Dead Giveaway

18

My mentor Angel always says the element of surprise is a PI's best friend, so Saturday morning I made no phone call before taking off to visit the Church of the Reverent Life. Besides, everyone's welcome at church, right?

My exhilaration about learning the license number had evaporated after Jeff called to say the car had stolen plates. We agreed that whoever was following me had probably opted for a new car by now and I'd seen my last red Lexus for awhile.

Before I left, I checked up and down the street, looking for any occupied vehicles. Nothing. Maybe the file had satisfied whoever was following me, at least for now. Minutes later I drove off to find the church, being watchful for anyone making all my same turns.

Finding the church was easy. You could play a Rockets game in this place, I decided as I parked in a lot with enough room for about 10,000 cars. I walked toward the monstrous main building, remembering what Thaddeus had said. Hell, the building even had a gold roof, as did the adjacent day care center, youth center, fitness center and retirement center. Yup, this probably served as the center of the universe for lots of folks.

I opened one massive brass-plated sanctuary door rather than try to find the church offices. Who wouldn't want to see the inside of a place like this? I entered a large marble vestibule—even the walls were a mottled beige marble—and walked through into the sanctuary. Holy opulence, Batman. There was red velvet stadium seating, a pulpit so far from where I stood I'd need binoculars if I sat in the back, and a pipe organ so big a photo of it would weigh five pounds. My jaw must have dropped, because when someone lightly touched my shoulder, my teeth came together loud enough to rattle the rafters. And those rafters were way up there.

"Can I help you?" said the man beside me. He had a full head of white-blond hair, styled in the popular bed-head look. I guessed he was around forty. And his eyes. Wow. Almost as clear and blue and gorgeous as Jeff's. (I did say almost.)

I offered what I was sure was an awe-filled smile, both for him and for this place. "Unbelievable," I said, again scanning the sanctuary.

"It is, isn't it? I'm certain God is proud of what we've built."

I offered my hand, and the guy shook it eagerly while his other hand gripped my upper arm. He was staring at me with what seemed as much admiration as I held for the church building. Maybe a little too much admiration, although I was flattered by his obvious interest.

"I'm Abby Rose. I came to see Pastor Rankin."

"I'm B.J., the pastor's administrative assistant. Seeing him right now might be a problem," he said with an apologetic smile. "He's awfully busy. We have brochures about our church if you're interested, and I'll have an assistant pastor call if you leave us your information. Please feel free to join us Sunday."

"I really have to talk to him today. Could you ask him to spare a few minutes?" I pulled a card from the pocket of my linen skirt and handed it to him. I had put on a skirt and a lime cotton shirt fresh from the dry cleaner. Once I'd tried to wear pants to church and my daddy about had a fit and fell in it. Even now I could hear him saying, "No funny business in church, Abby. You act like a young lady who's been taught right."

"A private investigator," the man said. "Interesting." He'd only taken his pale eyes off me for the instant it took him to read the card. They were fixed on my face again and I held his gaze even though I felt a strong urge to look away. I was beginning to understand what they meant when they said "magnetic stare" in romance novels. It had been a long time since I'd met someone worth looking at besides Jeff. I felt a little guilty, but a girl does need a distraction or two.

"Where can I find the pastor?" I asked. You want something, sometimes you gotta push.

"I'm sorry, Miss Rose, but—"

Just then a resonant, powerful voice rang out through the church, saying, "Friends and welcome visitors." The man standing at the pulpit stopped speaking to look down at a paper he held in his hand.

"Pastor," B.J. called. "Hang on a second." He strode down the nearest aisle.

The pastor said, "I wish you wouldn't—"

"You have a visitor," B.J. said.

Pastor Rankin squinted in my direction. "Oh. A parishioner? Someone in need?"

B.J. had made it to the pulpit, and the two spoke quietly for a second before they both started back up the aisle toward me.

When Pastor Rankin was within ten feet, I had to stifle a smile. From the pulpit, you would never know the man was diminutive, not much taller than my fivefour. He also had a tragic comb-over and eyes that reminded me of two rabbit pellets in an Amarillo snowdrift. How could a magnificent voice like that— unmiked, mind you—come from him?

He offered a hand, and at least his firm grip matched his voice. "Miss Rose, right? How can I help you?"

"I have a few questions. I promise I won't keep you long."

Rankin opened his mouth, but it was B.J. who spoke. "The pastor has a routine and—"

"Please?" I said, focusing on Rankin.

He glanced back and forth between B.J. and me and settled on me. "Of course. Let's talk in my office." He looked up at B.J. "I promise I'll watch my time."

The assistant gave a resigned shrug. "It's your call."

While B.J. went back down the aisle to parts unknown, Pastor Rankin led me back through the vestibule and down a long corridor decorated with oil paintings and watercolors with religious themes. Nice merchandise. I'm not up on my artists, but I was willing to bet some of these painters were famous, their work was that good.

