Inkslingers Ball (A Forensic Handwriting Mystery)

by Sheila Lowe

  “You called me,” Claudia said. “Who’s this?”

  “Angel. Lemme talk to Annabelle.”

  “It’s after midnight. She’s asleep.”

  “I gotta talk to her.”

  “Are you okay? Why are you whispering?”

  “I don’t want my boyfriend to hear. Just wake her up, okay? It’s important.”

  “Sorry, I’m not waking her up. She has school in the morning. Don’t you?”

  There was a long silence. Then the tremulous whisper. “I’m in big trouble. Shit. What am I gonna do?”

  “What kind of trouble? Is there something I can help you with?”

  “He’s gonna hurt me.”

  “Who is?”

  “Oh shit, I screwed up bigtime.”

  Claudia’s heart skipped. The girl sounded genuinely frightened. “Angel, tell me where you are; I’ll call the police.”

  “No! I’d be screwed even worse.”

  “Who’s threatening you?”

  “Forget it. I need to talk to Annabelle.”

  “Angel, let me help you. I’ll—”

  “Fuckit. Tell her she can get her phone back at the coffee place right after school.”

  “Wait, Angel—” But it was too late, the girl had clicked off.

  ***

  “You should’ve woken me up.” Annabelle snatched a box of cereal off the shelf, spilling granola onto the countertop in her haste. “She needed to talk to me.”

  “What were you going to do for her after midnight? If it was an emergency, you couldn’t help her, and believe me, I would have called the police if I’d known where she was. I tried calling back, but it went right to your voicemail. She must have turned the phone off.”

  Annabelle let out a deep, exasperated sigh and dug in the dishwasher for a clean bowl. “Jeeeez, Claudia, you’re just like a mom.”

  The comment was intended as an insult, but Claudia, taking secret pleasure in it, congratulated herself that she had done the right thing in not waking Annabelle. Still, she couldn’t help being worried about Angel and hoped she was all right. Who was she afraid of? Crash?

  Claudia poured herself a mug of Starbucks breakfast blend and took a carton of cream from the fridge. She sat down and poured a generous dollop into her mug, then added sugar. “Tyler’s is the coffee place Angel meant, right? Where you met her the other day? Assuming you were telling the truth about that.”

  “Of course I was telling the truth!” Annabelle plopped into her chair, her show of righteous indignation ironic in the face of her recent deception.

  Claudia let it slide. “At least you’ll get your phone back. How’s the tattoo today?”

  “Itchy.”

  “Well, don’t scratch it.”

  Annabelle leaned low over her cereal bowl and scooped a spoonful of granola. “Duh. Of course I’m not scratching it. I slap it. Crash told me to treat it like a cut. He said to put moisturizer on it.”

  “I guess as long as you’re going to get an illegal tattoo, it’s smart to listen to the guy’s advice. But what you did is still unacceptable. And I’m still amazed that you did it.”

  Chapter Seven

  Tuesday morning

  Even before he entered the rear door of Kitchens-4-U, the odor of soggy charred wood and chemicals clogged Jovanic’s nostrils. The store next door to Under My Skin had suffered significant smoke and water damage in the fire department’s efforts to knock down the blaze.

  Two men who stood near the boarded-up front windows, their backs toward Jovanic, turned as he came in. He observed a camera strap attached to a professional-looking piece of equipment hanging around the neck of one man. The other, who he assumed was the owner, was instructing the photographer on where to shoot, no doubt for the insurance claim he would be making.

  “Reza Madani?” Jovanic called out, weaving his way across the space through stainless steel kitchens, country kitchens, Cape Cod kitchens, and a few other styles he wouldn’t be able to identify on a test. By the time he was halfway across the floor he was regretting that he had not brought along a HEPA mask to filter the overpowering stench seeping through the common wall between the storefronts.

  The man he had ID’d as Madani glanced over at him. “Yes? What is it?”

