Falkenberg shifted his bulk, fidgety. Claudia glanced over at him, sensing that the abrupt movement was intended to extinguish some internal reaction to Paige’s words. She murmured something vague and spread open the folder Paige handed to her, leafing through the documents she found inside.
Every signature on the checks, trust deeds, and business contracts had been executed in a bold, firm hand. Extra-large capital letters, elaborate, written with a flourish.
Flipping over one of the checks, Claudia ran her fingertips across the back, noting that Torg Sorensen had exerted pressure on the pen strong enough to emboss the paper. To a handwriting analyst, it all added up to one thing: an inflated ego and an aggressive need for power. Torg had been the type of man you couldn’t push around. Paige’s husband could not have been easy to live with.
Returning the items to their folder, Claudia replaced it on the table with a sharp reminder to herself to stay out of Sorensen’s personality.
A major area of her handwriting-analysis practice consisted of personality assessment and forensic behavioral profiling. But in cases like this one, her job would be to verify the authorship of a document.
Sometimes it was tempting to blur the lines. Sitting in her living room, no one could prevent Claudia from privately visualizing the man who had penned that showy signature. But in the courtroom her two specialties had to be kept separate.
If she accepted this case, her task would be to compare the true, known signatures of Torg Sorensen with the one on his will, and offer an opinion as to its authenticity. Period.
Inside the next file she found three checks, a grant deed, and a power of attorney. The signatures on these documents bore little resemblance to the first group. The letter forms had deteriorated to little more than a shaky line, and the writing stroke exposed the tremor of an unsteady hand.
Claudia picked out a grant deed and studied the signature. The name
Torg Sorensen
rose at an extreme angle above the printed signature line, the final letters fading into a feeble trail of ink. The weakened state of this signature seemed even more than the others to beg the question of why someone in such obvious poor physical, and possibly mental, condition was signing legal documents.
“Is there any question about his competency to sign?” Claudia asked.
“None,” Falkenberg put in before Paige could respond. “I’ll testify that he was completely lucid when he signed it. There was no mental impairment. The children wouldn’t have a leg to stand on if they tried to use that argument.”
“So you’re certain that all the documents in this folder were signed
after
the stroke?”
“Yes,” Paige confirmed, still looking as if she might break into tears. “He
insisted
on signing those papers himself.”
The third and final folder remained on the table between them. This was the crux of the case, the reason why Paige had sought the help of a handwriting expert: the key document containing the signature contested by her stepchildren.
This folder contained a certified copy of Torg Sorensen’s will. A probate court stamp on the first page indicated that the original was on file in the County of Los Angeles Superior Court.
Claudia viewed the shaky scrawl with a practiced eye. Decline in writing quality was to be expected after a major assault to the brain like a stroke. It could also make proving authenticity tougher. Before she could form an opinion about the signature she would need to take measurements and view the documents through her stereo microscope. Her mind had already begun taking inventory of the writing style, the alignment, the master patterns.
“How old was Mr. Sorensen when he died?” she asked.
“Uh, he was, uh . . . seventy-three.”
Claudia did a quick mental calculation. That meant Torg Sorensen was at least twice Paige’s age.
As if reading her mind, color flooded her client’s face. “I know people think I’m just some bimbo who married an old man for his money, but it’s not true! And I didn’t forge his signature, either! I
loved
him.”
Sensing his mistress’ distress, Mikki jumped up with a sharp yip. He pressed his front paws against her breast, licking her chin and doing a little cha-cha on her lap.
Bert Falkenberg frowned and cleared his throat, antsy again.
He doesn’t know what to do with her.
“I know it’s got to be upsetting to be accused,” Claudia said gently. “If I take this on, I’m going to need a list of his medications.”
Paige frowned. “Why would you need that?”
“Some drugs affect handwriting, so I have to know what he was taking. I’ll also want to see his medical records, so I’ll know exactly what his physical condition was at the time he signed the will.”