Rankin opened a heavy oak door with his name engraved on a brass plate, and we entered the spacious office. He gestured to an upholstered chair facing his desk, and I went over and sat down, taking in the room.

The first thing I noticed was the People magazine on the center of the desk. Is that where inspiration for sermons comes from these days? The bookshelf to the left of the desk did hold a collection of Bibles, and some of them looked quite old. To my right, a seating area with green leather chairs surrounded a coffee table with an inlaid beveled glass top. Looked pricey. Everything here spoke of money—vases on the windowsills and custom-made drapes with billowy swag toppers.

The Pastor sat behind his desk, and the chair must have been ratcheted way up, because he seemed taller again, like he had at the pulpit.

"Miss Rose, I sense you have a mission. A calling."

"Really? What makes you say that?"

"I see a light surrounding you—a soft, golden light."

From what I knew of this church, it edged toward the fundamentalist side, and California New Age auras wouldn't be the order of the day. Yet here was the pastor telling me I was lit up like a firefly. "I guess you could call this investigation a mission." I pushed my card across to him and said, "I'm working on a case concerning a baby who was abandoned a long time ago. That child is now a college student and hired me to find his birth family."

"B.J. said you were a private investigator. I find that a fascinating profession for a woman. Especially one as young as you." Rankin stared at me, his head tilted, his thin lips curved in a smile.

I shifted in the chair. This wasn't a come-on. The way he looked at me made me think he was trying to solve a mystery, read something in my eyes. Or maybe he was hallucinating and that's what this light thing was about. Kate, where are you when I need you for a diagnosis?

He said, "A baby brings you to our church? Perhaps that's why I sense such a strong bond between you and God. Sorry to say, I don't recall any of our parishioners ever mentioning an abandoned child. Did one of our congregation accept one into their life?"

"Let me explain by starting earlier in time, before that baby was left on a doorstep. There's a man who might be connected to that child. He's in prison now, but once attended here, probably in 1986 and 1987. You might remember him."

He was fingering the People magazine and held it up. "Do you know what fascinating material you can gather from a publication like this? The world is a different place than when I was first called to the ministry. These days you have to—"

"His name was Lawrence Washington," I interrupted, my voice sounding harder than I intended. I had a feeling this man could get distracted easily— by faces, by reading material and by golden auras. "According to what I've learned from the police, he was a member of a youth group—and you were the youth minister then."

"Lawrence. I remember him." He opened a drawer and shoved the magazine inside. "It's been so long since I've heard anything about him. Is he still... there? In prison, I mean?"

"Yes. Can you tell me what you remember about him?"

Pastor Rankin folded his hands and leaned forward. "I recall he was a good young man who made a horrible mistake." He was giving me that intense and puzzled stare again, but I didn't shift my eyes from his, though I wanted to.

"Can you tell me about that youth group?" I asked. "Like any names you might recall? See, some of my evidence has... disappeared."

"And this has caused you anguish. I can read that much in your face." He was smiling, head cocked. "Would you like to join hands? Pray, perhaps?"

My daddy used to say, "Don't wait to hear the alarm go off before you build the fire escape." Alarms were sounding, and I hadn't come prepared to deal with someone like this. The best I could do was keep him on track. I said, "Um, not right now. The names of the youth group members would help."

He leaned back in the chair, stared up at the ceiling for a second. "That was so long ago, Abby Rose. All I remember is how Lawrence was brought to our youth ministry by friends from his high school, and we were so glad to have a black boy join us. Christ does not discriminate, and all are free to worship here."

Christ does not discriminate? A black boy? The way he said this had me thinking about this man of God in a different light. Damn. I didn't want to think about lights. Just push forward, Abby. Get over the need to squirm while you do your job. "Do you recall even one of his friends, Pastor Rankin?"

"You'd think I would, but I have been cursed with the worst affliction a pastor can have—I'm horrible with names. I do remember hearing about the young woman he... he did away with. She was found in a bank parking lot less than a mile from our original building, and it was our youth group meeting that night. The police came with questions, but sadly, we couldn't help the black boy. Our meeting ended long before the girl was killed, as I recall."

"You visited him in prison, Pastor Rankin," I said. "I've visited myself, and it's not something you forget. Can you tell me about that?"

"Tell you what we spoke of? That would be wrong, even if I could recall our conversation. Confidentiality is sacred. But I can offer you this by way of explanation. The gospel of St. Matthew teaches us that both the righteous and the sinners will be judged according to six requirements: giving food to the hungry, providing drink to the thirsty, showing hospitality to the stranger, clothing the naked, visiting the sick and visiting prisoners. By rendering these acts of compassion to the least of our brothers, we perform them for Christ Himself. It was my sacred duty to visit him."

