Chapter 69 - The Architecture of Deception
The moment the front door closed, Julian collapsed into the nearest leather armchair, his face pale and glistening with cold sweat. He loosened his silk tie with a trembling hand, letting out a breath he had seemingly held for an hour.
"My God, Evelyn," Julian gasped, looking at me with wide, disbelieving eyes. "The Sisters of Mercy? An ecclesiastical ground lease? How did Donald manage to execute an agreement like that without the firm’s partners finding out? I’ve been your family's lead counsel for twenty-five years, and I’ve never seen a single reference to a Baltimore chancery trust!"
I stood in the center of the dimly lit study, the silence of the massive house settling around us once again like a heavy winter shroud. Outside, the headlights of Vance’s unmarked sedan swept across the frosted windows as the car reversed down the long gravel driveway, its tires crunching through the sleet before fading into the distance.
I walked over to Donald’s desk, picked up the silver key I had taken from the grandfather clock, and tossed it onto the green leather blotter. It landed with a dull, hollow clatter.
"Julian," I said softly, my voice weary and drained of the icy defiance I had shown the sheriff.
"Yes, Evelyn?"
"There is no Baltimore chancery trust."
Julian froze. He looked at the key on the desk, then slowly lifted his head, staring at me in utter horror. "What did you say?"
"I made it up," I said, walking to the drinks cabinet and pouring two fingers of amber scotch into a crystal tumbler. My hands were finally shaking, the adrenaline that had kept my spine straight during the confrontation beginning to bleed away. "Arthur Mercer was an atheist who wouldn't have given a dime to a parish priest if he were drowning in holy water. There are no diocesan records. There is no mineral lease. The safe upstairs contains Donald’s high school track medals, his private diaries from his mistress in Philadelphia, and three hundred thousand dollars in gold Krugerrands he smuggled back from South Africa in 1978."
Julian jumped to his feet, knocking his briefcase against the leg of the desk. "Evelyn! Are you insane? Vance is going to verify the records the moment the county offices open at eight o'clock! When he discovers the diocesan claim is a phantom, he will execute the possession warrant with criminal charges for obstructing an officer of the court!"
"He won't check at eight o'clock," I replied, taking a slow sip of the burning liquor. "Because Thomas Vance is too cautious. He knows the Mercer family has bribed state judges for eighty years. He won't trust the county registrar. He will send an investigator directly to Baltimore to search the ecclesiastical archives in person. That gives us until noon tomorrow."
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"Until noon to do what?" Julian demanded, his voice bordering on hysteria. "Pack up eighty years of your life and flee the country?"
"No," I said, looking out into the dark hallway toward the basement door. "Until noon to destroy the one piece of evidence that actually gives him the right to take this house."
