by Lowe, Sheila
Once the file had finished downloading, she clicked on the play arrow and they all fixed their attention on the monitor, waiting to see Heather Lloyd and, perhaps more importantly, her companion. With Grusha craning over one shoulder and Sonya squeezing in on the other side, Claudia felt like a sandwich filling, but her buoyant mood had returned. Nothing was going to prick that happy balloon this time.
There were a few seconds of silent black-and-white static before the video clip began to play. The first frame was filled with a bank of plate glass windows and a glass door that opened onto a snowy parking lot. A split second before the front doors slid open, a couple could be seen approaching the ski lodge.
Tall and willowy, the woman wore what appeared to be a white fleece jacket and ski pants with a furry hat. Recalling that Heather Lloyd had been a model, Claudia was unsurprised to see that she moved with the grace of one accustomed to cruising along a run-way. As they approached the entrance to the lodge, she pulled off the hat and shook out her short, dark hair.
Claudia, Grusha, and Sonya stared at the screen in silence, collectively holding their breath as they tried to see the woman’s face. “It’s like a mirror,” Sonya cried, pointing to the bright sunshine reflecting off the snow and the white clothing. “It’s like her face is a blank.”
The man in the scene wore a duckbill visored hat with earflaps, pulled low on his forehead. His head was bent and he was looking down as he listened to something she said. The couple strolled through the door together and disappeared from view. The entire clip had lasted less than ten seconds.
“Eto ploho,” Grusha murmured.
“What does that mean?” asked Claudia.
“What? Oh, it means is bad.”
“You can’t see much of his face at all,” Sonya said, not trying to conceal her disappointment.
“You were right, Claudia,” Grusha said with some satisfaction. She walked away from the screen, the scent of Clive Christian wafting behind her, and began pouring herself a mug of coffee. “Looks like Ian to me. Did you see his beard? Outside, before they come in and he look down.”
Claudia was less certain. “Do you really think so?” She reran the clip, focusing on the man. “Sonya’s right, you can’t see his features. His build seems too broad to be Ian.”
“That down jacket, it adds bulk.”
“But you do think the woman is Heather?”
“Yes, the poor girl. It is her—the vay she valk. Is terrible video, though. Hard to see anything clearly.”
“Detective Gray admitted it wasn’t very good quality. He wasn’t joking. It’s the lack of contrast that’s the problem. The sun on the snow washes out the image. Makes the security camera pretty worthless, doesn’t it?” Claudia frowned. “I think the man was deliberately avoiding the camera.”
“I think you may be right. But he looks to me like Ian.”
Claudia clicked the mouse and ran the clip a third time, stopping when the man came into the scene, zooming in as close as she could on his face. “It really is crappy quality, but I think he looks more like Marcus, except for the beard. But then, Marcus had a beard in his file photo. Do you know how long ago that photo was taken?”
Grusha blinked at her. “Marcus? You think he looks like Marcus?”
“You gave me Marcus’ folder with the others. Remember, I told you his handwriting had some red flags. That puts him in the suspect range, don’t you think?”
“I suppose it . . . No. Oh, please, Claudia, not Marcus.” Grusha’s voice had squeaked up an octave and she looked ready to cry.
Claudia met her eyes. “What’s the problem, Grusha? What is it about Marcus that you haven’t told me?”
“Nothing, nothing. I just—I like him a lot. I should not have given you his file. I gave you John Shaw’s, too, but you have not said much about him.”
“Shaw? That’s the photographer who went to Iraq? We talked about him having a head injury. He’s the only one of the men whose files you gave me that I haven’t met. Why are you trying to distract me from Marcus?”
“I am not. I am just reconsidering—”
“Grusha, his handwriting has red flags. Just because you like him, it doesn’t mean you should ignore the danger signs.”
The scrap of Grusha’s handwriting Susan had shared with her made more sense now. She remembered the covering strokes, which meant that information was literally being covered up, hidden from sight. As long as Grusha continued to conceal important details, Claudia’s hands were tied. She had to find some way to break through Grusha’s barriers that would allow her to be of effective help.
