by Gerry O'Hara
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Text copyright © 2012 Gerry O’Hara
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Montlake Romance
P.O. Box 400818
Las Vegas, NV 89140
ISBN-13: 9781612186887
ISBN-10: 1612186882
Dedicated with affection to my grandchildren: John and Rachael, Christie Anne and Scott, Paige and Cooper, Sean and Casey, Danielle and Jacob, J.J., Parker, and Levi. You light up my life!
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHAPTER ONE
Standing outside courtroom three, Christie Hamilton shifted from one foot to the other. She swiped at a flyaway strand of hair that fell across her face as she bent her head to check her watch. She thought he would have shown up by now; court was due to convene in fifteen minutes.
During the course of her career, people had come to her with their problems. She often resolved difficulties between partners, repaired broken trust in relationships, and exposed intricately planned deceptions.
Christie was not an Ann Landers or Dear Abby—she was a highly regarded questioned document examiner. Christie was not a newcomer to superior court trials; she was often called to take the stand as an expert witness, as she was today, or called to a home or office to verify or dispute a signature, and the weight of her response lay heavily on her shoulders. Knowing that a misguided belief in a forgery could alter a person’s life, she helped untangle those mistakes.
Christie anxiously glanced at her watch again; punctuality was ingrained in her character. A sound at the other end of the corridor caught her attention. A tall, athletically built man was barreling down the hall, surrounded by a phalanx of men and women attempting to keep up. Briefcases bounced against their hips and high-heeled shoes clattered like a stampeding herd of cattle.
Christie recognized the man at the center of the whirlwind: it was Cash McCullough. She had seen him often in television interviews, and his photo appeared regularly in newspaper articles. In person the attorney was larger than in his pictures; he was a portrait of strength and vigor.
She stepped forward to meet the approaching maelstrom.
“Mr. McCullough—” The words seemed to be swallowed up in the eye of the storm. “Mr. McCullough!” She tried again to catch his attention. “I’m Christie Hamilton, the document examiner you hired to testify in this case.”
With barely a flicker of name recognition and a quick hello, McCullough looped his arm around Christie’s and pulled her along. Caught off balance, she almost stumbled.
At the entrance to the courtroom, the scene disassembled. One of the men gently tugged his jacket into place, another straightened his tie, while a woman pushed at a stray hair.
McCullough grasped the large brass handle on the courtroom door and pulled it open. He nodded at Christie, then vanished inside with his entourage in hot pursuit.
Christie sat down on a bench outside the courtroom and fought to regain her usual self-possession before being called to testify. McCullough’s energy had been contagious, pushing her heartbeat into a frenzy. She took a few deep breaths to slow it to a natural rhythm.
Twenty minutes passed before a bailiff opened the door and motioned her inside. After she was sworn in, McCullough established her credentials. She placed her laptop on the table and plugged it into a projector. An enlarged photo of two documents, side by side, flashed onto a screen. Using a laser pointer, Christie began her testimony.
“The handwriting in both documents appears to look the same”—she nodded toward the screen—“but there are differences.” The laser zipped around a half-dozen words. “Notice how the looped letters are almost closed in this sentence. But in the other document”—the laser flew to the second document and tap-danced along a string of words—“the loops are open. The ends of words have an upward slant in document one, while they almost imperceptibly turn down in document two. Although not discernible on the screen, close observation of the originals reveals that the writer of document one exerted more pressure on the pen.”
“Your conclusion, Ms. Hamilton?” McCullough asked.
“The documents were written by two different people.”
After answering a few questions from the prosecutor, Christie took a seat a few rows behind McCullough and his assistants. It didn’t take long for her to understand why he had become a legend in the legal crowd. His assertive voice, strong good looks, and powerful demeanor commanded the courtroom. Utilizing Christie’s testimony, he deftly laid out the proof that his client had not signed the document in question.
It took less than an hour for the jury to rule in the defendant’s favor. Another success for McCullough, another notch on his belt, she mused, as she picked up her computer case and left the courtroom.
As she walked down the hall, she heard McCullough’s cowboy boots clunking behind her. He called to her to wait. Catching up, he slipped his arm through hers and they continued on.
“You handled yourself well, Christie. Certainly made my job easier.”
“Thank you.” She turned to look at him. His wavy, sandy hair spilled to the edge of his collar. His face was tanned, and his eyes shone like polished agates. A hint of a dimple punctuated the corner of his mouth as it curved into an economical semismile, but was almost canceled by the assertive thrust of an angular jaw.
The attorney exuded magnetism and she was drawn into his field. He shook Christie’s hand and his grip was warm. “I’d like to call on you again,” he said. Before she could reply, McCullough released her hand, nodded good-bye, and strode away. She watched as he quickened his steps to catch up with his team.