  Jovanic displayed his badge wallet. “Detective Jovanic. We spoke on the phone earlier.”

  Madani, a slight man in short-sleeved shirt and jeans, curled his lip, unimpressed. “Well, you can see I’m a little busy now.”

  “I won’t take much of your time, sir. Just a few questions to help with the investigation.”

  The owner gave an exaggerated sigh to make sure Jovanic knew just how busy he was, then turned back to the photographer. “Make sure you get it all. I pay a big insurance; now I get my money back. Don’t leave anything out. I’m watching you.” He turned back to Jovanic, who caught the photographer’s own eye roll. “Come into my office. It’s smell better.”

  The small office was located at the rear of the building close to the door through which Jovanic had just entered. Unadorned concrete block walls, a cheap Formica-topped desk littered with paperwork. Security bars covered the windows like the ones that had turned Travis Navarette’s tattoo parlor into a deathtrap.

  Madani squeezed behind his desk and plopped into his chair, gesturing at the barred window behind Jovanic. “What you supposed to do? No bars and let the criminals rip you off whenever they want, or get burned alive?”

  Jovanic seated himself in one of two plastic chairs and handed the man his business card. “Did you know Travis Navarette?”

  “That his name? Next door? He was my neighbor for couple months. That’s how much I know him.”

  “Ever have any conversations with him?”

  Reza Madani gave him a skeptical look. “This is Venice, Detective. Who has conversations? He’s not a customer, I got no need to sit around, chatting.”

  This was not a promising start. Jovanic tried again. “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “I don’t keep no log.”

  “Best guess.”

  Madani pushed back in his chair, crossed one leg over the other and stared at his sandaled foot. “Far as I know, he was there in the place when I left yesterday at seven. I saw his motorcycle.”

  “But you didn’t see him?”

  “No.”

  “Was anyone else over there?”

  “How do I know that? I just saw his bike—one of those pocket rockets. I don’t peep inside the back door to check on him.”

  “Do you remember whether any cars were in the lot?”

  “Just mine. But people park out front or on the side. There’s street parking. They can go in from the front. I don’t watch. How do I know who goes in and out?”

  “What kind of neighbor was he?”

  “Seem like an okay kid, never bother me. Just one time I go over there and ask him to turn the music down—Grunge, I think they call it. Loud. Ugly. He apologize and turn it down right away. I was surprised. The way he look, I figure I was gonna have some problems with him.”

  “The way he looked?”

  “You know—head shaved bald, except for stupid little rug on top. Long, ratty beard halfway down to his belt. If my son look like that I disown him. That guy wore a lot of necklaces—what do they call that? Tribal jewelry? Big piercing on his ears. They think that look good? Every time I see him he’s wearing a necklace with black and white skulls. Tattoos all over his arms. So I thought he might be trouble.”

  “But he was cooperative with you about the music?”

  “Right away, he turns it down.”

  “Are you aware of any problems he might have had with any of the other neighbors, or anyone else?”

  “How would I kno
w? That was only time I talk to him.”

  Jovanic gave a brief smile. “No rolling out the welcome mat for the new neighbor?”

  Madani spread out his hands. “Detective, don’t think I’m an unfriendly guy, but I got enough friends. I keep my nose out of his business, I expect him to keep out of mine.” He paused. “Look like somebody didn’t like him. Now, I gotta get these insurance papers done. Sorry I got nothing to help you.”

  “One more question, Mr. Madani. It’s important. Did you ever notice anyone particular who hung around the shop? Since Mr. Navarette didn’t have any employees, we’re looking for any acquaintances or clients that we can talk to.”

  The owner, who had risen, ready to dismiss him, paused. “Maybe you try the girl.”

  “The girl?”

  “Pretty little thing, but all covered in makeup, dress up like a tart. Young—a teenager, I think. She’s there almost every day the last couple weeks.”

  “Would you happen to have a name?”

  “Maybe I do. Or maybe just a nickname he call her.”