“Handwriting always tells the truth, Grusha. And Marcus, like the other two men, is problematic.”IT
The other woman set her chin in a stubborn line. “I do not vant to talk about it anymore.”
When she continued to refuse to discuss the subject any further, Claudia finally gave up the argument and typed up an e-mail to send Jim Gray, telling him what they’d concluded. They headed back to Grusha’s office, Sonya following with the coffee carafe and a plate of morning pastries.
For about ten minutes they kicked around ideas that steered clear of Marcus; then Sonya returned and stuck her head around the door. “Baroness Olinetsky, Avram Cohen is here for his appointment.”IT
“Oh, yes, I forgot he was coming. Vould you ask him to vait for just a moment more.” Grusha shuffled through some papers on her desk. “Claudia, I have a new match to show him. I vant to know what you think of her handwriting.”
“You’re matching him up after I told you he has the potential for violence?”
Grusha gave her a dark look and shoved a piece of paper at her. “Please just look at the handwriting.”
“Why bother to ask my opinion if you’re just going to ignore it?” Claudia said, looking at the sample. “How old is she?”
“Twenty-two. Some of my clients vant a schoolgirl. This is as close as I vill come to supplying one. And don’t bother to feel sorry for her. These girls are looking for someone rich; that I can tell you. Some of them are also looking for a father.”
“Like Jessica McAllister, you mean?”
Grusha huffed. “Not that one. It was her own father who insisted that I find an older man for her. Then he refused to be happy vit every one of the men I brought her. It did not matter what little Jessica thought.”IT
The handwriting Grusha had passed across to Claudia was neat and precise, small and simplified, with clear spacing throughout. The large, showy signature with its flourished capital letters was an incongruence that revealed something important about the writer.
“She’s pretty well organized and has good self-control. But she’s got a temper—see those sharp little tics on the beginnings and endings of some strokes? There’s also the disparity between the signature and the text. It tells me that she has two different personalities. I don’t mean like a multiple personality,” she hurried to say when she saw alarm spreading over Grusha’s face. “I mean she feels one way about herself on the inside, but what she projects on the outside is something different. Her true self is more retiring than she appears. The handwriting looks foreign. Where did she learn to write?”
Grusha grinned as broadly as the Cheshire cat. “You are absolutely correct. Her name is Aisha Negasi. She is model from Ethiopia. Just uses her first name, Aisha.” She passed Claudia an eight-by-ten glossy magazine cover that displayed a remarkably beautiful woman with glowing bronze skin. A strategically draped scrap of multicolored silky fabric showed off a derriere so round and high that Claudia wondered if it had been airbrushed. Raven-colored hair, brushed back from a high forehead, curled almost to Aisha’s waist. Bee-stung lips, glossed to look wet, parted seductively. Her eyes sparked with defiance: Come and get me, if you dare.
“So this is who you have in mind for Avram.” Claudia chewed thoughtfully on her lower lip as she ran through her mental database. She recalled his Hebrew and English scripts and mentally compared them to what she had before he
r. “She has the self-confidence to stand up to him, and the independence not to rely on him to fulfill her every need. I’m more concerned about the temper tics. Considering how short his own fuse is, they could have some monumental fights.”
“Fighting is okay,” Grusha said. “Good sex afterward.”
“That’s all well and good, as long as there’s no violence, but I’m not convinced of that in Avram’s case. And remember, I told you he’s sexually frustrated and may be impotent.”
“Yes, I remember, and I cannot believe it. You must have made a mistake on that one. I must not keep him vaiting any longer. Claudia, dear, vould you please vait outside for me. Ve have more to talk about later.”