Christie knew that McCullough was one of the best criminal defense attorneys in Northern California. When he had called to ask her to test a couple of signatures for a case he was working on, she had taken it in stride. When he followed up with a request for her to be an expert witness in the trial, she had been a bit intimidated by the magnitude of his reputation. Now, having met him, she realized that it wasn’t only his reputation as an attorney that had just thrown her off-center, it was also his ruggedly handsome looks.
After a thirty-minute cable-car ride, Christie walked into her apartment. She was greeted by a loud meow as a white-and-tan calico cat trotted to the entry. The cat rubbed against her legs, its tail wrapping possessively around her ankles. Christie bent over and swooped the cat into her arms.
“I don’t know what you’re complaining about. At least you had lunch; I went without.” She nuzzled the cat’s soft fur before putting it down in front of a half-empty dish of kibble. She reached into the cupboard and pulled out a can of Friskies. Stripping the lid off the can, she lopped a large spoonful of the treat into the cat’s dish, then filled a kettle with water and put it on the stove for tea.
“You always come first, don’t you, sweet Tosha?” she said a
ffectionately. She slipped a frozen dinner into the microwave while the teakettle screamed its readiness.
After dinner Christie curled up on the couch with Tosha contentedly sleeping on her lap. Relaxed, she mused over the afternoon. Observing Cash McCullough’s defense strategy had been exhilarating. He had a flair for working juries; when he spoke they listened. She wondered if the western tailoring of his suit and the Justin Boots were a facade. Juries undoubtedly ate it up, thinking he was a country boy who had made good in the big city.
Christie was no novice to courtroom tactics. McCullough’s technique was impressive, as was his obvious self-assurance. She was convinced he did not rely on the vagaries of a jury to win acquittal for his clients. He won his cases by attention to detail combined with a skillful examination of witnesses.
A few of his cases had been rather notorious and he had received mixed press, some hailing him as a champion of the underdog, others crying foul, and stronger. Whatever reaction he provoked, he was never boring.
She had spent hardly more than an hour in the courtroom and only five minutes in McCullough’s company. Yet that brief contact had left her not only in awe of his talent, but also with a desire to know him better.
During the past several years, there had been little opportunity for her to meet or date interesting men. She had focused on her career and channeled all of her energy into establishing herself as a questioned document examiner. Many other professionals in her field were self-taught, serving an apprenticeship before working independently. Christie’s training was outstanding. During her final year at San José State University, she enrolled in a course on document examination. An elective in the Criminal Justice Department, it was taught by an extremely knowledgeable professor with many years of professional as well as classroom experience.
When he recommended her for a highly regarded document examiner’s course in Washington, DC, Christie hadn’t hesitated. Returning to the Bay Area with skills honed to a degree of sharpness that could be surpassed by few, if any, of her peers, she apprenticed in a bank, examining signatures on canceled checks, and moonlighted scrutinizing wills. She had uncovered a few skillfully crafted fraudulent wills by determining the age of the paper that was utilized.
Three years ago she began working with Gates Investigative Agency as an independent contractor. The move provided career recognition. Although most cases were channeled through Tom Gates, she also received referrals from bank managers and attorneys. Many cases were routine, but there were enough challenging projects to excite her interest. Testifying for McCullough had provided a stimulating break from her usual schedule.
A week after the trial, Christie was peering through a desktop magnifier at a pair of ragged documents when she received a call from Cash McCullough. He asked her to stop by his office as soon as possible to discuss another case. When she suggested an appointment later in the week, he impressed on her the urgency of the matter and she agreed to see him at noon.
McCullough’s office was in a fashionable glass-and-steel building on Market Street. Christie took an elevator to the twelfth floor and walked down a plushly carpeted corridor to his suite. A receptionist greeted her and instructed her to go right in.
McCullough’s private office was generously proportioned. The deep glow of cherry paneling was accented by a Native American rug, a dramatic oil painting of the California coast, and an antique Wells Fargo clock. A leather couch faced a floor-to-ceiling bookcase crammed with law books. Street noises hummed through a tall window.
McCullough was seated in an oak-and-leather swivel chair, with a phone pressed to his ear. Suddenly the telephone receiver hit the cradle and the chair snapped upright.
“Christie! I appreciate your coming.” McCullough stood with hand outstretched to shake hers. His grip was strong, his hand warm. “I’m looking into the possibility of a forged document as a favor to a longtime friend,” he said. “His father-in-law disappeared a year ago after a dispute over control of the family business. They haven’t communicated with each other since the argument. My friends, Hal and his wife, Margo, live in Arizona. Yesterday morning they got a call from their stockbroker. He had received instructions from Margo’s father, Elliot Parker, to sell a large block of company stock and to send a cashier’s check to a post office box in Marin. The broker thought that rather odd, so he called Hal.”
“I don’t understand the problem,” she said.
“Hal believes the letter is a forgery. His father-in-law holds a majority stake in the company, and Hal finds it hard to believe he would relinquish that power.”
