Dead Write: A Forensic Handwriting Mystery (16 page)

She reminded herself again of what she had so emphatically said to Grusha: She was a handwriting analyst, not a private investigator. The smart thing to do would be to pack up and get on the next plane to L.A.

She thought of the fee Grusha was paying for her services. And she thought of the roof repairs that her house needed, and the quarterly taxes that would soon be due. Did it make her a sellout if she stayed on for the money against her better judgment?

It couldn’t hurt to make one phone call to the hotel in Nassau where the young resident had been staying. It just might turn up something new. She thought about that as she stopped at the bagel shop and picked up a take-out turkey and Swiss sandwich, no mayo, and a latte for lunch. But by the time she returned to her room to track down the article on Ryan Turner ’s unfortunate demise, she still didn’t have a satisfactory answer to the sellout question.

The Paradise Reef hotel’s Web site portrayed a luxurious beachfront resort: stunning views of pellucid green water teeming with manta rays; a glass-walled dining room that gave diners the sense of being underwater along with the marine life that swam by in its own lagoon. The glossy pictures oozed opulence.

Grusha had said that Ryan Turner’s family had money. Was
that
the connection between the dead clients? Shellee Jones’ father was a hedge-fund manager. That meant money, too.

What about Heather Lloyd? Nothing had been mentioned about the model’s financial status, but as an Elite Introductions client, she would have had to come up with the membership fee—a not insignificant amount.

Calling the Nassau hotel, Claudia got routed to the marketing manager, who spoke in a British accent. “We can’t possibly discuss our guests,” the manager said in a clipped tone that brooked no argument. “They expect us to maintain strict privacy, and we do.”

Claudia argued anyway. “I’m not actually asking about your guest,” she said. “I’m asking about his companion. Can’t you at least tell me whether anyone else was registered with him, even if you don’t divulge the name?”

“Our hotel discharges its responsibility when it offers guests a dive guide and warns them not to dive alone. The hotel has no liability in this matter
what
soever.” Parroting what the newspaper article had said.

“I’m not looking to sue your hotel,” Claudia said, irritated by the stonewalling. “I don’t think you’re hearing me. All I’m asking is whether Dr. Turner was with anyone on that final dive.”

“Ms. Rose, I cannot help you any further.”IT

“You haven’t helped me at all,” Claudia said to dead air as the marketing manager hung up. The better part of an hour down the tubes and she’d gotten nowhere.

Jovanic had phoned a couple of times, but she’d let it ring through to voice mail. What was the point in answering? He would protest again that there was nothing between him and Alex and Claudia would not believe it. She couldn’t remember trusting anyone—even her ex-husband—in almost thirty years until Jovanic. She’d thought she was safe with him. Her heart hurt from thinking about it.

Nibbling a few bites of the turkey sandwich, she decided that she needed to do something active. Easier to play private detective for Grusha Olinetsky than to deal with her own life.

Aside from Grusha, she knew that two people had knowledge of all the dead clients: Ian McAllister and Donna Pollard. Ian was now on her suspect list, so he was out. But Dr. Pollard might hold a key to this mess. Claudia just had to get the psychologist to talk to her again.

The doorman hailed her a cab, and fifteen minutes later Claudia entered Dr. Pollard’s office. There were no clients in the waiting room.

Dorothy French opened the interior door when Claudia rang the bell, and made it clear that she was not happy to see her visitor. “What now?” she asked with no pretense of courtesy.

Claudia offered her most winning smile. “Any chance the doctor could spare a few minutes for me?”

“Have you considered making an appointment? Wouldn’t you expect that she might be with a client?”

“From your answer, I’d guess she’s not. Besides, it’s lunchtime, so I was hoping she might be free.”

“Why can’t you leave her alone?”

“Dorothy, please ask Dr. Pollard if she’ll see me. I’ll be going back to the West Coast soon, and you’ll never have to deal with me again. But today, right now, I need to ask her a couple of questions. It’s really important.”

The secretary huffed in annoyance. “Wait here.” She stepped back into the hallway and yanked the door closed behind her with a sharp snap.