"To sum up—and correct me if I'm wrong—the visit was just part of the job?" I'm not good at hiding my opinions, and if it made this guy like me just a little less, be less fixated on my face, I was all for cynicism.

His gaze shifted to a heavy oak lectern where a massive Bible sat open, the red satin bookmark dangling. He started flicking at the corner of my business card with a fingernail, his other hand balled into a tight fist. " 'Remember those who are in prison, as though you were in prison with them.' Hebrews 13:3. I sense your distrust, a certain distaste, and I am sorry for that. Your spirit is admirable, however. Like you, I perform my duties and am glad to do so. If it helps your cause, the black boy and I prayed together, but he told me nothing about his crime... nor did I ask."

"He may have spent years in jail for a murder he didn't commit. Will your duty to God help me find the truth? Perhaps free an innocent man?"

He smiled, folded his hands in front of him. "God has guided you here, brought your precious light, and I would never refuse you anything if only I could remember more. I simply can't."

But despite his calm tone, I noticed his face had reddened. Maybe he had a blood pressure problem— or my light had given him a sunburn.

"What would help you remember?" I asked. "Pictures of Lawrence after his arrest? I could bring one."

"You simply do not understand, Abby Rose." His sanctuary voice had reappeared, his loud voice. Great for a Sunday service, a little much for an office. Obviously the guy was coming unglued—which, now that I thought about it, might not be a bad thing. Maybe he'd let loose with something unexpected.

"Think hard, Pastor. Tell me what Lawrence said to you in Huntsville. Tell me about the night of the murder. Help me learn the names of the kids he hung out with. Tell me—"

"Stop." Rankin covered his face with his hands. "You don't understand."

All of a sudden he was crying big old crocodile tears. If I wanted to drive this man crazy, it would be a short trip. "What is it that I don't understand, Pastor?"

He took a deep breath to compose himself. "1987 was the worst year of my life, Abby Rose. We had to deal with tragic events that had nothing to do with the black boy's troubles."

I wasn't sure I felt comfortable asking what those events were, and turns out I didn't have to.

He said, "We lost our daughter that year. The pain is fresh even today and supersedes any memories of prison visits or youth counseling or anything else from back then."

"I'm really sorry, but even though it was a horrible time—"

The door opened and I smelled an overpowering perfume before I saw the woman. "Andrew, I heard you—oh, my heavens. I knew something was wrong."

She rushed to Rankin's side, bent and held his face. "What's happened?" She looked my way. "What's going on?"

"I'm a private investigator and I came to ask a few questions about a case I'm working—one that dates back to 1987. I seem to have dredged up some bad memories, and for that I apologize."

"We lost Sara that year," the woman said softly, rubbing tears off her husband's cheeks.

"I really had no intention of upsetting the pastor."

She straightened, tugging at the short purple jacket that matched her skirt. She was shapely, and though I could tell she was in her fifties, she had aged well.

"I'm sure you had no idea about our child," she said. "How could you possibly know?"

Rankin said, "She came about Lawrence—you remember the black boy? But all of a sudden my thoughts leaped to Sara and—"

"Shh, Andrew. It's okay," said his wife. She looked at me. "Perhaps you should leave for now. Call me later. I'll try to help you, but right now, my husband needs me for reasons I don't need to explain."

"Certainly." I stood. "Sorry to have caused a problem." I was happy to go, because if I heard him say "the black boy" one more time, I might have had to slug a man of God, tears or no tears.

Mrs. Rankin smiled sadly. "Forgive me... forgive us. When you lose a child, the pain never goes away." She rested a hand on her husband's cheek again. "Andrew is a very sensitive man; so strong for others, but when it comes to Sara, well..."

"I'll ask for you when I call, Mrs. Rankin," I said.

She came around the desk, extended her hand and then rested her other over mine when we shook. "It's Noreen. And you're?"

"Abby."

"Abby Rose," said the pastor, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket. He blew his nose. "Isn't that a beautiful name? Perfect for a spirited, glowing young woman. I have never before seen light surround someone like it does you, Abby Rose."

Mrs. Rankin glanced at her husband, and though she tried to mask her confusion, she failed. "Andrew, what are you talking about?"

"You can't see it? Maybe Sara has returned, resides in Abby Rose and—no, no. That's not right. I'm a little dizzy, Noreen. Where are my pills?"

Oh, yes. Find the pills right away, I thought.

"Please excuse us, Abby." She smiled, showing off bleached, perfect teeth to match her smooth, lovely skin—the kind you can only get from plenty of pampering. She was concerned, however, and I didn't blame her.

I picked up my purse and left, closing the door as softly as I could. That whole interview had been bizarre, and what had I learned? Zip. I was about to head back in the direction I'd come in when I saw a sign pointing the opposite way that read CHURCH LIBRARY. I decided this little visit wasn't over yet. The library in the church I'd attended as a child kept a history of everything, so maybe this one did, too.

