Dead Wrong (31 page)

“Not the end of the world!” He was almost shouting. “Dad just got a threatening note from Maureen. As far as she’s concerned, it could very well be the end of the world for Nash Enterprises. Dad wants me to dump you! He figures you have to be on their side.”

“And you?” She remained calm. “How do you feel about me, after all we’ve been through together? After all we’ve meant to each other? How do you feel about it? Want me to leave?”

He came over and sat next to her on the couch. “God, no! I told you before, I’ll say it again: I can’t live without you. But I just couldn’t understand.” He shook his head. “Why? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Why didn’t your father tell you until now?” She let the question dangle for a few moments. “Obviously, as far as he was concerned, there was no need for you to know until now. With me … it was a stupid blunder. I suppose I should have told you. But … honestly … as I look back over our time together, I don’t see a single instance where it really would have been in any way appropriate. And the more time passed, the more pointless it seemed to bring it up. Until … until now, when you need to know. So, how about it?” She looked at him steadily. “Are we still a team, or what?”

His look of relief spoke for him. “We’re a team.” He shook his head again. “I guess I really knew all you just told me.” As he looked at her, his face seemed to soften and relax. “I just wanted to hear it from you. It’s all settled. We’re a team.”

“Okay, then.” She relaxed back into the sofa. “Now … I’ve only heard this remarkable tale from Maureen’s side. Tell me everything your father said. Maybe I can help.”

And so he did. Meticulously, Ted recounted everything his father had earlier revealed. Brenda listened most attentively.

After he’d finished, she said, “That part about the baptismal record—I don’t understand that. Why was it so important to find it and destroy it? I don’t think it carries much if any weight in civil law.”

“A couple of things: It does have my dad listed as Mary Lou’s father. But, more important, it shows the discrepancy between the birth and baptism record. It might …
it might
trigger an investigation.

“And then there was that murder of the woman who changed the birth record. Of course, Dad had nothing to do with the murder,” he added.

“But he didn’t seem to let it bother him a whole lot.”

Ted shrugged. “That’s Dad.”

“Well,” she said thoughtfully, “if it’s that important, I think we’ve got a problem.”

“A problem? What problem?” In spite of foreboding brought on by the suggestion of trouble ahead, Ted felt comforted by her use of the first person plural. They were in this together.

“The problem is that the fire in that rectory didn’t destroy the baptismal record.”

“What? Sure it did. Dad was certain. Whatever else, Chardon is dependable.”

“No. I’m not referring to the records at the church. Up till sometime in the mid-eighties—I think it was 1983—all parochial records were microfilmed. The copies are kept in the archdiocesan archives, the originals were returned to the parishes.” She paused. “I think that record is in the archives.”

“So if Maureen …”

“Exactly.”

“Oh, my God! Dad didn’t know. What’re we going to do?!”

“If it’s that important, we’d damn well better get in there and get it.”

“Do you know where the archives are?”

She smiled. “On the same floor where my office is in the chancery.”

“No! Then you can do the job.”

“It’s not that simple. It’s kept locked all the time. Even if someone was working in there, I couldn’t just go in and rummage around. No way.”

“How about at night?”

She nodded. “I could get into the building, even though the security is quite good. But I could never get into the archives room. See, the door to the archives—well, picture the door to a bank vault.”

“Heavy metal with a combination lock?”

“Uh-huh. And there’s a separate alarm just for that door. There’s no way I could get that combination. And even if I did, I couldn’t stop the alarm before it went off.”

They sat thinking.

“We need a professional,” Ted said finally. He picked up the portfolio from the coffee table and began paging through the papers. “Dad gave me this list. It’s a list of people who … well, people we can call on if we need help.” He studied several papers carefully. “It’s almost poetic justice or some such thing,” he said, half to himself.

“What?”

“The perfect person for this job.” He turned the paper toward Brenda and pointed to a listed name.

“Rick Chardon,” she read, “The guy who …”

“… arranged for the doctoring of the birth certificate.”

“And,” she concluded, “the one who killed … uh …”

“Ventimiglia, Agnes Ventimiglia,” he supplied. “Look at these qualifications. Among other talents … proficient at breaking and entering—and an expert safecracker.” He looked up at her. “He’s our man,” he said decisively.

He leaned back, elated. “Good Lord, this feels comfortable!” He turned to face her again. “I didn’t realize it until just now, but all the plans Dad has are contingent on whatever course Maureen takes. This—what we’re doing now—puts us on the offensive. Just where I want to be. Now …” He was almost businesslike. “… how do we do it?”

“I’ve got a key to the front door on Washington Boulevard.”

“It’s that easy? No security?”

“Wait. The key just gets me into the building. Next, I’ve got to punch in a code, or the minute I step in the elevator all hell breaks loose. Fortunately, my code does get me passage to the third floor where my office and the archives are both located. But then, there’s still the archives door, the combination lock and the separate alarm. I can only get Chardon onto the third floor. After that, he’s on his own with the door and its alarm. But I can give you the exact location of the parish records so he won’t have any trouble finding them once he gets in.”

“How about guards? Any security personnel in the building?”

“Yes. But they get off about six in the evening. After that the cleaning crew comes in. But Chardon should be able to handle them. He can wear almost any kind of uniform—Consumer’s Power or something like that … just say he’s been called in to repair something. Most of the crew speak very little English. His only problem is going to be that door and the alarm. But if he’s an expert at B&E and a safecracker to boot …”

“It should be a cinch.” He looked thoughtful. “Think I ought to tell Dad?”

“You know him better than I.”

“I think I’d better. Besides, I want to give him more proof that he was wrong and that you’re on our side. Let’s see … this is Wednesday. Let’s set it up for Friday night.”

