Dead Write: A Forensic Handwriting Mystery (19 page)

After the warmth of the vehicle, the cold air hit her like a sheet of glass. The melancholy sound of water slapping against the dock pilings reached her and she drew her coat tighter around her. If Jovanic were here . . .

Aside from the atmosphere being lower key, the dining ritual was similar to the previous evening with Marcus Bernard. The maitre d’ fussed over them and conducted them to a table next to the tall windows overlooking the Hudson. The sommelier brought the wine Ian requested, and they ordered food with exotic names and ingredients.

They made polite conversation, the awkwardness of Ian’s outburst in the car still hanging like a pall between them. Claudia could tell that he knew she was disgusted with the way he had treated the valet, and she didn’t much care. The wine seemed to disappear rapidly from his glass and he soon signaled for another. Claudia’s glass was still more than half full.

“What’s it like for you, testifying as an expert in court?” he asked as they waited for the starter course.

“It’s not my favorite part of the work; it can be nerve-wracking. Mostly when I testify, it’s in forgery cases. Sometimes . . .” She stopped talking and looked pointedly at Ian, who had taken the linen napkin from his lap and was polishing his silverware. She watched him wipe the napkin over his fork, taking great care to polish each tine. He turned it around, holding the area he had just cleaned in one end of the napkin as he worked on the handle. Next, he took the spoon and blew a light fog onto the bowl, rubbing vigorously.

His actions reminded Claudia of what Marcus had told her the evening before: that Ian had been straightening Shellee Jones’ silverware just a few minutes before she succumbed to anaphylactic shock.

It took him a few seconds to react to her silence. “Do go on,” he said, starting on his butter knife. “I am listening. It’s just that, as good as a restaurant may be, you can’t trust the kitchen workers to attend to the proper cleaning of utensils. They don’t make enough money to care. One can’t be too careful.”

“Is everything all right, Doctor?” The maitre d’ had hurried over and positioned himself discreetly, screening them from other diners who might catch on to what Ian was doing.

Ian continued polishing his knife without looking at the man. “Perfectly.”

“May I bring you some new silverware, Dr. McAllister?”

Ian glanced up at the man, then resumed his labors. “Then I would have to start all over again, wouldn’t I? You should know by now that I have a particularly high standard of cleanliness.”

“Of course, Doctor.” The maitre d’ offered a big, false smile. “Please don’t hesitate to let me know if there’s anything I can do for you. Anything at all.”

Claudia felt her face get hot. She understood the obsessive-compulsive personality, but Ian’s conspicuous behavior embarrassed her.

He replaced the napkin on his lap and gave her a knowing look. “It may seem odd to you, Claudia, but as a physician, believe me, I know something about germs. May I do yours for you?”

“No, thank you. My silverware is clean.” She could hardly wait for the meal to be over so they could return to Manhattan. She said, “I’d be interested to hear what brought you to the medical profession.”IT

“Ahh, the medical profession.” The second glass of wine had begun to soften the hard planes of his features and loosen his tongue. “Medicine has a long tradition in my family. My father was a physician and so was my grandfather before him, and my great-grandfather before him. There was never any question of what I was expected to do.”

The marked absence of affection in his voice struck her. “You make it sound as if you didn’t have any choice in the matter,” said Claudia.

He showed her a humorless smile. “As a matter of fact, I didn’t. What I wanted to do was paint, but that was out of the question. In our house, art was viewed as the height of frivolity. Or perhaps I should say depths. That sort of thing was
not
tolerated. If Father were to catch me being idle—idle hands being the devil’s workshop, of course—the punishment was quite severe, trust me.”

Claudia thought back to his remark in the car about sparing the rod and spoiling the child. She had no doubt that what he was telling her now was at the roots of the proverb he had parroted.

“Do you mean you were beaten?” she asked.

“Beaten? No, indeed, nothing so uncivilized.” Ian’s short laugh had a hollow ring. “A beating would have been preferable to the punishments my father could dream up.”

“I’m not sure I want to know what you mean by that.”IT

“I’ll tell you anyway. His favorites were a cold night locked in the garage or tied to my bed. No meals for a couple of days.”

Claudia’s sympathies were immediately aroused for the frightened child he must have been. Yet his story also fueled her suspicions. His was the sort of history that might provide fertile soil for a killer who carefully planned ahead. It also occurred to her that the conversation had taken an oddly personal direction considering they had just met.

She saw that he was waiting for her to respond. “I don’t know what to say, Ian. It’s horrible. Do you paint now?”

He shook his head, and as his eyes locked on hers, she recognized an expression of deep regret. “I gave up on painting long ago. The associations are too difficult.”

“I’m sure they must be very painful. Where was your mother while these things were taking place?”

“Poor Mother. She wasn’t equipped to deal with him. Mostly she was hiding out in her room, mew-ling like a baby. Even at five years old, I felt I had to protect
her
. All during the time I was growing up, she would tell me how much it hurt her to see the things he did to me. Unfortunately it didn’t hurt her enough to make it stop.” He drained his glass, then made a wry face over the rim. “I suppose one can’t really blame her. He was a rather terrifying force of nature.”

“Is he still alive, your father?”

Ian didn’t answer. He was looking past her into those long-ago days, when he had been small and powerless. Claudia reached across the table and touched his arm, moved by the vulnerability she saw in his face.

He jerked away, reflexively brushing at his jacket sleeve as if her fingertips had left dirt on it. His eyes closed momentarily. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that. I just—I have trouble being touched. I mean, when it’s unexpected. I’ve always—”

“It’s okay,” Claudia said softly. “It’s all right.”

