by Lowe, Shelia
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Praise for Poison Pen
“Suicide or murder? Only the graphologist knows for sure in this dynamite debut, the first in a new series, from forensic handwriting expert Lowe. The author’s large nonfiction fan base augurs well for the series.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“[A] fast-paced, crisp, and gritty novel that penetrates the world of celebrity and the dark appetites of those who live in that world.” —Armchair Interviews
“Debut novelist Lowe wins readers over with her well-developed heroine and the wealth of fascinating detail on handwriting analysis.” —Booklist
“The well-paced plot develops from uneasy suspicions to tightly wound action.” —Front Street Reviews
“A perfectly paced mystery with an easy fluidity that propels the reader through the story at breakneck speed.”
—BookPleasures.com
OBSIDIAN
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First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library,
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First Printing, September 2008
Copyright © Sheila Lowe, 2008
All rights reserved
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PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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http://us.penguingroup.com
This book is dedicated to Jennifer,
whose too-short life taught me
so much about Annabelle
Acknowledgments
A work of fiction has many made-up elements, but some things need to be real. For those things, I’m grateful for the kind assistance of FBI agent George Fong, and detectives Lee Lofland and Kenny Brown. Doug Lyle, MD, a mystery author in his own right, was, as ever, generous in his assistance with medical questions.
I would be lost without my friend Bob Joseph lending his experienced eye, and not being afraid to say, “That’s really crap; you can do better.” To the SCVMW—Bruce, New Bob, Gwen, Bad Bob—you are the best writing group in all the land.
Working with my new editor, Kristen Weber, at Penguin/NAL, is a pleasure. I’ve lucked out, and am thrilled beyond words for the PW review that piqued her interest.
Extraspecial thanks always go to Bill McElroy, whose generous and loving support made it easier.
Chapter 1
The man heaved himself out of the driver’s seat of a Mercedes C350 sedan, holding on to the doorframe until his feet were settled on the asphalt. His unbuttoned suit had an expensive cut, but it was snug in the shoulders and the belt disappeared under his belly. Thick, wiry hair cut short was just starting to gray. A salt-and-pepper beard hid his jaw.
Despite the coolness of the fall afternoon, the man’s forehead was damp with perspiration as he lugged a briefcase up the wooden stairs, his breathing too labored for someone in his forties.
Claudia Rose stood at her front door waiting for him, thinking he looked like a heart attack waiting to happen. Then her attention was drawn back to the Mercedes.
A woman stepped out with a wriggling bichon frise clamped under one arm. She wore a plum-colored Akris Punto fitted jacket and a short pleated skirt on the kind of figure other women would kill to have.
A phone pressed to her ear with the hand that wasn’t holding the dog, she bumped the door shut with a curvy hip and followed her huffing companion to the staircase.
The stylish woman was Claudia’s new client, Paige Sorensen.
The man reached the porch and proffered a sweaty handshake, trying to hide the fact that he was winded. “Bert Falkenberg,” he said. “I-I’m helping Mrs. Sorensen with this matter.”
As she considered how to wipe her hand on her pants without him noticing, Claudia smiled and let him precede her into the house. She waited on the porch until Paige Sorensen ended her phone call a few moments later and ran up the stairs.
“You must be Ms. Rose,” Paige said, flashing a smile that had probably charmed the pants off more than one admirer. She cuddled the bichon frise to her cheek. “I hope you don’t mind that I brought Mikki. I take him everywhere; he’s very good.”
When she’d phoned for the appointment, Paige had sounded young and vulnerable. This well-turned-out woman made Claudia wonder whether her first impression had been a bit hasty. She reached out and gave the squirming dog a scratch behind the ears, then invited her client inside.
Paige Sorensen was a recent widow and the headmistress of the Sorensen
Academy, a Bel Air school for girls. She had already explained that her late husband’s will was being challenged and she needed a handwriting expert to authenticate his signature. Her attorney had recommended Claudia Rose.
“His children are accusing me—”
Before she could finish, Paige was interrupted by the sound of a ring tone from her Gucci handbag. She gave Claudia a wry smile and an apology as she got the phone out and answered.
Bert Falkenberg sighed and Claudia wondered why Paige didn’t turn the damn thing off. A high-pitched voice carried through the phone, talking fast.
Paige listened for about thirty seconds. “Okay, Annabelle, stop! Tell Brenda to send the other girls to their rooms. You go to my office and stay there till we get back.”
She rang off and turned to Falkenberg. “I told you, you should have stayed behind, Bert. Somebody needs to be in charge.”
He gave her a look. “It’ll keep.” He turned to Claudia. “Now, here’s the situation with Mr. Sorensen’s—”
The touch of Paige’s hand on his sleeve halted him midsentence. “I’ll handle this.”
A flash of annoyance lit Falkenberg’s eyes, but he leaned back against the sofa cushions without another word.
“My husband passed away a month ago,” Paige began, reiterating what she’d told Claudia over the phone. She gently urged the bichon’s haunches into a seated position on her lap. The little dog fidgeted for a moment before he laid his head on miniature forepaws and closed his eyes.
“He—” She faltered. “He had a stroke—a series of strokes. He left nearly everything to me. His kids accused me of forging his signature on the will.” Her eyes filled with tears and her pouty mouth trembled. “It’s just crazy. I would never do something like that!”
“Insane,” Falkenberg echoed. “Utterly absurd.”
Claudia gave them her best sympathetic professional face, adjusting her impression of Paige a little more. If the husband’s children were old enough to accuse her of forgery, he must have been significantly older than Paige.
“I’m very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Sorensen,” Claudia said. “It’s unfortunate, but this sort of thing is common in families. Who is your lawyer?”
“Stuart Parsons in Beverly Hills. He said you’re the best handwriting expert around.”
The compliment pleased Claudia. She liked Parsons, partly because he knew how to protect his expert witness from the sometimes vicious attacks that opposing counsel was fond of launching.
She said, “Why don’t you show me what you’ve brought? Did you find examples of your husband’s genuine signature for me to compare to the questioned one?”
Paige turned to Falkenberg. “You’ve got the files, Bert?” Returning her gaze to Claudia, she said, “I’m a nice person and they’re calling me a liar. I need you to prove it’s his signature. There’s too much at stake—my reputation.”
Millions of dollars, too, Claudia thought. Paige had let that slip when she’d made the appointment. She glanced at Bert Falkenberg, taking note of his broad hands as he snapped open the briefcase and laid it on the coffee table between them. Workman’s hands with poorly manicured fingernails that seemed more fitted for outdoor work. An affront to the Italian silk suit and tie. He hasn’t always worn Armani.
Falkenberg removed several file folders from his briefcase and fanned them out on the coffee table. He eased his large frame back against the cushions and let his eyes roam the room. His gaze traveled to the framed family photos on the fireplace mantel, fixing on a snapshot of Claudia standing in the arms of a tall man. The man was leaning down so they were cheek to cheek, a rare grin replacing his usual cop’s deadpan expression. Falkenberg stared a long time at that photograph, but his face gave nothing away and Claudia was left wondering what he was thinking.
Paige repositioned the little dog on her lap so she could reach the folders Falkenberg had placed on the table. As she leaned forward, a thick rope of hair the color of wild clover honey fell over her shoulder. “These are some checks and other papers that he—that Torg, my husband—” One fat tear welled up in each outrageously blue eye and spilled onto her cheeks. Sniffling, she dug in her purse with a trembling hand and brought out a lacy handkerchief to dab the tears. “It was a complete shock when I found out he’d left everything to me.”
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-thre
e.”
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.”
