Dead Wrong (5 page)

4

T
ED
N
ASH
turned off the CD and Mozart’s
Eine kleine Nachtmusik
, and began to softly whistle
Camelot.
More and more this Sterling Heights high rise reminded him of King Arthur’s redoubtable fortress. And it also reminded him of God, since God had directed him, just as He had guided Arthur, to all the fortress contained. Not the least of this bounty was Guinevere—Brenda.

The structure was christened Nebo, after the mountain from which Moses had viewed the Promised Land. Ted’s suite in this building was his promised land. The building was Ted’s baby. In erecting it he had avoided some earlier mistakes, from which he had learned. Measured by the standards of the 1990s, it was about as perfect as a condominium building could be. There were few if any complaints from the resident-owners.

But most of all, with unwonted prescience, Ted had incorporated into Nebo his unassailable nest.

The idea had first occurred to him when, many years before, he had read of the French king who had built into his palace a double staircase leading to his chambers, the configuration of which made it impossible for his wife to encounter any of his mistresses coming or going.

Although at the time Nebo was planned and built, Ted had had no practical need for such a protective hideaway—relations with Melissa were then at least adequate—still and all there might come a time when he would require utter seclusion. So he had tucked into Nebo a mazelike retreat. Now he needed it, had it, and used it.

He pulled into the ramp adjoining Nebo, drove up two levels, pressed the automatic door opener, and entered the ramp’s only garage. In effect, it was a garage within a garage.

From there, he took a private elevator to the eleventh floor, exited, and took another private elevator—which masqueraded as a janitor’s closet and required a special key for entry—and arrived at the twenty-first floor, one floor below the penthouse.

Besides Brenda and himself, only two others knew of this ultra-private suite, and only one of those two had access to the apartment.

Ted’s architect was the draftsman of the entire building, including the Nash retreat. The architect’s financial future was linked to the Nash fortune. Thus the architect could be trusted. And he, in turn, had involved so many subcontractors in the construction of the suite that no one of them knew the entire configuration.

The only other confidante was the housekeeper, who, along with her family, was in this country illegally. Thus she was even more dependent on Ted Nash’s good will than was the architect.

It was Ted’s conviction that it paid to protect one’s rear.

Utilizing his key, Ted entered the suite.

“T
HAT YOU
, T
ED
?” Brenda called from the kitchen.

Nash smiled as he put down his briefcase and hung up his hat and coat. “If it’s not, it’s got to be Mandrake the Magician.”

“It could have been Valeria.”

“She hasn’t been here today?”

“Oh, she’s been here. But she forgot her groceries. I thought she might have come back for them.”

Nash reached the doorway to the kitchen. Brenda stood, her back to him, at the sink. She was mixing a pitcher of martinis.

She was wearing a white, frilly blouse, and a dark, knee-length skirt. Black and white, his favorite colors. She never forgot. Besides, it was a sensible ensemble, considering this is what she’d worn to work at the chancery.

Ted renewed his admiration for her figure. He reveled in her wasp waist, the curve of her full hips, the slope of her calves, her slender ankles. That was just one of many fascinating things about Brenda: One could admire every portion of her body separately. And that was one of the joys of seeing her fully clothed: It enabled one to appreciate sights that were otherwise lost in the beauty of her total nakedness.

Ted could never understand how some thought Brenda plain. They just had not had the fortune to experience the complete Brenda. He had. And he could not get enough of her.

He approached her. As soon as she felt him behind her, she leaned back against him. He smelled her straight brunette, shoulder-length hair. Vintage Brenda. He inhaled the fragrance of her shampoo. “Thank God for Palm Springs,” he murmured.

She stirred the ice in the pitcher. “What’s in Palm Springs?”

“Melissa and the kids.” In Brenda’s presence he never used the designation “wife” for Melissa. Melissa was certainly not fully a wife; and, by Ted’s peculiar lights, Brenda was at least as much a wife as Melissa. Somehow, it just didn’t seem suitable to use the term in either’s presence.

“That means we’ve got the whole weekend,” Brenda said.