“He had a stroke. He—”
“Did he sign on his own, or was someone guiding his hand? Was he lying down or sitting up? Was he wearing corrective lenses? What kind of writing surface did he use? What time did he take his meds?” Claudia met Paige’s bemused expression with a smile. “It’s important for me to know these things, especially in a case like this, where there’s such a major change in the handwriting. I’ll give you a list of questions that I’ll need answers to.”
Paige looked exhausted. Her hand moved rhythmically over the little dog’s fur, but her eyes were glued to the paper in Claudia’s hand. “At first he couldn’t use his right hand at all. Then he started working with a physical therapist, and after they released him from the hospital we hired a private therapist. When was that, Bert?”
“Two and a half weeks after he had the first stroke.”
“He was pretty impatient and difficult to deal with.” Paige’s lips twisted in a cheerless smile and her next words confirmed what Claudia had seen in Torg Sorensen’s handwriting. “The truth is, he was
always
difficult. He—” She seemed to catch herself. “About a week after he came home from the hospital, he had me call his secretary over to the house. They were locked up in his room together all afternoon. That must be when he changed his will. It was a couple days later the second stroke hit him and he went into a coma. He never came out of it.”
The will had been witnessed but not notarized, which was surprising, given the size of the Sorensen estate. A mobile notary could have been called in. Why had that not been done?
Two witness signatures appeared under the name of Torg Sorensen, testator. Bert Falkenberg was one of them. He’d written a small, illegible signature that slanted to the left. His handwriting told Claudia that he would not be forthcoming unless there was something in it for him. Left-slanted writers were particularly hard to get to know. The illegibility added another layer of emotional distance and said that he guarded his emotions well.
The second witness signature was larger, more conventional. The name
Laura Miller
was penned in the Palmer model common to older women who’d had religious school training, and was typical of many who worked in administrative jobs.
“Is Laura Miller the secretary?” Claudia asked.
Paige said that she was. The question was more out of curiosity than a need to know. Paige’s attorney would undoubtedly question the witnesses, but unless they were accused of forging the signature on the will, Claudia wouldn’t need to interview them herself.
The rude bleat of a cell phone interrupted again. This time it was Falkenberg who dug out his mobile phone and checked the screen.
“Dammit. Annabelle.” He hauled himself off the sofa, excused himself, and headed for the front door as he flipped open the phone.
Claudia watched him go, curious about who Annabelle might be and why she had called twice in just a few minutes.
Paige cleared her throat before offering some explanation. “She’s new at the Sorensen Academy,” she said. “She’s finding it difficult to settle in.”
“Oh, is it a residential school?”
“A few of the girls live on site. Annabelle’s one of them. The trouble is, the other girls are constantly picking on her because she’s . . . different from them. She doesn’t even
try
to fit in.”
“Different, how?”
Paige looked uncomfortable, as though she was sorry she had opened that line of conversation. She leaned forward. “This is confidential, right?”
Getting Claudia’s assurance, she continued. “Annabelle tried to kill herself a couple of months ago. She came to us right out of the hospital. That’s why we can’t ignore her phone calls. She’s still pretty fragile.”
The front door opened and Bert returned. “I’ll talk to her when we get back,” he said, lowering himself onto the sofa beside Paige.
“She’s really taken a liking to Bert,” Paige said. “He’s become kind of a father figure for some of the girls.”
Claudia felt a stirring of interest about Annabelle, who had been so unhappy that she had attempted suicide, yet felt comfortable calling this bear of a man for—what? Support? He did have that big, cuddly look. Maybe she saw him as a teddy bear. A young girl might be drawn to that kind of man.
An image of her own father, loving but ineffectual in the face of her mother’s vitriol, reached out from the past. She firmly pushed the image away.
“Do you work at the school, Mr. Falkenberg?”
He nodded. “I help Mrs. Sorensen with the business end of running the Sorensen Academy. The administration of a private school is quite different from a public one.”