  Jovanic waited.

  “I was on the way out to my car. This was a couple days ago. The guy—Travis, you said? He was standing at the back door and they were sort of arguing. I hear him say, “Come on, Angel, you can’t do this no more.””

  Jovanic made a quick note in his notebook. “Did you hear anything else?”

  “Seemed like he was telling her not to come back, and she was crying that she was gonna be in trouble.”

  “You saw she was crying, or you got that impression?”

  Reza Madani wiped his fingers down his cheeks. “All that makeup—that black stuff on her eyes—it was running down her face. She was a mess, getting hysterical. Then he saw me looking, he pulled her inside and slammed the door. That’s all I know.”

  The information might be significant. Why hadn’t Madani offered it sooner? “How did she get here?” Jovanic asked. “Did she park in back?”

  “I never see a car or anything else. Maybe she walk.”

  “So, other than this girl who he referred to as Angel, did you notice anyone over there regularly? See him arguing with anyone else?”

  “Like I told you, I got my own business to look after.”

  Seeing that he wasn’t going to get any further, Jovanic rose. “Thank you, Mr. Madani. You’ve got my card if you think of anything. My mobile number is on it. Call any time, day or night.”

  “Fine, fine.” Madani walked him to the door. For the first time in their short visit, Jovanic heard something like compassion. “I hope you get the bastards who did this. He seem like an okay kid.”

  Under My Skin was located on the corner of the block. One of the detectives on Jovanic’s four-person homicide team, Huey Hardcastle, had already canvassed the other stores within the perimeter that was set up on the previous day by patrol officers. Nobody knew anything, nobody saw anyone.

  According to Jovanic’s conversation with the LAFD Battalion Chief, a 911 call had been logged at 1:57 a.m. Monday morning. First-in engine company arrived on scene at 2:01 and found the tattoo shop fully involved. With all the furniture and papers that had been in the storefront it had gotten really hot, really fast. Then, in the Chief’s words, the whole thing went to hell in a handbasket and the fire started spreading to the kitchen design store next door, turning it into a three-alarm blaze.

  The victim, Travis Navarette, was found within a few feet of the back door. The key was in the lock, but likely disoriented by the heavy smoke and flames, Navarette apparently had succumbed to smoke inhalation.

  He had escaped the flames, had come so close to getting out. Jovanic shuddered; a terrifying and horrific death. Driving the department Crown Vic, he made a left onto Courtleigh Drive and drove along the street, turning at the bottom of the cul-de-sac so that his vehicle pointed toward the open end of the block. A quick double-check of his pocket notebook gave him the address he was looking for. He had not gotten into the habit of using his iPhone for notes and doubted he ever would. Technology had its place, but he preferred to rely on his own handwriting, a habit that had earned Claudia’s approval.

  Paul Warner, the 911 caller who had reported the fire, lived in Mar Vista, a few miles from the ruined tattoo parlor. Jovanic pulled his vehicle to the curb behind an old stake bed truck parked in front of a modest fourplex a few houses down the street from his destination. He crossed the sidewalk to the one-story building and made his way past a threadbare lawn. Warner’s unit was the second door along the path.

  Jovanic could hear the sound of Whoopie Goldberg’s voice on The View through the door. The sound was muted when he knocked and the door opened, framing a man in the jamb.

  “You the detective?” The man opened the door wider when Jovanic confirmed that he was. “C’mon in. I’m Paul.” He stuck out his hand and after they shook, stepped back from the door, inviting Jovanic to enter the small, neat living room. “Something to drink, man? Coffee, water?”

  “No thanks, I’m good.”

  “Okay, have a seat. There’s not a whole lot to tell.”

  Jovanic sat with his back to the TV, ignoring Whoopie, who, as he seated himself on one end of the sofa, was gesticulating at a thin blonde woman. Warner took the other end and picked up a coffee mug from the end table. “I heard on the TV this morning someone died in that fire.”