Chapter 23
Although he was the one with the appointment, Avram apologized charmingly to Claudia for interrupting her meeting. He was sporting a navy blue blazer today, no tie; black hair curled from the open neck of his shirt. As soon as he’d closed the door to Grusha’s office, Sonya sent Claudia a fluttery look and breathed, “Isn’t he gorgeous?”
Claudia grinned back at her. “Oh, sure. If you like the dark, rugged type, and apparently you do.”
“He was telling me about being in the army in Israel. He was a fighter pilot. That’s so macho!”
“He knows you think so, too.” Claudia sat down to wait for Grusha to finish with Avram, flipping through the People magazine that Sonya offered her. The magazine wasn’t her standard fare, but she told herself that a bit of mind candy would be good for her. She was engrossed in an article about Jennifer Aniston and her latest travails when she heard a loud beep come from Sonya’s desk—the short tones that on her own cell phone indicated a voice mail or text message.
Sonya grabbed the phone and looked at the screen. She darted a mischievous look at Claudia. “It’s Avram’s. He put it here when we were talking. He must have forgotten it. Someone sent him a video. I wonder if I—”
“No, let it go,” Claudia advised. “He’ll get it himself later.”
Sonya ignored her and began pressing buttons. She gave a sharp inhale, then, “Oh my god!” With an expression of revulsion, she dropped the phone back on the desk. She couldn’t have looked more stunned if the thing had grown teeth and bitten her. “I can’t believe he would be into that.”
“What is it?” Claudia sprang up from her chair and hurried over. Picking up the phone, she looked at the screen, where the assistant had clicked on the play button. She saw the flash of a knife; a trickle of blood where it was held to the throat of a young girl.
A while back, she had been connected to a case involving sadomasochism. What she had been exposed to then was nursery school compared to this brutal gang bang of a victim who was surely underage. What was Avram Cohen doing with this nauseating trash?
“Somebody must have sent this to the wrong phone number,” Claudia said, trying to keep her voice calm. “It’s easy to do. I’ve done it myself.” Though not with anything like this.
Sonya had a stricken look. “Did you see that girl’s face? She was scared to death. I don’t think she was acting.”
“I don’t know,” Claudia said. “It’s pretty sick, either way.”
“I just can’t believe he would be into something like that.” Sonya shuddered. “It’s so messed up!”
At that moment, Grusha’s office door opened and Claudia slipped the phone behind her, back on the desk. “Don’t say anything,” she murmured. “I’ll talk to Grusha privately.”
Sonya busied herself at her computer and didn’t look up when Avram came over. “Did I leave my BlackBerry here? I can’t—oh, here it is.”
The screen display had gone dark, so he didn’t know they had been looking at it. He gave Sonya an odd look when she kept her head down and didn’t flirt with him the way she usually did. “Well, okay then. Good-bye, Sonya, Claudia.”
Claudia just nodded at him, not trusting herself to speak.
When she heard about the video, Grusha’s face drained of color. “My god, I’ll get sued! This is horrible!”IT
“I told you he’s a high-risk client,” Claudia agreed. “He might or might not act out violently himself. It’s possible he could sublimate those tendencies into watching other people commit violent acts on video. It still doesn’t make for a healthy relationship.”IT
“But I have arranged for him to meet Aisha tomorrow at the party. What am I going to do? I cannot let her know, and I cannot afford to offend him, either. What’s the matter vit Donna Pollard? She should have seen this in him! Why do I have a psychologist on the payroll if—” Grusha was breathing heavily, her voice growing shrill.
“Grusha, stop,” Claudia protested. “This isn’t productive. You’ll have to figure out what you’re going to do about Avram, but right now, there’s a more pressing problem. People are dying. That’s why I’m here, to help you figure out the culprit.”IT
Grusha took a deep breath and caught hold of herself. “You are right. Yes. Ve must stay focused.”
Claudia had thought of something else. “The members whose handwriting you gave me are all male—the ones who are alive. But what about the female club members? Could any of them have a motive? We have to consider everyone.”IT
People were motivated by all sorts of needs—power, revenge, security, love, money. The type who would go to the extreme of attempting to destroy Grusha’s business would have to suffer from a serious personality disorder, and if that were the case, indications of that personality disorder would appear in their handwriting.