“That’s what it means, okay. Any problems?”

In no way did the query imply that a problem would be permitted to interfere with their time together. Merely that if Brenda had any prior commitment, it would be canceled or postponed. Brenda understood. She shook her head. “No, no problems.”

“Great. Are you going to keep stirring until you melt that ice?”

She laughed. “Go make yourself comfy. I’ll be there in a minute.”

In the living room he kicked off his shoes and snuggled into the leather recliner. His chair. He looked about him. The decor was as appealing as any ad for interior design. Brenda had a talent for that— among other things. Ted felt good—very, very good.

Brenda entered, bearing a tray with two martinis straight up and some cheese and crackers. She set the tray on the end table alongside his chair. She took her martini and sat on the couch across from him. “How was your day?”

With a broad smile, he raised his glass to eye level.

“That good!” she exclaimed. “You’re toasting it?”

“We got the Ford Park deal!” he exulted.

“Marvelous! None of the media thought you could pull it off.”

He took a sip of his drink, then set the glass down and spread some cheese on a cracker. “Bleeding hearts! They all get upset about killing Thumper or Bambi. Well, we’re not killing them; they just have to move when they get in the way of progress.”

“It’s a sure thing?”

“It’s a done deal.” He cheesed another cracker, leaned forward, and offered it to her. “By the way, with the park gone there’s going to be room for much more than just the mall. We’re going to put up some additional condos. Should be a significant increase in population for that area. We may even buy up some of the existing buildings and gentrify them.” He gestured with a cracker. “This would be an excellent time for your boss to scoop up some of that land for a new parish. The final head count will more than justify the move. And if he waits until the development is well along, things will get tough.” He leaned back in the chair. “Matter of fact, if the Department of Finance and Administration doesn’t get off the dime very, very soon—like now—there just might not be any land at any price.”

Brenda looked thoughtful. After a slight pause during which she took a small sip of her drink, she asked, “Now, how am I going to do this? Without, that is, blowing my cover …
our
cover.”

“I’ve thought of that. The deal between Nash Enterprises and the city will be on radio and the tube tonight and in the papers tomorrow. Only the news about the mall, not the part about the condos and further developments. But the mall is the essence of the whole idea … and you can speculate as well as anyone else.”

Her concern appeared to dissolve. “That’s pretty good. But how’s this: Isn’t this just about the same
M
.
O
. you used in the Conner-Jefferson development?”

“Come to think … yeah, it is. Just about.”

“So the possibility of your doing it again is strong … strong enough so that the archdiocese would be foolish not to move on it.”

“You’re right! You’re absolutely right. The risk is minimal while the gain could be significant. Good thinking.”

Ted felt a bit ambivalent about Brenda’s mental powers. On the one hand, he was pleased that she was so much more than a mere sex object. On the other, he occasionally felt threatened in that she might just possibly be significantly smarter than he. But for the moment, that emotion was buried deep beneath the surface.

“As it turns out,” he went on, “you’re in a no-lose situation. If you make this suggestion, it doesn’t really matter whether McGraw moves on it or not. You’re going to be absolutely correct. If he buys your recommendation, he’ll be a very happy man. If he doesn’t, he loses … and so does the archdiocese. Either way, your stock climbs.”

Brenda knew all that. But she let him think he had reached this conclusion on his own. “How about another one?” She didn’t wait for an answer.

Watching raptly as she left the room, he marveled at her sinuous movement.

“While we’re at it,” he said, loudly enough to be heard in the kitchen, “how was your day?” The times he had addressed the same question to Melissa, the interest was nonexistent and the words simply pro forma. He didn’t really care what the kids had done in school or what was the gossip in the beauty parlor. With Brenda, however, he was very definitely interested in what went on in the chancery. He found the inner workings of the Church fascinating.

She returned and refilled his glass, then topped off her own drink, of which she had taken only a few sips. She returned to the couch, a smile tugging at her mouth.

