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edges of her consciousness. Like most of her clients, Rick Taylor wanted the results yesterday and would have faxed the handwriting if she’d let him. But the faxing and scanning process could affect important nuances, such as pen pressure and line quality, so her clients learned to send original handwriting samples whenever possible.
    Nearly every centimeter of the sheet of paper was covered with large, round letters and excessively wide g and y loops. To Claudia’s trained eye, the grouping of characteristics bespoke a strong need for approval, plus low objectivity. The writer could be expected to engage in attention-getting behavior and would probably be flirtatious. The extra-short upper loops suggested that the young woman who had written it would have difficulty accepting responsibility for any mistakes. If Rick hired her, he would need to provide close supervision and plenty of pats on the back to keep her happy.
    Two cups of coffee and a toasted bagel later Claudia had keyed her report into the computer and e-mailed the resulting file to Rick. Time to get dressed for her meeting with Ivan.
~
    Ivan greeted her at the door to Lindsey’s penthouse in baggy jeans and a red flannel shirt that had seen better days. He waved a sheaf of papers in one hand and a half-smoked cigarette in the other. “I’ve gathered some samples of Lindsey’s handwriting,” he announced, jamming the cigarette between his lips and fanning out a jumble of bills, flyers, and other scraps—standard Lindsey writing materials. “You can see for yourself her writing is nothing like the writing on that phony suicide note. Green pen, always written in cursive. See how she makes this capital W, and here, the way she does her L. They’re completely different.”
    Claudia took the papers and sifted through them, glancing at each one before handing them back. “I’m sorry, Ivan. These are not going to work for me. As I told you yesterday, comparing cursive to printed writing is apples and oranges. The note was printed, so it’s important for me to compare it to her genuine printed writing. These are all written in cursive.”
    Ivan’s eyes narrowed with annoyance. “The police didn’t ask for that.”
    “And you weren’t satisfied with the police’s opinion. That’s why you retained me.”
    “But she never printed,” he insisted, waving the papers at her, “Never! That’s why I know she didn’t write the suicide note.”
    “Forms are usually printed,” Claudia noted, doing her best to hang onto her patience. “How about a credit application?”
    “We have secretaries to fill out forms. Lindsey never did them herself.”
    Claudia took a deep breath, preparing to do battle. “Ivan, if you want a proper forensic examination and opinion, you’re going to have to come up with some printed samples; otherwise, I can’t help you.
    “I’m trying to get this place closed up,” Ivan snapped, a frown drawing his heavy black eyebrows together. “And I’ve got to keep the office running. I don’t have time to go searching for some piece of paper that doesn’t exist.”
    Mentally waving good-bye to the money she would have earned from the case, Claudia told herself that it wasn’t worth the hassle. If the client started out creating problems, things usually ended up going from bad to worse. Her professional integrity was at stake. “If you want someone who’ll just say whatever you pay them to, there are plenty of so-called experts who’d love to cooperate. I’ll return your retainer check and you can call one of them.”
    Ivan tossed the papers onto a side table. “Okay, okay, you don’t have to get on your high horse.” He started for the spiral staircase, beckoning Claudia to follow. “You can look for what you need in the files and box them up as you go through them.”
~
    On the day of Lindsey’s funeral reception, her office had looked as if someone worked there. Now, less than two days later, the computer equipment had