“You think I’m crazy, and I don’t blame you. Since I lost my daughter—” His voice thickened and he broke off.

“The pain must be unbearable.”

“Nothing has been the same since Jessica’s been gone. She was my life.” He stared into the tiny pool of sediment at the bottom of his wineglass as if he were a tea leaf reader and the dregs would reveal something important that he needed to know. “You should be glad you won’t be here long enough to get to know me, Claudia. People who get close to me always suffer.”IT

That shook her. “Why do you say that?”

He was silent for a long moment, his eyes downcast. When he looked up, the anguish had been extinguished. Placing his knife and fork on the plate in the exact correct position that would signal their waiter that he had finished his meal, Ian leaned back in his chair. “I must apologize for allowing this conversation to become so maudlin.” He trotted out the lop-sided smile. “I hope you’re enjoying your dinner?”

Was he playing some kind of game with her? If so, she was unaware of the rules. The man was maddening in his quick change of direction and she felt as if she were stumbling around in the dark.

“Okay,” Claudia said. “If you want to change the subject, why don’t we talk about Grusha. I’ve never met anyone like her. She’s quite a character, wouldn’t you agree?”

Ian stared back at her for a long moment. “My dear Claudia, you have no idea just how much of a character our baroness really is.”

Claudia had no intention of making herself vulnerable to another rebuff. Her curiosity was piqued, as he must have known it would be, but she just raised her eyebrows.

He took the bait. “She’s been to prison, you know.”

“No, I can’t say I did know that,” Claudia said, her interest quickening. “What landed her in prison?”

Ian scrubbed his hand over his beard as if ruminating on how to reply. “I think I’d better not. I’ve said too much already.”

Claudia’s intuition told her that this was probably what Jovanic had tried to share with her in their last conversation, when she’d refused to listen. This information was too important to let it go. She would just have to eat crow and ask him.

Chapter 18

Claudia’s attempts to persuade Ian to open up about Grusha’s past met with failure. He was steadfast in his refusal, placing the blame for loose lips on the three glasses of sauvignon blanc he’d downed. When she pointed out that the cat was already out of the bag and he might as well tell her the rest of the story, he brushed her off, pleading embarrassment over his indiscretion.

She refused dessert, so he paid the bill and they left their table in silence. On their way out, Ian suggested a walk along the Hudson. Claudia, more than ready to call a halt to the evening, gave a quick shake of her head. “It’s freezing; let’s just go back to the city. It’s supposed to snow tonight.”

Ian took her hand and tucked it under his arm, ignoring her protest. “I need to clear my head before the drive. Just a short stroll along the pier.”

The beginnings of a familiar and unpleasant sense of uneasiness crept over her. For so long, she’d managed to keep it under control, but since coming close to violent death, the sensation had come rushing back with a vengeance. Why couldn’t she just say
No, thanks
when she felt pressured by a man? There was something overpowering about Ian that made her hold her tongue.

As they walked outside, Claudia pulled her coat collar up around her neck and pointed out that a light rain had started. Ian squeezed her hand. “I might not have been a Boy Scout, but I am prepared. There’s an umbrella in the trunk.”

He was steady on his feet and she had no concerns about his ability to drive safely, but she could hardly refuse him the time he claimed that he needed to sober up. She had to admit, her suspicions notwithstanding, it was hard for her to imagine him killing his own daughter. Or any of the other people who had died such awful and untimely deaths. A short walk along the pier was not a big deal, she told herself. There were plenty of other people around.

As they neared the Aston Martin, Ian popped the trunk. A few feet closer, he came to an abrupt halt. “Those
bastards
! Look what they’ve done!” He dropped Claudia’s arm and rushed over to the vehicle.

He was crouched by the front tire, running his hand over the front fender, as she came up behind him. “What’s wrong?”

“The valets—they’ve keyed my car. It’s because I wouldn’t let them drive it.”

Claudia leaned down, the light of a nearby streetlamp illuminating the front fender. She could see nothing more than a few streaks of dirt—a splash of gutter mud by the looks of it.

Ian straightened and spun around. “I’ll have someone’s job for this.” He strode off toward the valet kiosk, leaving Claudia to wonder about his mental stability.

The rain had become a cold drizzle that dampened her hair and numbed her ears and nose. She tried the passenger door, but Ian had not unlocked the doors. She hurried around to the back of the car in disgust. The umbrella was there, predictably tidy, attached to the fabric of the trunk’s inner wall.

She unfurled the big black umbrella and took shelter under it, glad for the protection. Over at the valet kiosk, Ian, who appeared oblivious to the stinging rain, was shouting at the young man. Even from fifty feet, she could hear him accusing the kid of damaging the Aston Martin, and demanding to speak to the manager.

Claudia thought his behavior so obnoxious that she considered asking the maitre d’ to order a cab to take her back to the city. Her hotel room might not be five-star, but at this moment she would have warmly welcomed its solitude. Realizing that at this time of night and so far north of Manhattan, the chances of getting a cab would be slim, she quickly gave it up as a bad idea.

She should have refused Ian’s invitation to dinner. Reminding herself once again that she was not a private detective, she wished she’d refused the entire damned assignment. A trip to New York was not going to help her avoid dealing with her problems at home.

Claudia started to close the trunk, pausing halfway before opening it again. Her eyes were drawn back to a cardboard box. She had observed the box earlier, but as intent as she had been on getting the umbrella opened and over her head, she hadn’t given it any thought. Now something urged her to check it out.

The box was open, so the stack of manila medical file folders that lay inside was in plain sight. A large purple L was stamped on the cover of the top file, and the trunk light was bright enough for Claudia to read the typed label. The patient name on the label was Heather Lloyd.