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MG was Dane Sorensen.
    She stared at Dane, who stared boldly back. She doubted he even realized she was the driver of the old white Jaguar whose space he had stolen.
    The Sorensen twins’ facial resemblance was strong, yet their coloring was quite different. Diana’s face was pale, her hair straight and dyed jet-black, giving her a Morticia Addams look. Dane was ruddy; untidy wisps of his gray-flecked hair flew in all directions as if his comb had attracted static.
    He looks tough. As if he grew up in a bad neighborhood, hanging out on street corners picking fights, not in a mansion off Sunset Boulevard. It was easy to see why Paige was afraid of him.
    Claudia glanced at the occupant of the wheelchair. He had the face of an aesthete. Translucent skin, sad eyes that were trained on the back of Paige’s head. Limp blond curls, forehead beaded with sweat. Despite the mild fall weather a blue and red plaid blanket covered his legs and he was bundled into a cable-knit fisherman’s sweater. His hands gripped a dark blue Dodgers cap, twisting it around and around.
    Stuart Parsons rose and took a moment to fasten his coat. He was about seventy with sharp blue eyes and thick, sensual lips in a pudgy pink face. Dandruff flecked the lapels of his dark pinstripe suit and his shoes were scuffed, not spit shined, as one might expect from a lawyer in the five-hundred-buck-an-hour range. But that was his personal courtroom theatrics, and Claudia knew from past experience that he was far sharper than he might appear to the casual observer.
    Parsons smiled at her and nodded. “Good morning, Ms. Rose. Would you please begin by telling us your occupation.”
    “I am a handwriting examiner.”
    “Thank you. And were you retained to examine some handwriting in the matter before the court today?”
    “Yes, I was asked to compare known signatures of Torg Sorensen to the signature on a will that is being challenged.”
    “Ms. Rose, were you paid for your appearance in court today?”
    “Yes.”
    “Were you paid to express any particular opinion in this matter?”
    “My opinion is not for sale. I’m paid for my time and expertise.”
    “Okay, good. Now, let’s talk about how you became a handwriting expert . . .”
    There was no jury to impress at this hearing. The judge alone would decide the outcome of the proceedings, and it was up to Parsons to show him why his expert was credible.
    He walked Claudia through her qualifications. The list was long, and he was meticulous. They covered her education and training, publications and research, papers she had presented at conferences, media appearances.
    When he asked about awards she had received, the Sorensens’ lawyer, Frank Norris, interrupted. “Your Honor, we’ll stipulate that Ms. Rose is an expert. Let’s get on with it.”
    Judge Krieger, already looking bored, nodded. “Fine, so stipulated.”
    Parsons had informed Claudia that the judge was retiring at the end of the month. Sorensen versus Sorensen would be one of the last cases he heard in his courtroom and it showed.
    “Thank you, Your Honor,” Parsons said. He walked over to the lectern and placed his notes on the book stand. “Ms. Rose, would you please tell us what a questioned document is, and explain to the Court your method of examining one.”
    Claudia turned and addressed the judge. “I’ll be glad to. In this case, a questioned document means that the authenticity of a signature is in dispute.” She went on to explain all the steps she had taken in her examination of Torg Sorensen’s handwriting and the questioned signature.
    Norris’ pen flew furiously across a yellow legal pad as she spoke and Claudia wished she could see his handwriting. He stood six three, and even seated he was imposing in his sober gray suit. His dark hair was slicked back, a little too heavy on the gel.
    Claudia had seen Norris in action before and knew he used a condescending style of cross-examination that made him a good candidate