Outside the Lines (Forensic Handwriting Book 6) Read online

  OUTSIDE THE LINES

  A FORENSIC HANDWRITING MYSTERY

  BOOK 6

  BY SHEILA LOWE

  SUSPENSE PUBLISHING

  OUTSIDE THE LINES

  By

  Sheila Lowe

  DIGITAL EDITION

  * * * * *

  PUBLISHED BY:

  Suspense Publishing

  COPYRIGHT

  2016 by Sheila Lowe

  Cover Design: Shannon Raab

  Cover Photographer: iStockphoto.com/Leonardo Patrizi

  PUBLISHING HISTORY:

  Suspense Publishing, Print and Digital Copy, August 9, 2016

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  BOOKS BY SHEILA LOWE

  FORENSIC HANDWRITING SERIES

  POISON PEN

  WRITTEN IN BLOOD

  DEAD WRITE

  LAST WRITES

  INKSLINGERS BALL

  STANDALONE THRILLERS

  WHAT SHE SAW

  NON-FICTION

  THE COMPLETE IDIOT’S GUIDE TO HANDWRITING ANALYSIS

  HANDWRITING OF THE FAMOUS & INFAMOUS

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  In addition to my usual critique crew: Bob Joseph, Bruce Cook, Gwen Freeman, Bob Bealmear, Barbara Petty, special acknowledgement and thanks are due to Sgt. Derek Pacifico, Detective Heather Gahry, retired FBI supervisor George Fong, Dr. Doug Lyle, Adam at the Air Support Angels Foundation (LAPD Air Support), and Michael Ferguson at Santa Monica Airport. They all helped me get it right. Grateful thanks, too, to the members of the board of the British Institute of Graphology, who allowed me to use this prestigious organization in the book, including Adam Brand, Elaine Quigley, Tracey Trussell, and Karolina Tolgyesi for their helpful input about London and the Tube. Thanks, too, to Barbara Weaver, whose lovely home in Cambridge, and the fascinating Eagle Pub, made me want to set a scene there. And definitely not least, thank you Janet Williams, my old mate, who has hosted me in Sidcup innumerable times and who let me drag her all over London, along with my cousin Irvine Ford, whose non-stop jokes kept us giggling.

  Finally, I attribute whatever success I have had in publishing to the help of Ellen Larson, who has been my first editor from the outset. And a huge thanks is due to Suspense Publishing for taking on my series and making writing much more fun. Shannon, you are a fantastic cover designer—thank you for showing the difference between psychological suspense (which I write) and cozy (which I don’t). It’s nice to have a publisher also be a friend.

  If I’ve inadvertently left anyone out, I apologize. It’s not that you were less significant, it’s me.

  PRAISE FOR SHEILA LOWE

  “Full of thrilling suspense, “Outside the Lines” by Sheila Lowe is a fascinating story of modern greed, betrayal, and revenge. The apparent murder of a housemaid in a ritzy part of Los Angeles sets LAPD Detective Joel Jovanic onto the dangerous trail of ecoterrorists, while on the other side of the globe in London, his lover, Claudia Rose finds herself threatened. In a short time, both situations coalesce, and Jovanic and Rose, a forensic handwriting expert, join forces. The stakes rise to an exciting ending that reveals a long-standing injustice—and a twist no reader will see coming. Enormously entertaining, this terrific mystery is one you’ll want to linger with.”

  —Gayle Lynds, New York Times Bestselling Author of “The Assassins”

  “ “Outside the Lines,” Sheila Lowe’s thrilling new Claudia Rose mystery, is terrific storytelling! Nonstop energy, unexpected turns—and great characters. Claudia’s crime-solving handwriting analysis is fascinating!”

  —Tom Sawyer, Bestselling Author of “Cross Purposes,” Murder, She Wrote Head Writer/Showrunner

  “An expert witness makes for expert storytelling in “Outside the Lines.” ”

  —Simon Wood, Author of “The One That Got Away”

  “Smart writing, great pacing, corporate shenanigans, red herrings, police fumbling, and a protagonist with a unique skill set—she can decipher handwriting. Is someone an introvert, a liar, or a murderer? Just look at their signature! Terrific stuff—I was entertained the whole way.”

  —Earl Javorsky, Author of “Trust Me” and “Down Solo”

  “A fascinating view into the world of handwriting analysis…captivating.”

  —Robin Burcell, Author of “The Last Good Place”

  OUTSIDE THE LINES

  A FORENSIC HANDWRITING MYSTERY

  By Sheila Lowe

  Monday Morning

  Sylvia Vasquez opened the back door and peeped out, though there was no need for caution. It was too early to worry about the neighbors seeing her in the ratty bathrobe and worn slippers, and the morning fog would provide cover for a quick run to the mailbox. The Señor would be upset if he knew she had not picked up the mail since Friday—he had warned her about mailbox thieves and instructed her to clear the box as soon as the mail carrier left. Sylvia shrugged. He and the Señora were out of town again and would be all week. She had been far too busy enjoying the weekend with her new man to think about her employers’ mail.

