Chapter 12 - The Signature That Should Not Exist.
Patrick Sloan's court filing arrived at Janet's office just after noon.
The document was nineteen pages long.
The page that mattered contained six paragraphs and one signature.
TERESA LUCIA MORETTI.
Isabella stared at her mother's name.
The signature looked familiar.
Teresa had signed school permission slips, birthday cards, tax forms, and handwritten notes in the same looping style.
"That's hers," Isabella said.
Janet did not react.
"It resembles hers."
"No."
Isabella touched the page.
"That's how she made the T."
"She always crossed it late."
"And the R in Teresa leaned backward."
Vincent sat beside her.
"Could someone copy it?"
"Maybe."
Isabella hated the word more every day.
The renunciation was dated May 2, 1998.
Nine days after Teresa disappeared.
It stated that Teresa Moretti voluntarily and permanently surrendered all beneficial voting interests in the Luciana Moretti Family Holding Trust.
In exchange, she received one dollar and unspecified consideration.
"One dollar," Isabella said.
"That's standard contract language," Janet replied.
"It still sounds insulting."
"It often does."
The document carried two witness signatures.
Carlo DeMarco.
Patrick Sloan.
A notary stamp appeared beneath them.
MARGARET K. DUNN, NEW YORK NOTARY PUBLIC.
Commission Expires: 2002.
Janet circled the stamp.
"This is where we start."
Dominic leaned over the table.
"Find the notary?"
"Find her commission record."
Vivian arrived twenty minutes later with the copy she had seen in Carlo's study.
It matched the court filing almost exactly.
Almost.
Isabella noticed the difference before the lawyers did.
"The blue line."
Janet looked at her.
"What blue line?"
Isabella pointed to the lower corner.
On Vivian's photocopy, a faint blue vertical mark appeared beside the notary block.
On Patrick's filing, the mark was absent.
"Could be a scanning artifact," Janet said.
"Or a page edge," Dominic added.
Isabella shook her head.
"My mother used blue carbon paper."
Vincent frowned.
"For what?"
"Everything."
"She didn't trust copy machines."
"She used carbon sheets for rent receipts, job forms, even letters."
Isabella looked at the signature.
"If she signed something under pressure, she might have kept a carbon copy."
Dominic looked at Vincent.
"New Mexico storage."
"We searched most of it."
"Most isn't all."
Janet raised a hand.
"Before anyone gets on another plane, let's check the notary."
Her associate returned an hour later with public commission records.
Margaret K. Dunn had indeed been a New York notary.
But her first commission began in September 2000.
Two years after Teresa supposedly signed the renunciation.
Janet stared at the record.
"There it is."
Vincent leaned forward.
"The document is fake."
"The notarization is impossible."
"That doesn't automatically prove the signature was forged."
Isabella looked at her.
"How could the signature be real on a fake document?"
Janet tapped the page.
"They could have taken a real signature from something else."
"Or Teresa could have signed an earlier draft that was later altered."
"We need the original."
Dominic looked at Vivian.
"Where does Carlo keep it?"
Vivian shook her head.
"I don't know."
"You knew about the safe."
"I knew what he let me find."
Vincent gave her a hard look.
"Convenient."
Vivian turned on him.
"Do you think I enjoy sitting here while everyone discovers how much of my life was staged?"
"You staged plenty yourself."
"I know."
Her voice cracked.
"You don't have to keep reminding me."
Isabella spoke quietly.
"Actually, he might."
Vivian looked at her.
"People who hurt others usually get tired of hearing about it before the person they hurt gets tired of remembering it."
Vivian sat back.
"Fair."
The room became silent.
Janet returned to the documents.
"Patrick will argue clerical error."
"He may claim the renunciation was signed in 1998 and notarized later."
Vincent shook his head.
"Then the text saying subscribed before me on May second is false."
"Correct."
"Is that enough to stop him tonight?"
"Enough to create a serious dispute."
"Not enough to establish Isabella's shares immediately."
Isabella leaned back.
"Again, everyone wants to talk about shares."
Janet looked at her.
"Because that's what the law can measure."
"The law doesn't measure twenty-eight years stolen from people."
"No."
"It measures documents."
"Yes."
Isabella picked up the renunciation.
"Then we find better documents."
Dominic's phone buzzed.
He looked at the message.
"We may have one."
"From where?" Vincent asked.
"Rosa."
He showed Isabella the text.
ROSA FOUND A BLUE PAPER IN TERESA'S SEWING BOX.
Isabella stood.
"Carbon copy."
Vincent reached for his coat.
Janet stopped him.
"No."
He looked at her.
"No?"