Dorothy French left her waiting for ten minutes before she let Claudia know that Dr. Pollard had agreed to meet with her. Knowing she was lucky that the psychologist had agreed to see her at all without an appointment, Claudia thanked her and followed her to the womblike room where Pollard conducted therapy.

“Come in, dear, sit down.” Donna Pollard smiled benevolently at her, as if they hadn’t parted on strained terms at their last meeting. She wore a fern green hand-knit turtleneck sweater and a long brown woolen skirt with lace-up Uggs, as if she might be planning a hike in the snow.

She appeared relaxed and at ease, unlike on the previous visit, when nervous tension had vibrated through her. “You look tired, dear,” she said as Claudia sat down. “Aren’t you sleeping well?”

The love seat was familiar in an uncomfortable way. Maybe therapists all shopped at the same love seat store. “Strange bed,” Claudia said, disliking the feeling of being under the microscope. She reminded herself that she was not there for therapy, and she felt better, more in control. “How are
you
feeling, doctor? Any more problems?”

“None at all. As I told you, it was a random break-in. I’m fine, no concussion. No ill effects.” Pollard smiled with more warmth than was warranted for the occasion. “So, Claudia, what brings you here today?”

“I’ve had some quite interesting conversations since I saw you last.”IT

The doctor leaned forward a little in her chair, her lips parted. “Yes?”

“I had dinner with Marcus Bernard last night. I learned that he was present when Shellee Jones died.”

Wariness came into Pollard’s blue eyes. “I can’t tell you how bad I felt. A terrible thing to happen.”IT

“Do you think there’s anything odd in the fact that he dated both Shellee and Heather?”

“Not at all. The dating service isn’t large. Marcus has been a member for a while now, and Shellee and Heather were both fairly new. He wasn’t the only one who dated them both. Why? What do
you
think it means, Claudia?”

“I don’t know whether it means anything, but I thought maybe you would.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t say as I do.”

“When I was here the other day, you mentioned Dr. McAllister ’s daughter.”

“I shouldn’t have done that.”

“Why not? Was she your patient?”

“You probably know, Claudia, that I can’t give you the answer to that. It would be unethical to divulge who my patients are.”

“But you can talk about Elite Introductions clients because Grusha has given permission. You said Jessica McAllister had dated three of the men we were discussing. Which ones?”

When Pollard hesitated, Claudia took the advantage and prodded her. “You might as well tell me.”

“I really don’t think I should.”

“Fine, I’ll ask her myself.”

“That would be—difficult.” Pollard hesitated. “I’m afraid Jessica passed away a few months ago.”

Claudia heard herself gasp. “Oh my god.”

“I suppose it doesn’t matter if I tell you. You could find out for yourself. Jessie committed suicide.”

“Suicide! Ian said he had a daughter, but he didn’t say she was dead, let alone a suicide. What the
hell
is going on?”

Pollard looked down at her hands clasped in her lap. “Everyone in Elite Introductions has something to hide.”

“What do you mean?”

The psychologist raised her head. “What?” She seemed confused to see that she wasn’t alone in the room.

“You said everyone has something to hide,” Claudia said, overwhelmed by the news that there was another young person to be added to the dating club’s death tally. “What did you mean by that?”

“I said that out loud?” Pollard squeezed her eyes shut. “Please forget it. I shouldn’t have said that. It’s the knock on the head. I’m still having headaches. I don’t know what I’m saying. I shouldn’t even be here.”IT

She appeared so agitated that Claudia didn’t have the heart to remind her that only a few moments earlier she’d said she had suffered no ill effects from the attack.

“Was there any question that Jessica’s death was suicide?” Claudia asked.

The psychologist spoke quickly as if to get it over with. “She took a bottle of Tylenol. Then she slit her wrists and sat in a tub full of warm water, waiting to die.”II

“Two methods. It sounds like she wanted to die very badly.”IT

“She was only just eighteen,” Pollard said, her eyes bright with tears. With her own emotions playing so close to the surface, Claudia wondered how she managed to conduct therapy with vulnerable clients.

“Why do you think Jessica would do something like that?”

