Kelly put on a saintly face and folded her hands demurely. “Okay, Miz Priss, I’ll make Zebby behave, I promise.”
“Who’s going to make
you
behave?” Claudia asked. “Could we talk about Paige and Annabelle’s handwritings? I want to see if either of you pick up on anything I might have missed.”
Zebediah grinned. “What about ol’ buddy Bert’s confidentiality admonition?”
“Screw Bert Falkenberg and the horse he rode in on.” Claudia picked up the manila envelope she had placed on the empty chair next to her. She removed the handwriting samples from the envelope and turned Paige’s sample so they both could see it. “Paige is my client, not Bert. I’ll do anything I can to help her, and if that means discussing it with you two, he ought to be glad he’s getting three good heads for the price of none.”
The handwriting sample was one that Paige had written specifically for analysis, prepared according to a set of instructions Claudia had given her:
Write a letter in ink on a full-size sheet of unlined paper. Write a whole page. Don’t copy it from somewhere else and don’t write poetry or lyrics. Include a signature.
Kelly took it and looked it over. The carefully written script was filled with small, tasteful flourishes of Paige’s own invention. “Oh my, she’s a good girl all the way, isn’t she?”
Kelly had sat in on classes that Claudia taught. She was referring to the school-model writing style, which often indicated someone who had a bottomless craving for affection, attention, and approval from men.
“Good girls need a daddy to please,” Zebediah added. “You can bet your sweet ass she didn’t have an adequate father, which means she’d look for fathering in relationships as an adult. From what you’ve told us, Paige found a daddy in Torg. Unfortunately, those kinds of parental replacements tend not to work out so well.”
“You’re right about that,” Claudia agreed. “She told me Torg was very possessive after they got married.” She drank her beer and listened to her friends confirm her opinions about Paige’s handwriting. Her analysis had covered all the bases.
A sharp gust of wind blew through the open patio doors and wrapped around her ankles, making her shiver. Or maybe it was her fear for Annabelle’s and Paige’s safety that raised the gooseflesh on her arms.
Kelly wanted to know if Paige had given Torg anything to be jealous about.
Claudia shrugged. “According to her, she was a straight arrow. But . . . Torg’s younger son, Neil, is in love with her. And Cruz, well, I don’t know whether that’s love or plain old lust. Then there’s Bert—he’s still an unknown in the equation, though there’s definitely
some
kind of tension between them. I told you she gave him the job at the Sorensen Academy after her husband died, didn’t I?”
Zebediah arced a shaggy brow. “From construction company to ritzy girls’ school. Interesting career segue.”
“I don’t know whether she was telling the truth about being faithful to Torg,” Claudia said. “She’s a big flirt, but it’s not a crime to be attractive to men.”
“You bet your bootie it’s not,” Kelly agreed emphatically. “But the
rub
, if you’ll pardon the pun, is when she meets someone who’s unwilling to be seduced by her flirting—someone who demands more realistic interaction.”
“Annabelle evidently decided not to be seduced.” Claudia removed the girl’s handwriting sample from the envelope, along with the pictures she had drawn. “She tolerated Paige until she saw her in bed with Cruz.”
Pointing at the handwriting she said, “The pressure is too light. She keeps her emotions inside until she’s ready to blow.”
“And blow she did,” Zebediah added. “According to what Monica told you.”
Kelly took Annabelle’s drawing from his hands and pointed to the figure of the man pushing the car over a cliff. “My God, look at this! Is this what she thinks happened?”
Claudia chewed on her lower lip. “All I know for sure is, she’s really angry with her father. What do you think, Zeb?”
But before he could offer an opinion, Claudia’s cell phone rang with the music from
La Traviata
. “That’s Pete’s ring.”
She answered the call, her eyes widening as she listened. “Oh, shit . . . uh-huh . . . uh-huh . . . I know, I’m sorry . . . I
said
I’m sorry . . . Have you called the cops yet?”
She moved the phone away from her ear and Pete’s angry voice could be heard, yelling profanities. Then there was silence. Claudia closed the phone looking troubled. “He hung up on me.”