She wondered whether Grusha’s belief that a client was attempting to sabotage her business was even valid. If it wasn’t, she was at least a little paranoid. Such a despicable act as sabotage would take some serious motivation.
Grusha’s voice snapped her back. “I have thought and thought about everyone who might vant to hurt me. I vill think more. But Claudia, something else. It occurs to me that you do not have to vait for tomorrow to meet John Shaw. You can go this afternoon to his gallery.”
“He has a gallery?”
“Right now, he is displaying his own vork. At other times, other photographers and artists show their vork there if they impress him. Just go and have a look. You can have my car drop you off and take a cab back to your hotel afterward. The gallery is only a few blocks. It won’t be busy on a Friday afternoon. Most of the business comes at night.”
Chapter 24
The Lower East Side of Manhattan had, for most of its history, been a neighborhood of working-class im migrants. Its reputation as a drug- and crime-infested slum had made an about-face early in the twenty-first century, when gentrification of the old neighborhood began to take hold and spread. Soon, the Lower East Side had turned trendy with a capital T. Upscale restaurants, boutiques, and bars replaced most of the old tenement buildings. New art galleries popped up everywhere. Shaw’s was one of them. According to Grusha, he had renovated a convenience store. His name was emblazoned on the plate glass window in six-inch-high letters.
With street noise ringing in her ears, Claudia entered silence. Dark wood floors, polished to a high sheen. With the exception of a small round table in the corner and a glass stand bearing an arrangement of dried flowers, there was no furniture.
The empty space put the focus on a series of floor-to-ceiling photographs hung on whitewashed walls, lit by spotlights: New York skylines. A blue filter made the landmarks appear unicolored, seen as through smoke; misshapen, but recognizable.
At the far end of the gallery, a doorway revealed a series of rooms laid out like boxcars, one flowing into the next. Each room had a unique theme. Each was a little smaller than the preceding one, the lighting subtly dimmer.
In the second room, the photographs were of inner city scenes and people. In every shot, the subjects were faced away from the camera, their attitude revealed in body language: defiance, desperation, despair.
The third room featured nudes in black and white—like the buildings in the first room, they had been shot slightly out of
focus. The photographs had a haunted quality that raised a feeling of unease in Claudia, but she couldn’t quite identify why.
The last room was the smallest and the darkest, in lighting and in tone—a study of pain and suffering. The photographs, all scenes from desert warfare, were larger than life-sized, hung one to a wall.
In the first three rooms, the photos were deliberately out of focus, or were black and white. In this series, the browns were muted, the reds enhanced in gory brilliance.
The first was a close-up portrait of an African American soldier gazing at something or someone off camera, his face wet with tears. The depths of his sadness permeated the little room and penetrated to the core of Claudia’s being. The emotion was uncomfortable, and she quickly moved on, but it got worse.
A dead soldier, prone in the sand, both limbs missing from the left side of his ragged body.
An Arab mother cradling her child in her arms. The viewer knew there could be no hope for the seared flesh and the black hole burned into the child’s back by mortar fire.
The next image had been taken in a prison cell. A group of laughing soldiers surrounding a cowering prisoner, naked but for a black hood that covered him to his shoulders. One of the soldiers held aloft a vile trophy of war for the camera: a severed finger.
The pictures in this darkroom of abominations repelled her, made her want to run away. Yet there was also something so compelling about them that Claudia found herself continuing to stand there and soak up the ghastly scenes.
The last photograph was of a young marine, hardly more than a boy, really. His bloody mouth was fixed in an endless rictus of agony as his platoon mates looked on, helpless, bearing severe injuries themselves. The photographer had managed to capture the utter degradation of human spirit.
“My god, he’s too young to shave.” Claudia had spoken aloud without intending to.