  Unlocking the steel security gate that led to the alley, she opened the flap on the mailbox and started to reach for the daily stack of catalogs and magazines, letters on top. It took a moment to comprehend that a mass of crumpled toilet tissue had been crammed into the box. Sylvia scowled. That boy across the street again, of course. Tonto Adolecente! With a sigh of vexation, she grabbed a handful of the tissue.

  A sudden flash erupted from the mailbox. A bright tongue of flame ignited the paper, driving a blast of scorching heat at Sylvia’s face. The mailbox exploded with a loud crack-bang, sending bits of black metal and masonry flying.

  Sylvia staggered backwards, her nostrils filled with the acrid sting of gunpowder. The clamor of barking dogs sounded hollow and far away through her ringing ears. As she waved at the cloud of blue-black smoke, struggling to grasp what had happened, a warm wetness drew her eyes down to her right hand. Dazed and confused, Sylvia stared at the blood pulsing from the stumps where her index and middle fingers used to be. Where was her abuela’s ruby ring?

  She opened her mouth to scream for help, but no sound emerged. Unbearable pressure, like the coils of a giant python squeezing her rib cage, robbed her of air. Her eyes rolled back in her head.

  Her galloping heart ceased beating and Sylvia Vasquez dropped to the ground.

  CHAPTER 1

  At two-forty PM court was in session. The marbled hallway was as silent as a held breath.

  Claudia Rose stared at the iPad on her lap. She had flipped through her exhibit slides until she was sick of the sight of them and the handwritings on the screen no longer registered in her brain. After ninety minutes of waiting on that cold, hard bench her mind was getting as numb as her butt.

  The final witness from the morning session, a weapons expert, had been held over the lunch recess and was back on the hot seat. Endlessly, it seemed. A nearby door opened, but the two atto
rneys who stepped into the hallway were not from the Danny Ortiz trial; they were dueling over a hapless defendant’s fate—negotiations that could mean the difference between bail or no bail, or a reduction in prison time. If you were facing a life sentence, twenty years might sound palatable.

  Watching the minor drama unfold, Claudia’s stomach clenched. What if she forgot something important while testifying? What if she flubbed it? After all the hours she had spent on this case, she was fully confident in her opinion. The big question was, could she convince the jury of what she believed to be the truth?

  Sheer boredom prompted her to check her email for the umpteenth time, hoping for something more than spam; rewarded with a note from her fiancé, Joel Jovanic, letting her know that he’d made dinner reservations at their favorite restaurant. With a sigh, she slid the iPad into her briefcase, got up and gave the navy blue pencil skirt a tug. It was too short for a court appearance, but there wouldn’t be time to go home and change. Jovanic liked the skirt because it showed off her long legs. But it really was too short for court.

  She strolled the long hallway, returned to the bench and waited some more until the DA’s investigator finally came out of the courtroom at 3:15 to let her know they were ready for her.

  Jesse Alvarez was a burly, dark-complexioned man from Belize who loved to make people laugh. The week before, when Claudia had met with him and his boss, Paul Feynman, he’d cracked a couple of lawyer jokes that left Feynman shaking his head in mock despair. Today, though, the humor was gone from his eyes. There was nothing remotely funny about the trial of a cop killer.

  Taking a deep breath, Claudia grabbed her briefcase and followed Alvarez through the heavy oak doors. Curious faces turned toward her, but she paid little attention as she made her way through the gate that separated the gallery from the bench, and passed the counsel table.

  Closest to the jury, tasked as champion of Truth, Justice, and the American Way was the District Attorney, otherwise known as the one who has the burden of proof. Seated behind him was the grieving family and supporters of the undercover cop Ortiz was accused of killing.

  The spectators had split into two sharply divided sides. The rows of seats behind the defendant, Danny Ortiz, and his public defender, Alison Smith, were occupied by young toughs sporting shaved heads and prison tattoos. Their chola girlfriends, clad in skintight Levis, wore penciled-in eyebrows that made commas over heavily rimmed blue-shadowed eyes.

  Claudia had been brought into the case to authenticate the handwriting of a letter that took credit for the execution of Detective Hector Maldonado, whose cover had been blown at a drug buy. The detective had been forced to his knees and shot twice execution style, his body dumped in an East Los Angeles alley.

  From his lofty perch on the bench, Judge George C. Abernathy glanced at Claudia. “Good afternoon, Ms. Rose.”

  “Good afternoon, Your Honor.”

  She had testified before Abernathy in another case and was aware of his reputation: a jaded, hardnosed hang ’em high jurist that made him the kind of judge the prosecution prayed for and the defense dreaded. Broad across the chest in his black robes; a ring of white hair on a mostly bald head. Add a long white beard to the bushy brows and you had Santa without the ho-ho-ho.

  Claudia took the oath, then mounted the witness stand. The unforgiving lens of a television camera stared at her from the back of the courtroom, reminding her not to swivel in her seat. Mindful that the slightest slip would be broadcast to the entire Southland, she carefully set aside a half-full cup of water left by the last witness.

  “State and spell your name for the record.” The clerk must have said those words at least a thousand times, and her bored tone proved it.