“Something did happen that I thought you’d find interesting. There was a letter that arrived a while back. It was addressed just to the chancery, correct street number and all. But because it wasn’t addressed to anybody specific, it was delivered to the Cardinal’s office. It was written in some foreign language, but none of the secretaries could figure out what the language was.

“To make a long story short, the letter traveled all over the Chancery and the Gabriel Richard Building. Some of the younger priests in the various offices saw it, and so did just about all the lay employees. Nobody could figure it out.

“Finally, they figured that since it had an Egyptian postmark it probably came from some missionary priest. So they sent it to the Propagation of the Faith office in hopes that someone in the office of the missions could at least identify the language.”

“And?”

“And the Prop office solved the mystery.” She paused. “It was written in Latin!”

“Latin!” Ted roared. “It was written in Latin? And it went through all the downtown bureaucracies and no one recognized it?”

Brenda nodded vigorously. “Of course, the Cardinal didn’t see it. Nor did the few elderly priests who work there. Any one of
them
would have recognized it immediately.

“And,” she added, “rumor has it that this isn’t the first time this has happened.”

“Worse yet! To think that no one in the administrative offices knew or realized it was Latin. That really tells you something. And it makes you wonder whatever happened to the Latin Rite of the Roman Catholic Church.”

Ted was on the verge of getting himself all worked up. For him it was just one more indication of the damage and destruction that had been inflicted on his Church as a result of that damned Ecumenical Council in the early sixties. It was bad enough that ranking lay people working at headquarters of the Archdiocese of Detroit could not even recognize the Latin language. Worse, some young priests, who represented the Latin Rite of the Catholic Church, but couldn’t and wouldn’t remember anything that preceded Vatican II, couldn’t even make out the tongue of their own rite!

“Anyway,” Brenda said, “it’s a true story. Kind of interesting and kind of funny. I thought you could call that editor at the
Free Press
— Nelson Kane, isn’t it? It’s just the kind of story he likes. It should give him a whole column. Then he’ll owe you one.”

“Good thought. Very good thought. I’ll give him a call tomorrow.”

“Seems we’ve got something going here,” Brenda observed.

“Huh?”

“We’re helping each other one-up people who will then owe us. You gave me the ammo to get an advantage over Muggsy McGraw with that land parcel deal. And I give you a story that can win you a favor at the
Free Press.
Not bad.”

“Not bad at all. And relatively painless. Now …” Ted held up his empty glass. “… how about one more, honey, before dinner?”

Brenda, who still hadn’t finished her first drink, immediately got the pitcher and refilled his glass. She glanced at his eyes. They were beginning to glaze. Would he stay awake long enough to have supper? Would he be conscious enough for sex? She didn’t bother adding anything to her own glass. Instead, she went back into the kitchen. He watched her go, again appreciatively.

Another great thing about Brenda: By now, Melissa would have been all over his case for having three powerful drinks on virtually an empty stomach. With Brenda, whatever he wanted he got. No fuss, no argument, no recriminations. Bless Brenda. “What’s for supper, by the way?”

“Looks like a leg of lamb,” Brenda called back. “As usual, Valeria left heating instructions.” She grinned. If Valeria were a man, she’d be accused of having the belt and suspenders syndrome; she never left anything to chance.

Brenda returned to the living room. “Just to let you know ahead of time: I probably won’t be home till late Wednesday evening. It’s Aunt Oona’s birthday. I really should drop in for the party.”

“Juss as well,” he slurred slightly. “M’lissa is having some people over. I’ve already been informed I’ve got to be there.”

Ted understood that Oona was not really Brenda’s aunt; it simply was the easiest term of reference. “Anything else cooking downtown?”

“Not much,” she replied. “Outside of the Latin letter, most things seem to be in remission, or dead in the water, especially in our office. McGraw had an appointment with the Cardinal this morning. But it went nowhere.”

“Oh? What about?”

“The ADF.”

Ted put his glass down definitively. “That thing is a mesh. That thing is a mess,” he corrected himself. “Should bring in three, four times what it does.”

“That’s what McGraw thinks too. His idea was an old one. He keeps thinking the time is right for the Cardinal to okay it.”