  “How’d you happen to be in the neighborhood Sunday night?” Jovanic asked.

  “Sundays I play sax at Smooth Sam’s—it’s a jazz club in Santa Monica.”

  “I’ve been there.”

  “Is it the awesome burgers, or you like jazz?”

  Jovanic smiled, creating a connection between them. “Good food, good music. Can’t ask for more than that.”

  Warner nodded approvingly. “So, anyway, I stayed for a while after the show, jammin’ with the guys. Left around 1:30. I took Lincoln home.”

  Jovanic waited while he paused, and gave him some space to gather his thoughts.

  “There wasn’t a whole lot of traffic—Sunday night; well, Monday morning, I guess. So, I’d just crossed over Venice and I saw this kinda orangey-red glow in the sky about a block away on my right. Then I saw smoke. When I got closer and saw the flames, I grabbed my phone and called 911.”

  “Did you notice anyone outside the building? Any vehicles or people? Anyone watching the fire?”

  “Naw, man, I cruised by kinda slow while I made the call, but I didn’t see anyone. I almost didn’t call it in. I thought somebody else would. Did anyone?”

  “No.”

  “What the hell’s wrong with people? I couldn’t have been the only person drove by, even that time of night.” He shook his head as if perplexed. “I heard on the news it was arson. There was a shitload of flames in the front of the store, like it started there. Molotov cocktails or something, right?”

  “Something like that. Is there anything else you can remember that might be helpful? Anything that seemed unusual or out of place? Anything at all?”

  “Sorry, dude, I didn’t wait for the fire trucks. I made the call and buzzed on home.”

  Jovanic gave him a business card, went through the “call me if you think of anything” routine and took his leave.

  Realizing that he was starving, Jovanic stopped at a mini mall on Venice Blvd. He grabbed an apple fritter and a coffee and sat at a small table at the rear of the deserted donut shop, reviewing the list he had made at his desk before starting out that morning. His partner, Randy Coleman, was running a background on Travis Navarette, looking for next of kin and acquaintances of the victim, anything that would provide evidence leading to his killer and the motive. Although they had a pretty good idea of who was behind the arson—Navarette’s competitor—he would also background Paul Warner. You never knew; sometimes a firebug got off on re
porting their own dirty work.

  Jovanic was in the men’s room, washing the glaze off his fingers, when his phone buzzed in his pocket. He’d had the ringer turned off, but Coleman’s number came up on the screen.

  “Yeah, Randy, what’ve you got?”

  “Nothing on next of kin so far.”

  “Okay, keep looking. And make sure you get a background on the owner of the store next door. Name’s Reza Madani. He’s not too broken up about filing a claim with his insurance company. Check his financials.”

  “Will do, JJ.”

  Coleman knew Jovanic hated being called JJ. He must be pissed at being stuck on the desk. Jovanic ignored it. “What are Scott and Hardcastle up to?” RJ (Rebecca) Scott was the fourth member of his team.

  “Scott called in sick; said she was puking.”

  Half the personnel in the office were out with a virulent flu, so this was not surprising news. Coleman continued, lowering his voice confidentially. “As for Officer Half-Ass? Playing solitaire on his iPhone.”

  A fizz of anger made Jovanic grind his teeth. Hardcastle was getting lazier by the day. He would have to be dealt with, but now was not the right moment. “What’s the other thing you’ve got?”

  “The uniform you left on Under My Skin just called in. Client showed up for an appointment, hadn’t heard about the fire. You wanna talk to him?”

  Jovanic tried to bite back his annoyance, but it leaked into his tone. “Of course I want to talk to him, Randy. What do you think?”

  “Okay. You ready? Here’s the number.”

  The tattoo customer’s name was Jack Solis in West Hollywood. According to Coleman, Solis was pretty shaken up by the news.

  “Did they keep him there?” Jovanic asked.

  “Nope. You’re gonna have to catch up with him in WEHO.”