Kelly, who had known Pete for most of her life, gave a low whistle. “Wow, he’s
really
pissed. What happened?”
“Monica got a phone call from Annabelle.”
“So she’s okay, thank God. Where is she?”
“Monica couldn’t understand her, said she was hysterical.”
“What about Paige?” Zebediah asked.
“I don’t know,” Claudia said slowly. “When Pete realized who it was, he grabbed the phone from Monica, but Annabelle hung up.”
Claudia stared at her food without seeing it. She had conjured an image of Annabelle trying to make contact with her only friend—Monica—desperately seeking help with whatever mess she was in. Something pretty bad, she speculated, to cause the normally stoic girl to become hysterical. She pushed away her plate, her appetite evaporating.
“What about caller ID?” Zebediah asked, voicing the question Claudia was asking herself.
“You heard Pete. I couldn’t ask him anything. He’s
livid
that Monica got involved.”
Kelly shook the bottle of ketchup and squeezed a dab onto her plate. “The police can capture the number she called from, can’t they?” she asked, dipping a home fry into the red sauce and popping it into her mouth.
The ketchup looked like blood and made Claudia feel sick. “I don’t know. At least she’s alive.”
Chapter 19
Zebediah forked a chunk of yellow squash into his mouth. “I’d like to know what caused the hysterics,” he said around it.
“Maybe they had an accident and they’re stranded somewhere,” Claudia said with hope in her voice. “You know, you hear stories—someone drives off a mountain road and isn’t found for days.”
“That would be the biggest irony,” Kelly said. “Seeing as that’s what happened to her mother.”
Zebediah put his hand over hers and squeezed. “Claudia,” he said gently, “if it were an accident, she wouldn’t have any reason to hang up on Pete. You’d better either call the police or her father.”
“I don’t have her father’s number,” Claudia said. “Someone in his position, it’s got to be unlisted.”
“Joel could get it for you,” Kelly said.
“Joel’s on his way to San Francisco.”
“One of your PI clients, then?”
Claudia glared at her, resisting to the idea of calling Dominic Giordano, although she knew her friends were right and he had to be told. She asked their waitress to pack her burger to-go. “I’m going to call someone who can
really
help.”
Jacob Barash was an Israeli security specialist living in L.A. Barash consulted Claudia when his high-profile clients received letters from stalkers. Sometimes the letters held threats, but more often than not, they simply fell into the rabid fan category. Her analysis of their handwritings helped him to assess the potential danger to his clients.
Barash answered her call to his cell phone and promised he would do his best to get Giordano’s number for her. She put up a carafe of coffee, but before it finished brewing, he was back with Dominic Giordano’s home telephone number.
“How’d you do that so fast?” Claudia asked in amazement.
He chuckled. “Claudia, if I told you that, I’d be out of business.”
She copied the information he gave her onto the pad she kept by the phone. “Thanks, Jacob, I owe you one.”
“No problem. I owe
you
plenty. In fact, I owe it to you to tell you that it’s probably not a good idea for you to get mixed up with this guy. I don’t know what your business is with him, but from what I hear, he’s involved with some pretty unsavory people.”
“This is not a social call, Jacob. Believe me, I wouldn’t be asking if it weren’t important.”
“Suit yourself, Claudia, but trust me, you should steer clear of him.”
“I appreciate the concern. I’ll be careful.”
Claudia hung up the phone and stared at the number she had written on her message pad, thinking about what Jacob had just told her. He was right; she did not want to get involved with Dominic Giordano. Nothing she had heard about him made her feel good.
She thought of the news reports that linked him with organized crime, and she wondered again whether his rumored associates might have any bearing on the disappearances of Annabelle and Paige. That frightened her more than other scenarios she had considered.
What kind of reception would she get from the girl’s father? She didn’t expect warm and fuzzy, but she hoped he would at least be happy to know his daughter was alive.
She picked up the phone and dialed, got a maid with Spanish-accented English who informed her that Mr. Giordano was out and not expected to return until late in the evening.
Claudia explained the urgent nature of her call and left a message for him to return her call as soon as possible.
