A Shared Confidence by William Topek Page A

it?” Nathan asked bitterly.
    â€œI’m afraid it’s a little worse than that, Nathan,” I told him straight out. “Those aren’t forgeries, those are your actual signatures.”

Chapter Six: Lunch With a Client

    N athan sat in stunned silence for a few seconds.
    â€œDev, I give you my word, I never signed any of those documents. Until last Friday, I’d never even seen them before.”
    â€œNathan,” I held up one hand, “you don’t need to convince me, I’m on your side. But I’ve examined enough documents in my time, both genuine and forged, that I can pretty much tell one from the other.” I had him look at the bogus loan documents and the sheet he’d just autographed, turning them upside down for him the way I’d been looking at them. I pointed out the neat, angular slant of the writing, the slight upward lift of the “T” in Nathan, the convex tip at the top of the “C” in Caine. It was all too perfect a match, even down to the writing instrument used.
    â€œI’m not a bona fide expert,” I admitted. “My opinion wouldn’t hold up in a court of law. But I’m telling you a real expert’s would, and he’d say the same thing I just said.”
    â€œBut how…” he began, trying to piece it together.
    â€œBecause you’re partly right,” I explained. “These aren’t the documents you signed, not in their original form anyway. They’ve been altered, presumably after your John Hancock was affixed. You see the faint discoloration around the company’s name? The name that was there when you signed it has been very carefully removed with bleach or acetone or some such – and we’re talking a professional job here. Then a new name was typed in its place. Notice how ‘Incorporated’ is spelled out for this company, but this other one just reads ‘Inc.’? The original name was longer on the first document. After it was removed, they had to make the new name longer to help mask the discoloration.
    â€œAlso, the lower case ‘n’ hits the paper slightly higher everywhere it appears in the company names, but that doesn’t happen anywhere else on the documents. The replacement names were added using a different typewriter.”
    â€œMy signature,” Nathan said to himself. “My own signature on multiple, fraudulent loans that have already gone out the door.” His eyes started to glaze over as he stared off into a future of ruin and disgrace.
    â€œNathan!” I hissed it out in a sharp whisper to get his attention. His eyes snapped back into focus and I continued a bit softer. “This is the beginning, not the end. There’s a lot more we have to find out and fast. You’ve got to keep your head clear if you don’t want those nasty daydreams coming true.” That did the trick. Suggesting to my brother that he was losing control – that he was daydreaming of all things – was like telling Max Baer he hit like a girl. In both cases, you’d be proven wrong in a hurry. Nathan sat up straighter in his chair, shoulders square and blue eyes level, an officer of one of the oldest and most respected banks in Baltimore.
    â€œFirst thing,” I said, “how many men do you have working for you? I mean reporting directly to you and no one else?”
    â€œThree.”
    â€œThey all here today?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œGood. I want to meet them. One at a time if possible. Bring them into your office on some pretext or another. Introduce me as a prospective new loan customer or don’t introduce me at all, however you’d normally handle it. Can do?”
    â€œCertainly.” He reached for the wooden intercom box on the desk.
    Nathan took me to lunch at some swanky restaurant on the harbor. They knew him here, and we got a good table out in the open air by the water. We sipped freshly brewed iced