"You have a board meeting tonight."
"Dominic can arrange a courier."
Isabella nodded.
"Rosa can photograph it first."
She called Rosa immediately.
The older woman answered on the second ring.
"I knew you would call."
"What did you find?"
"Blue paper."
"Very thin."
"Your mother's handwriting."
"Can you read it?"
Rosa adjusted her glasses loudly enough for everyone to hear.
"It says, I agree to temporary transfer of proxy rights for six months while living outside New York."
Janet stood.
"Temporary."
Rosa continued.
"No permanent waiver."
"No surrender of beneficial interest."
Isabella looked at Patrick's renunciation.
The signature had been taken from a temporary proxy agreement and placed beneath different language.
"That's how they got her real signature," she said.
Janet nodded.
"Likely."
"Can Rosa send photographs?"
"Already doing it."
Within minutes, clear images arrived.
The blue carbon copy contained Teresa's signature in exactly the same position relative to a small ink blot as the supposed permanent renunciation.
Dominic overlaid the two scans on his laptop.
They matched perfectly.
"Same signature," he said.
"Lifted from the temporary proxy."
Vincent's expression became cold.
"Patrick forged a permanent waiver."
Janet held up one finger.
"We can say the documents strongly indicate fabrication."
"Let a forensic examiner use the word forged."
Isabella looked at the clock.
It was three-fifteen.
"How fast can you get one?"
Janet smiled for the first time.
"For this case?"
"Before dinner."
At four, Patrick Sloan called Vincent directly.
Vincent answered on speaker.
"Patrick."
"You have made this far more public than necessary."
Isabella rolled her eyes.
Vincent noticed.
"I wasn't the one who called reporters."
Patrick ignored that.
"The woman has no valid claim."
Isabella leaned toward the phone.
"The woman has a name."
Patrick went silent.
"Ms. Romano."
"Better."
His tone cooled.
"Your mother renounced her interest twenty-eight years ago."
"Then why did you need a notary who wasn't a notary yet?"
Silence.
Vincent stared at Isabella.
Janet covered her mouth to hide a smile.
Patrick recovered quickly.
"I don't know what you're implying."
"I'm not implying anything."
"I'm reading public commission dates."
"You should try it."
Patrick's breathing became audible.
"Vincent, control your guest."
Vincent's eyes turned cold.
"That sentence explains why you never understood Teresa."
"Isabella isn't mine to control."
Patrick hung up.
Vivian stared at Vincent.
"You never said things like that to me."
"You never asked me to."
"Maybe I should have."
Isabella looked between them.
"Please schedule the emotional archaeology for another day."
Vincent almost smiled.
Vivian did not.
At six-thirty, the forensic examiner arrived.
By eight, she had reviewed the scans and carbon copy.
Her preliminary conclusion was direct.
The signature on the permanent renunciation had been reproduced from the temporary proxy document.
The notary block was added later.
The paper formatting matched a template introduced after 2001.
Three independent details made the 1998 date impossible.
Janet prepared an emergency filing.
"This won't settle the case tonight," she said.
"But Patrick won't be able to wave that document around as undisputed fact."
Isabella looked at the blue carbon copy on the table.
Her mother's habit of distrusting machines had survived longer than the men who tried to rewrite her signature.
At nine, a courier delivered the original carbon copy from New Mexico.
At nine-ten, Janet placed it inside a protective sleeve.
At nine-fifteen, Dominic entered with another envelope.
"This came by hand to the front gate."
Vincent looked at it.
"From who?"
"No return name."
The envelope was addressed to Isabella.
She opened it carefully.
Inside was a cashier's check.
Twenty-five million dollars.
A single typed page accompanied it.
ACCEPT THIS SETTLEMENT, WITHDRAW ALL CLAIMS, AND RETURN THE LOCKET.
The signature line read PATRICK SLOAN.
Vivian gave a bitter laugh.
"He thinks everyone settles."
Isabella picked up the check.
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Twenty-five million dollars could buy every apartment Teresa had ever cleaned.
It could erase every bill Isabella had ever feared.
It could create a life so different from her own that she could barely picture it.
Then she tore the check in half.
Vincent blinked.
Janet made a small sound of professional pain.
"You could have photographed that first."
Isabella froze.
"Oh."
Dominic started laughing.
Vincent laughed too.
Even Vivian covered a smile.
For the first time in days, the room sounded human.
Janet sighed and gathered the torn pieces.
"I can still use it."
Isabella looked relieved.
"Good."
Then she looked at Patrick's letter.
May you like
"Now let's go tell him no in person."
THE LOCKET OF BELLADONNA HOUSE
