

“How long have you been acquainted with the baroness?” he asked.

“I actually met her just yesterday,” Claudia said. “She saw me on a TV show on Sunday morning, gave me a call, and voilà! here I am. How about you?” She thought he looked startled at the question. Maybe as a doctor he was unaccustomed to the person on the other side of the desk taking an active part in the conversation.

“Well, let’s see.” He wrinkled his brow as if he really had to think about the answer. Even with that perpetual half scowl he was attractive in a rather serious way. “I’ve worked with the baroness for about three years now. We met at a social function just as she was starting her business. She said she was in need of a consulting physician. As you’ve no doubt discovered, she’s rather particular about the members she accepts into the club. Needs to make sure they’re in good shape, no communicable diseases.” He gave a slight smile. “It wouldn’t look good if someone got AIDS or syphilis from a match she had arranged for them.”

“I suppose it wouldn’t. So you screen the clients for STDs?”

He inclined his head. “That’s part of it, along with their general state of health. The applicants also have to pass a psychological examination, and of course, a handwriting analysis. Apparently you are the new graphologist.”

“Apparently I am,” said Claudia. “The latest in a succession, from what I hear.”

“Yes, the baroness puts great stock in graphology. She won’t accept a new member into the club without having their handwriting analyzed. The last graphologist was a Mr. Nicholson, the short-lived fellow who followed the woman—I can’t think of her name—she unfortunately fell ill.”

One of the nurses arrived with a tray bearing a bone china coffee service. She poured for them without speaking and glided silently away. Claudia spooned sugar into her cup with a tiny silver teaspoon. “You’re thinking of Susan Rowan. It just so happens I had breakfast with her this morning. I’m happy to say she’s recovered from her illness and seems to be doing quite well.”

“That’s excellent news,” McAllister said. “She was supposedly quite a good handwriting analyst, but I must say,
your
résumé is impeccable. The baroness was so impressed that she called to share it with me.”

Claudia smiled, dismissing the compliment. “Thank you, Dr. McAllister, but I know better than to believe my own PR. I’ve worked in the field a long time, that’s all. I’ve accumulated a lot of experience.”

“You’re too modest, Ms. Rose. Tell me, are you single, as well as modest?”

The personal question startled her. The commitment between her and Jovanic was unspoken, taken for granted. Yet, despite his protectiveness since the murder and the events that had followed, there had been that undeniable distance between them lately. She had started noticing it since Alex’s unwelcome presence had become a constant in their lives. So far she hadn’t mentioned it to Jovanic, just kept an eye on the way Alex looked at him. Then there were the phone calls and text messages that arrived from her several times during evenings and days off with some excuse or another about work.

Oh hell, maybe it was all in her head. She was well aware that it was the barriers
she
had erected that kept Jovanic from asking for more from her. But bottom line, she was less certain of him than she had been and she was questioning her own judgment a lot these days.

She stammered, realizing that McAllister was waiting for a response. “I’m, uh—” She felt her cheeks color up. “I’m seeing someone.”

Ian McAllister threw her a sardonic smile. “You should be careful; you’ll have the baroness fixing you up with the man of your dreams.”

“Maybe I’ve already found him.”

“Mmm, perhaps. Or—”

“Has she tried to fix
you
up?”

When the doctor smiled, his lips went up only on one side, giving him a cynical look.
“That
is possibly her fondest desire.” He glanced down at the gold wedding band on his left hand. How had that escaped her notice? He said, “My wife has been gone a long time. I’ve spent most of my time outside of work hours raising our daughter. I must admit, it wasn’t always easy, maintaining a busy practice and being a single parent. But now . . .” He trailed off.

Claudia was curious about the reference to his wife. Since he was still wearing a wedding ring, she assumed he must be a widower. “How old is your daughter?” she asked.

“Eighteen last April,” he said abruptly. “But I’m alone these days.” He’d brought up the subject, but she got the feeling that he didn’t want to discuss his daughter after all.

Maybe she’s a problem
, Claudia thought, thinking of Annabelle. She hoped the girl wouldn’t take advantage of her absence and ditch school. It wouldn’t be the first time she had gone in search of more interesting pursuits than geography or computer science. She gave herself a mental shake and got down to the business at hand. “Dr. McAllister, I need to ask you—”

“Call me Ian,” he interrupted, the dark eyes resting on her speculatively. “We’re working together for the same company, no need to be so formal,
Claudia
—is that all right?”

“Of course.” She found him disarming, but starting a flirtation with him wasn’t part of her plan. “Ian. I’m not quite sure how to ask this but—” She paused. “It’s just—Grusha gave me several handwritings to analyze of members who are—well, they’re not alive.”

McAllister’s eyebrows went up. “Not alive?”

“Dead . . . they’re dead.”

“I know what
not alive
means, Ms. Rose. They covered that in medical school.”

It was so ridiculous, she had to laugh. “Oh, good. I’m glad we got that straight because for a moment, I wasn’t sure. Ian, seriously, do you have any idea why she might do that?”

“Maybe she was testing you.”

“Testing me? A moment ago you said she brought me to New York because I have a good résumé, so she already knows I’m competent. Any other ideas?”

Dr. McAllister looked over at her without speaking and Claudia wished she’d kept her mouth shut. He must have thought she was challenging him. She was just trying to understand Grusha’s motivation.

Still silent, he took a black Mont Blanc pen from his breast pocket, held it up and inspected the gold nib, then snapped the top back on. He sighted down the pen barrel and lined it up dead center on the leather desk blotter, making small adjustments until he was pleased with his efforts. When the ritual was finished, he glanced over at Claudia. “I’m afraid I must have left my tarot cards at home today. You’ll need to ask the baroness herself.” He moved his pen a quarter inch to the left with his fingertip.