  As Claudia recited her response, the defendant, who had been doodling on a legal pad, suddenly looked up and caught her eye. The loathing in that dead black stare chilled her to the bone. If Danny Ortiz could have shot poison darts at that moment, she would be one dead handwriting expert.

  Ortiz, a member of the 7th Street Crue, was known as “Li’l Dude.” The gang moniker was ironic. There was nothing little about Ortiz, who stood 5’10 and weighed in at two-twenty. Though the ink on his neck was mostly hidden, the same could not be said of the crude prison-house tattoos on his face: devil’s horns on his forehead; two blue teardrops below his left eye—the gangbanger’s badge of honor awarded to a multiple murderer.

  The public defender had supplied Ortiz with a conservative blue Oxford shirt that was intended to avoid the prejudice an orange jail jumpsuit might have raised. For the same reason, he was neither cuffed nor shackled.

  The high profile nature of the case meant three deputies stationed in the courtroom, rather than the standard two: a custody officer near the door to the holding area, a second at the back door leading to the judge’s chambers, and an elderly female deputy manning the desk where attorneys could quietly ask questions while court was in session.

  Judge Abernathy surveyed his courtroom, his eyes coming to rest on the attorneys. “Are you ready, Counselors?”

  “The People are ready, Your Honor.”

  “The Defense is ready.”

  “Mr. Feynman, please proceed.”

  The DA’s doughy pink cheeks, sensuous lips and thick neck reminded Claudia of Alec Baldwin. He even wore the actor’s hairstyle—salt-and-pepper, slicked straight back. In an election year this case would be a good win for Paul Feynman. He had already conducted a press conference on the courthouse steps, assuring the public that the cold-blooded execution of a police officer deserved nothing less than his personal attention.

  Feynman rose, buttoning his hand-tailored, charcoal-grey pinstriped suit coat, and bid Claudia a good afternoon. “Thank you for coming today, Ms. Rose. Would you please tell the jury what your occupation is and what that means?”

  Claudia turned in her seat to face the jury box, aware of the red eye of the TV camera blinking at her.

  In the back row, two young Hispanic women and a twenty-something Anglo in a UCLA sweatshirt all held their steno notebooks at the ready. Three grandmotherly types were likely defense picks who might feel compassion for Danny, even in the face of the vicious crime with which he was charged. An African American woman in a business suit, two men in t-shirts, one African-American, one Hispanic. An elderly man who Claudia guessed was Philippine, had nodded off, chin on chest. In the front row a rail-thin Asian man in a cardigan wore the spaced-out gaze of a computer geek. At the other end sat his polar opposite: an obese, middle-aged white man in shirtsleeves and tie.

  A jury of Danny Ortiz’s peers? Gang members did not get picked for jury duty.

  “I am a forensic handwriting examiner,” Claudia said. “That means I compare disputed handwriting to known samples—exemplars—and offer an opinion about who wrote it.”

  “Thank you,” said Feynman. “I know you’ve been practicing in this field for quite some time. Would you kindly tell the jury about your background and education?”

  There was a fine line between telling the jurors what made her an expert in the field and listing so many credentials that their eyes glazed over. Claudia made sure to make eye contact with each member of the panel in turn as she spoke, keeping the narrative moving with the DA injecting questions about papers she had published, conferences where she had spoken.

  At the end, Alison Smith made a weak objection to her qualifications, but Claudia had testified in more than fifty cases, so there was little chance the judge would not qualify her in this one.

  “Overruled,” said Judge Abernathy. “Ms. Rose may testify.”

  Feynman thanked him and turned back to Claudia, “Sometimes you are retained as a jury consultant, isn’t that right?”

  “Yes, in those cases I use handwriting analysis to help my client select jurors.”

  “So, in such cases you’re analyzing personality, is that correct?”

 
“Yes.”

  “Did you use personality analysis in the case we are talking about here today?”

  “No. In this case my examination was limited to comparing handwritten samples for the purposes of authentication.”

  “Please tell us about your assignment in this matter.”

  “Your office provided me with a handwritten note known as a ‘kite,’ which is contraband communication passed between jail inmates. It’s unsigned and the defendant denies having written it.”

  “Ms. Rose,” said Feynman, “Do you see the Court’s exhibit book on the table in front of you?”

  “Yes, Mr. Feynman, I see it.” She would have to be blind to miss the fat, black three-ring-binder whose contents had been entered into evidence.

  Over the course of the next thirty minutes, the DA walked her through the documents in the exhibit book. First, the pages that contained the questioned handwriting, followed by the exemplars that represented Ortiz’s true, known handwriting. At last, he asked, “Have you formed an opinion as to whether the questioned writing is genuine or not?”

  “Yes, I have.”

  “And what is your opinion, Ms. Rose?”

  Claudia sat straighter in her chair and spoke clearly into the microphone. “It’s my opinion, to a professional degree of certainty, that both the known and the questioned writing were written by the same hand.”

  Everyone knew it was coming—this was what she was here for. Still, her words brought a hush to the courtroom, as though she had pronounced a death sentence.

  “I believe you have prepared some demonstrative exhibits for the jury?”