Dead Wrong (23 page)

Then, through the wracking waves of agony, something seemed to break, then something was sliding out of her. Her tears came at the same time as the smile that widened into a grin.

“Okay,” the doctor said, “come on. We’re ready for you.”

There were a few brief moments of silence as the final stages of this miracle of birth were played out.

“This,” the doctor said, “is where your decision not to have any drugs is going to pay off. Although I don’t know whether, after all you’ve gone through, it will be worth it. But you’re alert, and your baby is not at all groggy. You’ll see in a little while when you start to nurse a very frisky baby.”

“Doctor,” Maureen said weakly, “doctor, what is it?”

“Oh, yeah. Plumb forgot to mention that. Maureen, you’ve got a fine, healthy girl.”

Maureen closed her eyes. Her smile was almost beatific.

“Perfect,” she said, and relaxed.

C H A P T E R

18

H
E STUDIED
the birth certificate for a full minute. Then he looked across the coffee table at Charles Nash. There was no expression on his face whatsoever. His eyes held some sentiment, but it was impossible to tell what it might be.

His name was Rick Chardon. He was of average height, with thick, dark hair, brushed back and clinging tightly to his patrician head. His eyes, as already described, were very much alive, but with an intent frequently veiled.

Wordlessly, he handed the certificate back to Nash.

“What,” Nash asked, “is wrong with that certificate?”

“Your name is on it.”

“Exactly.”

Nash had used Chardon’s services several times in the past, mostly to get information on Nash’s immediate superiors or fellow workers at Lowell Development Corporation. Information that could compromise their professional and/or private lives. Information that could undercut their standing at Lowell. It was one of the telling ways Nash had climbed the corporate ladder to his present position—one rung from the top.

Chardon simply did whatever he was paid to do. His services did not come cheap, but they were virtually guaranteed.

One never needed to tread lightly or be at all squeamish with Chardon. Everything was conducted in a business milieu wherein that which some might consider morality had no bearing.

Chardon in no way worked for Nash. Chardon free-lanced. He could not, of course, advertise. His reputation grew by word of mouth from a series of satisfied customers.

“I need to have my name taken off that record,” Nash said. “My name, and all other statistical information about me.”

Chardon nodded. “I’m not familiar with the Wayne County Clerk’s Office. Is there any problem getting a copy of a record?”

“None. I got this copy without showing any identification at all. You ask for a record—anyone’s—birth, marriage, death, you pay the fee, you get the record. Simple as that. No questions asked.”

Again Chardon nodded.

Nash knew that already Chardon was hatching a plan. There was no substitute for dealing with a professional. “So, do you have any ideas?”

Chardon nodded.

“I suppose it would be good to talk money,” Nash said.

Chardon shrugged. “A little early. I don’t know yet what it will take.”

Nash looked concerned. “Time is a factor. At the end of each month, they send all these records to Lansing. They’re kept in the state capital, as well as in the county. That means you’re going to have to take care of this by the end of the month. That leaves a little more than three weeks. Not too bad, except it has to be done within that time frame. Otherwise we’ll have to have someone doctor the records in the county
and
in the State.”

Slight frown lines surfaced on Chardon’s forehead. “Three plus weeks.”

“That’s all we’ve got.” Nash felt a tightening in his chest. He was so confident in Chardon’s efficiency that he hadn’t even considered the outside chance that this undertaking might be impossible, even for Chardon. “We can’t squeeze out anything more. Those are the rules. The records are kept by the state as well as by the various counties. We’ve got just to the end of November, and then the job gets twice as hard.”

Chardon shook his head. “Not twice as hard, damn near impossible.”

“Well, can you do it? Can you get the record changed before December?”

Chardon said nothing for several moments. Then he looked squarely at Nash. “The price just went up.”

“You haven’t quoted me a price.”

“I know. But it just went up.”

“My resources aren’t bottomless.”

“They will be.” Chardon almost smiled.

Nash read Chardon’s words as well as his demeanor and concluded that Chardon’s price would not only be fair, but that Chardon’s appraisal of Nash’s financial future was that it would be endlessly promising—and that he was counting on many future commissions from Nash.

It was Nash’s turn to nod. “Do you need any more information?”

Chardon took the birth certificate from the end table where Nash had laid it. “Not any more than this. You want your name and identification off this record. You don’t want it ever to get back on it. And you want it done before the end of this month.”

“That’s it.”

Chardon tipped his head sharply. “Done.”

H
E CASED THE OFFICE
of the county clerk several times. He always kept moving, under the theory that you’re less likely to be noticed if you seem to know what you’re doing. People tend to take you for granted.

He was canvassing the women clerks. He knew what he was looking for, but he was having trouble finding the perfect foil. Yet he was confident he would. No racist, he weighed black women as well as white. But after several near misses, he was almost ready to compromise.

Then he saw her.

She was perfect. Mousy, her hair pulled back and pinned in a bun so tightly it almost made her eyes appear oriental. Her dress was carefully modest, with lace at the high neck and long sleeves. She had a habit of compressing and rolling her lips inward, making a tight line of her mouth. She glanced fully at applicants just long enough to check their physical appearance against the record’s description—if the customer was asking for his or her own record. The rest of the time, she kept her eyes modestly cast down. Her ring finger was bare.

She was it.

Now, he needed a new identity. He had already done his research. He had all the information he needed.