Suddenly ravenous, she opened the Styrofoam box she had brought home from Cowboys and dug into the burger. She hadn’t given any thought to food all day, so even the reconstituted rubber that had started out as melted Swiss was sheer bliss. The sheer pleasure of food hitting her stomach nearly made her moan.
She was swallowing the last bite when the phone rang again.
Private Caller
.
“Ms. Claudia Rose?” A man’s voice, slight accent, similar to the maid she had spoken to earlier. “Please stand by for Mr. Dominic Giordano.”
There was a click, then hold music. Had the caller been anyone else, she would have immediately rung off. But for Annabelle’s sake, she waited. It was a full five minutes before she heard another click and a curt voice in her ear: “So, what’s the story?”
“Mr. Giordano?”
“You got something to tell me about my daughter? Or is there some other reason you’re interrupting my conference call?” He sounded like Tony Soprano.
“I’ve been working privately with Annabelle at the Sorensen Academy for a few weeks,” Claudia said. “She’s also spent a weekend at my home, and made friends with my niece, who’s the same age.” She paused, giving him a chance to respond, but he said nothing, so she continued. “Your daughter telephoned my niece about an hour ago, extremely upset. She didn’t give her location, nor whether Mrs. Sorensen was with her, but I was sure you’d want to know she called. I haven’t told the police yet.”
“Where do you live, Ms. Rose?”
“Playa del Reina, why?”
“Give Juan the address, and hold off on the police.” Another click; then the first man was back on the line, asking for directions. He said they were coming from the studios in Culver City—at this hour, a ten-minute drive.
Giordano’s brusque manner had put her on the defensive, but Claudia was curious to meet Annabelle’s father. She gave Juan her address, then went to brush her hair and freshen her makeup.
She changed from jeans into black linen slacks and a pullover sweater. Darkened her lashes, added a touch of blush, a spritz of perfume to heighten her confidence. It felt as though she were getting ready for an audience with a monarch. Given Giordano’s position at Sunmark Studios, she supposed, in a way, that’s what he was.
When the doorbell rang, she felt ready to meet the man who, according to his daughter, had sexually harassed her nanny then dismissed her, the man suspected of inappropriate behavior with young girls on his movie set.
A chauffeur in formal livery stood on the porch. Tall and broad across the chest, thick black hair slicked back, Hispanic.
He introduced himself as “Mr. G’s driver.” When he reached up to lean against the doorjamb his hand touched the top of the door. He could have been a bouncer at some nightclub. Beneath his coat Claudia detected the slight bulge of a holster, which made her nervous.
Bodyguard.
“You should bring a jacket,” he suggested. “It’s kinda cool outside.”
Over his shoulder she saw a long black limousine parked at the curb. “Why doesn’t he come up?” she asked.
The chauffeur gave a slight after-you bow. “Mr. Giordano would prefer it if you would come out to the car, miss.” He didn’t say it, but the implication wasn’t lost on her:
What Mr. Giordano wants, Mr. Giordano gets.
Making her go to him gave Giordano the upper hand and a chance to check her out as she came down the stairs.
It wasn’t the chauffeur’s fault that his boss was a control freak. Claudia grabbed the jacket she’d tossed over the back of a chair on returning home from Cowboys.
“Don’t worry, Juan,” she said, closing the door behind her. “I’ll behave myself.”
He gave her a grin, letting her know he got it.
Juan opened the limo’s back door and Claudia leaned inside. The man reclining against the plush leather seats beckoned her to join him, reinforcing the perception of royalty.
Even seated he looked tall, rangy. Unusual for a man of Italian descent. Long, slender legs encased in fabric that clung as if it had been sewn on him. He wore a fine camel blazer and black turtleneck with Mark Nason loafers. His skin looked as though it had seen too many hours in the tanning booth and he had a shock of fastidiously groomed salt-and-pepper hair, mostly gray on the sides with a neatly trimmed goatee and mustache. Eyes with too few smile lines at the corners.
“Dominic Giordano,” he said, offering a less-than-enthusiastic handshake.
Not very impressive for a man of his stature, Claudia decided. It left her feeling awkward about her own firm grip. She climbed in and settled next to him.
“Why are we here, Mr. Giordano?”