“Only two days?”

“Why not? Thursday we brief Chardon and Friday he gets the uniform. What’s he going to do—practice opening safes? Fooling with combination locks?” For the first time this evening, Ted smiled broadly. He felt much more at ease when he was in control of a situation.

He phoned his father. Brenda could hear only half of the conversation. It seemed that Charlie Nash needed a measure of assurance that Brenda could be trusted, but, in the end, he was convinced. Finally, he gave his approval to the plan.

After Friday, it wouldn’t matter whether or not Maureen was aware that a copy of Mary Lou’s baptismal record was kept in the chancery. After Friday, it wouldn’t be anywhere.

R
ICK
C
HARDON
walked down Washington Boulevard. Once it had corresponded to New York’s Fifth Avenue, Chicago’s Miracle Mile, Los Angeles’s Rodeo Drive. Now it could not be described even as a shadow of its former self.

As far as he could see, and his vision was excellent, there was no one else in sight. Here and there among the shadows there might lurk a prospective mugger or two, but that thought did not occur to Chardon. Even if it had, he would merely have been amused. The idea of some misfit attacking Rick Chardon was ludicrous; such aggression might well have proven fatal to the mugger.

Chardon was wearing the working uniform of a Michigan Bell Telephone Company repairman. It was determined that there was precedent for Ma Bell repairmen coming in for night work. The chancery phone system was accorded high priority. Partly because it was a busy and important system and also due to some influential Catholics in influential positions at Ma Bell, this telephone company deferred to the needs of the Catholic bureaucracy as often as possible.

The uniform’s pockets contained a variety of items, only a small percentage of which were of the telephone repair category. In addition, Chardon carried a metal box with everything a professional safecracker needed to feel at home.

He paused only a moment before the plate glass window of the Catholic Bookstore, and glanced in both directions. Nobody. He stepped to the chancery door and slipped the key in the lock. It turned smoothly. Chardon had good vibes about this job. The preparations had been hurried, but then there hadn’t been much to prepare.

On the left side of the foyer, near the now-empty guard’s stand, was the code box. He punched in the number he’d memorized, pressed the “stay” button, and punched the code number once again. The information he’d been given was so simple and logical, he anticipated no bombshells. However, shrewd professional that he was, he came ready for the unexpected.

The elevator stopped at the third floor. The doors slid open. No alarm. He exhaled in relief. However, not all was quiet. From the distance, around the turn of the corridor, came the sound of a vacuum cleaner. It was unusually loud. He surmised it must be a powerful, industrial-strength machine.

All the lights in the corridor were lit. That didn’t matter. He was not relying on darkness as a protection against detection; his uniform would explain his presence.

As he came to the first turn in the corridor, he flattened himself against the wall and peered cautiously around the corner.

His first surprise of the night. A uniformed guard stood with her back to him.

He remained calm. He had a series of decisions to make.

He could not continue his mission while she was around. If he tried to pass himself off as a repairman, she could and would check to see if such a person was expected. Besides, no way could he crack a safe while a security guard looked on.

He could turn on his heel and retrace his steps and perhaps come again to fight another day. Or, he could eliminate the guard.

For him, the professional, the perfectionist, there really was no choice.

He took his blackjack from his pocket. The grip felt natural—an extension of his hand. Noiselessly he stepped up behind her. He swung with all his might. The blackjack struck her squarely on the right temple. She crumpled to the floor.

As with every other time he had used this weapon, there was no outcry, no external blood, no lingering consciousness. Death would follow in a matter of minutes.

He opened a nearby door and turned on the light. It was an office that evidently had already been cleaned. The crew would have no reason to return here. He dragged the inert form into the office, turned out the light, and stepped back out into the corridor, closing the door behind him.

Should any of the cleaning crew ask about the missing guard, he was prepared to say that she had to check another floor and would be back soon—and meanwhile, he had to repair the phone in the archives room. He anticipated no further trouble. But he was confident he could handle whatever came up.

As he continued down the hall toward the archives room, he froze for a moment as an elderly woman came toward him. She wore an old, threadbare dress, an apron in similar condition, and stockings that sagged around her ankles. She paid him little notice, glancing only at his clothing as she went past. Evidently the uniform was sufficient explanation for his presence. Everyone had a job to do. She cleaned offices, he repaired phones. She wouldn’t get in his way if he didn’t get in hers.

She continued down the corridor, pushing her silent vacuum ahead of her. In a few moments, he heard the roaring sound as she began another room.

The combination lock did not appear to be much of a challenge. And, with a setup like this, he was certain he could neutralize the alarm wires. A piece of cake.

He had been at work on the combination for no more than ten minutes. Everything was falling into place; a few more turns and he would be ready for the large metal door handle, which he knew would yield.

He didn’t hear them approach, probably due to the infernal noise of the vacuum. But he heard the voice clearly. “Okay, turkey, hold it right there!” It was a woman’s voice, but harsh. “Just lean forward and put both hands on the door where we can see ’em!”

Chardon did as he was told. He also glanced back briefly. Two Detroit uniforms, one male, one female, both with guns drawn and aimed. No question of going for his own gun; he’d be dead before he could make his move.

These things happen. But not to him. At least not often. Nothing to do now but play the hand he would be dealt.

The male officer nudged Chardon to his feet, patted him down, and cuffed him. “Robbin’ the Church. My, my. Ain’t nothin’ sacred anymore.”

The female officer, checking out Chardon’s tool collection, realized this was no penny-ante thief. Somehow they had nabbed a considerable fish. She pulled a card from her pocket and began to read. “You have the right to remain silent …”

He was going to hold on to that right like a life preserver.

C H A P T E R