“I’m sure it must be.” Returning her attention to the case, Claudia indicated the file folders on the table. “I have to be frank, Mrs. Sorensen. Because of the physiological effects of the stroke on your husband’s handwriting, this is a difficult case. I’ll do my examination and let you know whether I think I can help.”
Paige visibly sagged with disappointment. “But Bert
saw
him sign it. Didn’t you, Bert?”
“Yes, yes, that’s right, I did.”
Paige’s body strained toward Claudia, something like desperation showing in her eyes. “You
have
to testify that his signature is genuine—that’s what I’m paying for!”
“What you’re paying for is my objective opinion, and that’s all I can promise you.” Stacking the folders together in a neat pile, Claudia slid them back across the coffee table with an apologetic shrug. “I’m not your lawyer, Mrs. Sorensen. I’m an advocate of the court, and that means I deal with the truth,
whatever
it may be.”
“But I’m
telling
you the truth—he signed the will.”
For a moment, no one spoke. The sudden roar of a leaf blower outside shattered the silence, startling them. The sound rose and fell under the window, amplifying the tension in the room as the gardener walked the noisy machine up the pathway. The return to quiet when he switched it off was as jarring as the racket it made.
Bert Falkenberg abruptly snatched the file folders from the table and tossed them into his briefcase, giving Claudia an icy glance. “If you can’t handle this case, maybe you’ll refer us to someone who can.”
Chapter 2
Stunned by Falkenberg’s sudden change in attitude, Claudia felt her cheeks flush with anger. She stared back at him, battling to keep her emotions in check.
“You’re welcome to take your case to someone else if you think you’d be more comfortable. I don’t testify unless I can prove my opinion based on the evidence given me.”
Falkenberg’s cold expression relaxed into a grin and he offered a conciliatory hand, which Claudia ignored. “Ah, no hard feelings, Ms. Rose,” he said, dropping his hand when he saw that she was not going to take it. “I just wanted to see if you’re easily rattled. The attorney representing Mrs. Sorensen’s stepchildren is Frank Norris—ever run into him? He’s a pit bull. We need someone who’s going to be a strong witness. You’ll do fine. There won’t be any problem with you taking your time and doing whatever you have to.”
Paige scratched the little dog’s head rapidly with her sculpted French acrylics. “Just give her the money, Bert.”
Falkenberg took an envelope from his briefcase and tossed it onto the table. “Here’s your retainer agreement and the check. Parsons will schedule you to testify at the hearing next week—assuming you agree that the signature is genuine, of course.”
Of course.
They drove away a few minutes later, leaving Claudia feeling unsettled but unsure why. She thought about the discrepancy between her impression of the Paige Sorensen she had spoken to on the phone and the Paige who had showed up for their appointment.
Then she considered Bert Falkenberg’s prying eyes going over her living room with more than just passing interest. Neither felt quite right, and the
something
continued to niggle at her.
Carrying a mug of fresh Brazilian roast in one hand and Paige Sorensen’s files, which Bert had returned to her, in the other, Claudia went upstairs to her office, trying to put her finger on what was bothering her.
With land at a premium in the small beach community of Playa del Reina, homes were built
up
rather than out. Claudia’s house, which consisted of two stories built over a garage, was a prime example. On the second floor, an interior wall had been demolished to create an office that ran the length of the house, but client meetings always took place in the downstairs living room. Her workspace was private and off-limits.
In her office, she fed a meditation CD into the stereo, then dropped into her chair behind the scarred old executive desk. She closed her eyes, trying to get in touch with the sense of words left unspoken.
Breathe, one-two-three . . . Focus on the sounds coming from the stereo: water gurgling, wood flute, loons warbling. Four-five-six . . . vapor bowls humming.
But instead of decompressing, her brain continued to buzz with a jumble of unwelcome images. Her mind insisted on returning to a letter she had received earlier that morning by fax—a court judgment against a client for whom she’d recently testified.