When I entered, I was immediately reminded of the Hearst Castle library. There were shiny, walnut floorto-ceiling shelves, a ladder on a slide to reach items on the top, thick pale peach carpet and soft overstuffed chairs where you could sit and read. Above me was a stained glass dome that, if I'd been paying attention, I could have probably seen from the parking lot. Guess I'd been too dazzled by gold roofs.

The library was magnificent and peaceful. But I hadn't come here for peace. I closed the door behind me and began scouring the shelves. I soon found what I was looking for in books that had been bound in identical leather volumes with gold engraved numbers—all the saved copies of newsletters, prayer lists, articles about special members of their congregation, church trip journals. I even got to climb that cool ladder. A few minutes later I found the years I wanted—'86 and '87. The volume with an '86 newsletter had a picture of a very young Pastor Rankin and his wife flanking their youth group.

I climbed down and laid open the book on a study table and took out my phone. I'd only clicked off one picture before the door opened.

It was Mrs. Rankin. She flashed her brilliant smile again and definitely looked more relaxed than when I'd left her. "I thought you'd gone, but I'm so glad you found the library. Isn't it wonderful?"

"The whole building is amazing, but I think this room is my favorite."

"Did you find anything helpful?" she asked.

I closed the book. "A photo of Lawrence. Funny how he hasn't changed all that much since he was sent to Huntsville."

"You've seen him recently?"

"Yes."

"He's the one who hired you, then?"

"No, not Lawrence." I wasn't sure she needed to know about Will. Not right now, anyway.

"You're keeping a confidence," she said. "That's something we understand very well here. I have prayed for Lawrence often over the years and am so glad he has an advocate. This is a sign God doesn't want us to forget what happened." She stepped toward me, still smiling, her diamond stud earrings blinking in the sunlight coming through the tall velvetdraped window behind me. "Did he seem in good health when you visited?"

"As far as I could tell."

"He always said he didn't kill that girl, and frankly, I believed him. Told the police as much. Even though he was a very competitive young man, an athlete, you know, he had a soft spirituality about him. We were so lucky to have known him."

I came around the study table to stand between two armchairs. "But you haven't gone to see him?"

"Andrew went to the prison, then I tried, but Lawrence struck everyone from his visitor list quite early on."

"I didn't know that. By the way, is the pastor feeling better?" I was feeling a tad guilty about playing up to folks I didn't exactly like.

"He is better. You had no way of knowing what an emotional man he is, always has been. He's off to practice his sermon, so no harm done."

"Would you have time for a few questions now rather than later?"

She lowered onto the edge of a chair. "If Lawrence needs our help, of course. Though I'm not sure what I can offer."

I sat opposite her. "You met with the young people in his group every week, right?"

She nodded.

"Did Lawrence have a special attachment to anyone?"

Noreen Rankin smiled knowingly. "You mean was there a teenage romance going on? I can't speak to that, but you know adolescents. They wouldn't share that information with me. During our meetings we focused on our purpose, which was for those young people to become generous, God-loving adults who'd become assets to their church home. We read the Bible, we discussed the Bible. Anything that went on between them that didn't involve God stayed outside of our meetings."

"I was hoping that since Lawrence was the only African-American in your group at the time, maybe you could recall a little more about him than the others."

"I wish that were so, but Andrew and I both had such a difficult time that year. We thought surely Sara would be safe on that mission trip and—" She bit her lip, took a deep breath. "Anyway, perhaps if you can get in touch with someone in Lawrence's group, they could better help you."

"If I knew who they were. I need more information. Can I spend a little more time in here?"

She licked her glossed lips, thought for a second. "Our library is open to everyone, but we do have our church historical society meeting here in about... " She checked the thin silver watch on her wrist. "Oh, my goodness. They'll be here any second and B.J. hasn't set up the chairs. Would you mind returning? Say, tomorrow?"

I stood. "Sure. Thanks so much for your help. Let me put this book away before I go."

"B.J. will take care of it." She gave me another one of her clutching handshakes and gleaming smiles. She really was attractive and warm and all the things you'd expect of a pastor's wife, but she reminded me too much of Aunt Caroline and her rich friends. I was not feeling the love, but then maybe that was because I was so focused on getting what I needed.

At least I have one picture, I thought, as I walked out to the parking lot. With my luck, the library would probably be ransacked tonight and every single thing related to Lawrence Washington would be gone when I came back.

When I started to pull out onto the freeway feeder road, a church van was just driving in. The woman made a wide turn and nearly hit my front fender. She offered an apologetic wave as she steered right and drove into the lot. I noticed in the rearview mirror that the van was wheelchair-equipped, and I thought of Thaddeus. He could use wheelchair-equipped anything, and I might have to do something about it.