“I can’t discuss it with you.”

Claudia struggled to keep her voice even, but she was fed up with being thwarted. She could hear the anger coloring her words as she spoke. “Who were the men she dated, Donna?”

“Please don’t ask me that.”

“I
am
asking.”

“It’s confidential information.”

“How confidential can it be? She’s dead! You and I both know there’s something wrong here.”

“But the men are still alive, except for Ryan.”

“If someone else dies and you don’t tell what you know, you, Dr. Pollard, will be an accessory after the fact.”

That jolted her.

“All right, all right, I’ll tell you. Jessica dated Avram Cohen, Marcus Bernard, and Ryan Turner.” Pollard swallowed hard. “Now, I think that’s enough. There’s nothing we can do about it now. You’ll never be able to prove—” She stopped midsentence, her face contorted in alarm.

“Prove what, Donna? Look, I know you’re frightened, but you’ve got to tell me what you know.”

“You need to leave. Now.”

“No,
you
need to tell the truth. If these deaths are all connected and you think you know how and why, you could be in danger yourself. You’ve already had a break-in. Somebody thinks you know something. Isn’t getting knocked on the head enough of a warning for you?”

As the two women looked at one another, realization slowly dawned in the eyes of the psychologist. The seconds ticked past and Pollard seemed to come to a decision. She got out of her chair and crossed the room to a lateral wooden file cabinet in the corner. Taking a key from her pocket, she stared at it in her hand for a second or two, as though hardening her resolve.

Finally, she leaned down and inserted the key in the lock, where she left it hanging; then she straightened. “It would have been unthinkable if the intruder had gotten into my patient files. I always keep them locked up tight.”

She gave Claudia a long, meaningful look. “I’m going into the kitchen to make us some tea, Claudia. I’ll be about five minutes; you can wait right here.”

The instant the door closed behind Donna Pollard, Claudia leapt up from the love seat and dashed to the file cabinet. No question about the tacit message Pollard had telegraphed to her: Get Jessica McAllister’s file.

She found it in the bottom drawer.

Chapter 15

It was a tremendous breach of ethics for Dr. Pollard to make the file available; it almost certainly held something of vital importance for the psychologist to take that kind of legal risk. Claudia opened it and began to riffle through pages upon pages of densely written notes. There would never be enough time to read through the thick sheaf of papers before Pollard returned with tea.

She stuffed the papers into her briefcase, fumbled it closed, her heart racing. Replaced the empty folder in the drawer and locked it, leaving the keys dangling.

Claudia tiptoed into the hallway and listened. The sounds of tea-making could be heard coming from what she presumed must be the kitchen. Thanking the file-stealing gods that Dorothy French was nowhere in sight, Claudia slipped through the back door and made a headlong dash for the elevator.

Before Dr. Pollard could change her mind, Claudia raced out of the building and stepped off the sidewalk, looking for a taxi. Luck seemed to favor her as a vacant yellow cab appeared almost immediately. She raised an arm and waved. The cabbie stopped a few feet ahead of her.

As she started toward the vehicle, a tall figure in a long overcoat stepped in front of her, smooth as glass, and opened the taxi door.

“Hey!” Claudia objected, ready to launch into a diatribe about its being “her” taxi. She bit back the angry words in surprise. “Dr. McAllister?”

The doctor turned to her, extending a hand, and invited her to get in. “Ian,” he reminded her. “Where may I drop you?”

Claudia scooted to the far side of the backseat, leaving room for Ian McAllister to slide in beside her. She gave the driver the name of her hotel and angled to face her accidental companion. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“I do have an office in the building, if you recall,” he said in that deadpan way he had. He clasped his hands, which were encased in black kid gloves, and let them rest on his lap. “I just came off the elevator and saw you running out of the building as if it were on fire. Is everything all right?”

She thought of what she had just learned from Dr. Pollard about Jessica McAllister, and of the file in her briefcase. How could she approach him to discuss his dead daughter without revealing where she’d gotten the information? The words refused to come out. Instead, she said simply, “I was visiting Donna Pollard. Did you know she’d had a break-in yesterday?”