“But if Mr. Parker left the company under unfriendly terms, perhaps he no longer feels any ties to the company,” Christie suggested.
“That’s possible, but Hal insists on following up. I told him about you, and he had the broker overnight-express the letter and a copy of Elliot’s signature card, along with a note Elliot wrote to Margo when she was in college. I’m hoping that is enough documentation for you to do a comparison of the writing.”
“It should be.”
“There’s a time factor here. The broker can’t hold up the sell order more than a day or two. Can you meet that time frame?” Cash picked up a trio of papers clipped together and passed them across the desk.
Christie removed the paper clip and looked at the writing on each page. A quick survey indicated similarities, as well as possible differences. The signatures on the letters closely resembled the signature card. Of course, an experienced forger’s work would be hard to discern with a cursory glance.
“Why don’t we discuss this over lunch?”
Before she had a chance to answer, Cash came around his desk and took her arm. He steered her out of the office and mumbled their destination to his receptionist as they exited. Outside, he hailed a cab and gave the driver a Fisherman’s Wharf address. Before she knew it, they were seated in a nondescript café overlooking San Francisco Bay. Christie suspected Cash patronized the restaurant because it suited his restless energy—only minutes after they ordered, a lunch tray was delivered to the table.
“Hal and I were best buddies growing up,” Cash said. “And we were roommates at Stanford. Margo was the proverbial girl next door. We were a threesome, and we spent a great deal of time at Margo’s house. The Parkers were my second family. Mrs. Parker died about two years ago. Cancer. It devastated Elliot. He became a lost soul, withdrawn and isolated. Margo and Hal tried to console him, but to no avail.”
“Losing a spouse is life-altering, but it must have been hard on his daughter as well. I’d be devastated if anything happened to my parents.”
“Yes, it hit Margo hard, but she tried to be strong for her father. Elliot was the CEO of Parker Electronics. After his wife died, he couldn’t concentrate on work. Every decision had to have his approval, and in his emotional state, that could take days or weeks. The company began losing contracts. Hal tried to convince Elliot to take a leave of absence, but he wouldn’t step down even temporarily. Eventually the board of directors voted to oust Elliot. Hal became the new CEO, and a family battle ensued. It was nasty.”
Christie nodded; combining family and business could have disastrous results.
“Elliot was angry and hurt, and he wasn’t thinking straight. He considered himself a victim, and he cast Hal as the bad guy. He swore never to see Hal and Margo again. True to his word, they haven’t seen or heard from him since. The situation has torn Margo apart. She’s loyal to her husband, but she also loves her father.
“It’s ironic. Hal pleaded with the board on Elliot’s behalf. He suggested they give Elliot a sabbatical to put his life back in order, but the board refused.”
“Where is Elliot now?”
“No one knows. The really sad part is that Margo is pregnant and Elliot doesn’t even know that he is going to be a grandfather.”
“First he loses his wife, then his daughter, now a grandchild? What a tragedy,” Christie said. “It sounds like his golden years are far from gold
en.”
“Elliot is a good man, but he is stubborn and he has allowed emotion to cloud his thinking. Truthfully, I expect you will find that the broker’s letter is genuine.”
Cash became quiet, turning his gaze to the bay and a fleet of boats gliding across the water, sails billowing as they heeled in the wind. For the first time since they’d met, he appeared relaxed. The only indication that he was not completely at ease was a muscle throbbing at his neck.
“If the results of your examination show that Elliot, indeed, ordered the transaction, I’ll fly to Arizona and break the news to Hal and Margo.”
An hour later, Christie was back at her desk. She had agreed to have a report on Elliot’s signature by midmorning the following day. She spent the rest of the afternoon studying the Parker documents. Using a precision microscope, she carefully examined the handwriting, measuring a sampling of letters on each page to an invisible but arbitrary line. In the correspondence to the stockbroker, she noted, some words drifted above the imaginary line. She studied and compared the shadings, angles, and loops that formed the words, and the pressure exerted by the pen. Finished, she pushed the microscope away and rubbed her eyes with the backs of her hands. The examination indicated that Elliot’s letter was genuine.
Her eyes were tearing from the close work and she decided to call it a day. Two blocks from the office, she swung onto a cable car. It was already filled nearly to capacity. Like a child, Christie reveled in being allotted an outer slot in the open-air vehicle. Hanging onto a handgrip, she leaned her body slightly outward. She smiled at a passenger seated in front of her—cradled in the woman’s arms, like a newborn baby, was a loaf of sourdough bread, bundled in a blanket of white paper.
The conductor yanked the car’s bell cord rhythmically as they crossed an intersection. Christie suspected that he had a love affair with the clanging melody, breaking into a rambunctious tune at the slightest provocation.
She held her breath on a steep downhill run. The cable car ground along its track stoically, bell clanging loudly, proclaiming success in the alpine descent. Reaching her drop-off point, Christie walked the few blocks to her apartment.