The next day, Chardon returned to the clerk’s office. This time he stood for an extended time, seemingly trying to make up his mind which line to enter. He waited until he knew she’d noticed him. Then he took his place at the end of her line.

As the line moved forward, he knew she was glancing at him, taking him in surreptitiously.

In time, he was at her station. “I need a copy of my birth certificate. My name’s Peter Arnold.”

“And your date of birth?” She almost stammered. She noticed his smile. And of course she couldn’t bank on it, but she sensed that he was taking some interest in her. She was reluctant to believe her own intuition.

He smiled again. “Sorry. November 7, 1939.”

“Just a moment, please.” Her heart was beating more rapidly, and she felt her cheeks flush. She tried to control her emotions. This was silly. She was just doing her job. Then she did some quick mental arithmetic. She was good at her job.

She made the copy, returned to her station. She handed him the copy, holding her end of it a trifle too long and too firmly, so that he was momentarily slightly surprised. “Happy birthday.”

“Thanks.” He started to leave, then turned back. “Today I am a man, as they say. Uh … I don’t mean to be too forward, but … would you be willing to help me celebrate? Dinner, maybe?”

There was only the briefest hesitation. “Well … yes … I guess that would be all right.”

“Great. What time do you get off work?”

“Five-thirty.”

“I’ll pick you up then.”

From their first date through all the subsequent dates, which occurred almost daily, he knew that if it weren’t for the money, he wouldn’t be caught dead with her on a date.

She slowly opened up to him, confiding her background, her academic experiences, her political preferences, her secret ambitions. He created a portfolio for himself that closely resembled all she told him about herself.

It was a cautious and painstaking beginning. He forced himself to appear not only interested, but obsessed with every detail of her life.

After the ice was broken, Agnes Ventimiglia poured out her soul to this marvelous man. After a lifetime of hoarding her feelings, secrets, aspirations, she finally had an outlet, another human being in whom she could confide. It was wonderful. She couldn’t bring herself, she couldn’t dare hope, to believe that this was the man of her dreams. Could this be the one she was destined to marry and, with him, spend the rest of her life? She could only pray.

Chardon was measuring time carefully.

His objective was to gain her absolute trust. In this there were no shortcuts. There needn’t be. It would take only a few minutes at most to alter that birth record. It would not pay to scrimp on any single bit of preparation. Because if this didn’t work, he’d have to fall back on something a lot more fraught—something that would involve break-ins or bribery.

He would know he’d gained her complete confidence when she had little new to tell him about herself.

The next step was to turn a corner and make himself indispensable to her and thus make her dependent on him. He must create the impression that not only was he in love with her, he was contemplating marriage.

All this was accomplished with relative ease. Except that time was definitely a factor—and he didn’t have much left.

He didn’t really want to have sex with her, but he would have had it furthered his purpose. Fortunately, she was shy, and, reading her correctly, he perceived that she wished to save herself, if not for their wedding night, at least until a firm proposal of marriage.

November was coming to a close before all was ready for the moment of truth.

They spent a weekend together in Cadillac, Michigan. They stayed at a multipurpose resort in separate but adjoining rooms.

Most of the leaves had fallen from the trees. Fall was sliding toward winter. They hiked through the skeletal forest. They swam in the heated indoor pool. They ate in the nearly deserted dining room. They laughed and shared intimate glances and chaste kisses by the huge log fire.

Almost as an aside, he mentioned one evening that a friend of his was going to have a problem with a paternity suit. The friend, of course, was not the real father. But the mother was intent on blackmailing him. So she had given the friend’s name for the birth record. It would be a crying shame for this friend to have to go to court and spend possibly thousands of dollars fighting this malicious suit that would ruin his life if he lost. Chardon would consider it a favor of love if Agnes would correct the record by removing his friend’s name from it.

Though such an action would of course be illegal, the request was straightforward enough. It was his understated tone of voice that gave her the clear impression that this was of great and significant importance to her Peter Arnold.

The thought crossed her mind that this might be the entire purpose of his relationship with her. He certainly knew that she worked in the clerk’s office; that’s where they’d met. And he had gone where no man had entered before—into a love affair with her.

Could it be? Could he have trifled with her affections for the sole and simple purpose of getting her to change an official record?

No! Thoughts like that were an insult to their relationship. They had shared too much. She had confided in him too deeply. They had had too much fun together. He respected her too much.

No man—no man!—would have done all he’d done for her for so trivial a reason.

“Yes, darling. Yes, of course I’ll do it for you. I’ll do it for your friend, for your sake.”

N
OVEMBER 30
,
1960
. Agnes had drawn a heart around the date on her calendar.

Unless she missed her guess, either at the conclusion of dinner or in the privacy of his apartment, Peter would propose. She would accept. For the first time in their relationship—for the first time in her life—tonight they would consummate their love and commitment to each other.

Dinner was lovely, as usual. The Pontchartrain Wine Cellars lived up to its reputation. Agnes reflected that they had never dined at the same place twice. She attached no particular significance to that.

There was no post-dinner proposal. But the evening was by no means over.

At his apartment, once they were settled in, he offered her a glass of sherry. A large sip of the amber liquid warmed her. But she didn’t need the drink; she was ready for him.

He had noted the changes in her appearance tonight. Her hair style, the makeup, her perfume—all were new and attractive. Having assisted her in being seated at the restaurant and just now as he bent over her from behind and offered her the glass of wine, he was aware that she was wearing a lacy black slip. The fact that her dress was cut low enough for him to see that was also significant.