I sat at my kitchen table, fists supporting my chin. I didn't want to call Jeff and tell him what had happened. I was too upset. The Washington files were gone, the files I had promised Joelle Simpson I'd take care of, stolen while I'd been giving a statement, stolen no doubt by Mr. Red Lexus. Had he shot at and missed us for just this purpose? To delay me across town? Probably. After seeing me with Thaddeus Washington, he put two and two together, created a diversion and headed straight here to find out what I had that led me to Lawrence's father. At least he hadn't hacked into my computer. That would have required time considering how well-protected it was. No, my computer wasn't important to the thief, anyway. I'd left what he wanted in plain sight.
I squeezed my eyes shut, feeling a headache coming on. Damn. First Verna Mae's scrapbooks and now the files. Someone did not want the old case and Verna Mae's death connected—and that meant bigger secrets were out there somewhere.
I had to tell Jeff. Despite the disinterest by the local police, the thief could have left evidence in my kitchen. Yeah. Big fat fingerprints all over the place. Probably even spit on the table to make sure we had DNA. Right. Like he'd never seen CSI or Forensic Files or any other crime show that offers crooks recipes for success.
I sighed and took my phone out of my purse, but before I could even speed-dial Jeff's number, Aunt Caroline rapped on the back door and then came prancing in like she always does. Could this day get any worse?
"Abby, I heard you were robbed. What did they take?" She was wearing a pink polo shirt and golf shorts, her electric beach tan just a little too dark this week.
The break-in probably happened an hour ago and she already knew. The woman never ceases to amaze me, and I don't mean that in a good way. "Nothing antique or encrusted with jewels was stolen, but thanks for asking if I was home or I was hurt or any of those less important details."
If she hadn't applied so much plum blush I might have detected embarrassment over her being more concerned about material things than her niece. Her reaction, however, was par for the course, and I didn't give a flying flip anyway. How would I explain to Joelle?
"Who told you?" I asked.
"The news is all over the neighborhood, so Marion Callaway called me immediately, which is more than you did."
"I only just found out and who the hell is Marion Callaway?"
"Your neighbor down the block. You really need to be more sociable, get out and meet people. I met Marion at the country club, we got to talking and I found out she lives right near you. We've been friends for several weeks now."
Great. Aunt Caroline had her own CIA agent in my neighborhood. "Listen, I'd love to give you all the tantalizing details, but there aren't any, and I don't feel much like visiting, so—"
"Marion said she's seen that car several times hanging around your place and didn't think it belonged to anyone she knew. Then this happens and she sees the police and—"
"She saw the car?"
"Oh, yes. Didn't see the driver, but Marion is quite good with numbers. I swear she could keep her golf score in her head. God knows, she always keeps track of mine. I only hope when I'm as old as her I—"
"Numbers? What about numbers?"
"She remembered the license number. I think she said she was calling it in to the West University Police right after she hung up from me. Unlike you, she knew I needed this information immediately, even before the police." Aunt Caroline smiled—the last face-lift was already wearing off, so she could actually smile without splitting her lips at the corners—and for once her smug face didn't make me clench my teeth.
I called Mrs. Callaway after Aunt Caroline left, and the woman was more than happy to give me the license number she'd already phoned in to the West U. police. She was a talker like Aunt Caroline, and I listened with half an ear while she rambled on about crime and being a good citizen and how my aunt was proud of me for me getting my hands dirty in the real world. This implied that she and Aunt Caroline wore gloves—expensive ones—to keep their hands clean. After I disconnected, I called Jeff with the plate number but got his voice mail, so I left a message.
But I wasn't done with phones. I'd no sooner hung up when Will called.
"How's the case going, Abby?" he asked. "Did... did the DNA result come back yet?"
Abby, you idiot. How could I have forgotten to at least call Will's parents, let alone him? Probably because I had tunnel vision right now. One thing kept leading to another in this case, and Will had been the beginning of the trail—a meeting that seemed so long ago now.
"I am so sorry, Will. I should have phoned you right away."
"I probably couldn't have talked to you anyway. They're pretty strict about us focusing on the game at camp."
"Nice of you to let me off the hook, but I'm still sorry. I found out Wednesday evening that Verna Mae was not your birth mother."
A short silence followed, then Will said, "It kinda makes me feel better. Does that sound bad?"
"No, not at all. I think we both knew deep down she wasn't your birth mother. I am making progress in other ways." Should I tell him his father might be in prison for murder? That answer came easy. I had to be honest. It was my job. I filled Will in.
"Man, this blows my mind. He's in prison. Do you think that officer was right? That he didn't kill that girl?"
"I have no hard evidence, but Frank Simpson never gave up on Lawrence, and that says a lot. Now that I've lost his files, though, I—"
"You didn't lose them. Someone took them," Will said.
"I feel responsible, and the fact that someone wanted them that badly tells me they're worried about what Simpson kept."
"You mean they wanted the evidence that might prove the man who is probably my birth father is innocent, in prison for a crime he didn't commit?" Will, my usually subdued young client, was angry. And so was I.
"Officer Simpson didn't have hard evidence, so I'm not one hundred percent sure about anything Will, not even about Lawrence Washington being your birth father. But I promise you, I will learn the truth."
"But you believe this man in jail is him. My birth father."
"Yes, Will. I do," I said quietly.
"Okay, I want to see him. See the man who's probably my grandfather, too. When can that happen?"
"Listen, I understand this is upsetting, but give me more time, let me find out what's true and what's not. Lawrence wouldn't have even let me in to see him without police help. I doubt if it would be wise to take you to Huntsville."
"I'm sorry, Abby. This just pisses me off. It's so wrong."
"I'm sure your parents have told you more than once that what's fair and right doesn't always happen. In this case, I'm hoping we can fix that."
But while I was reassuring him of my commitment, I was thinking about something Will had just said. He wanted to see his grandfather. Lawrence might not be willing to give up any DNA to prove paternity, but I was certain Thaddeus wouldn't hesitate. Grandparent genes had to be good, though I hadn't had a case yet where I'd needed them. If they could identify Billy the Kid's relatives after a hundred years, not to mention Thomas Jefferson's mixed-race offspring, then surely I could get the proof we needed.
"Abby? You still there?" said Will.
"Sorry. Are you back from camp?" I asked.
"No. I have a few more days to go. We aren't supposed to use our cell phones except for emergencies, but I couldn't stop thinking about that poor dead lady and what you were doing. I'm hoping no one rats me out about phoning you."
"You do what you're supposed to in Austin, and I promise I'll have more answers when you return." Okay, so I'd offered up more than a little hope that Lawrence Washington was innocent, though I wasn't totally sure, had left out a few details—like how Lawrence was stonewalling and how I'd been followed and warned and had basically put myself and my sister at risk. But that's what I'd signed up for when I chose this life, and Will didn't need to know all that.
18
My mentor Angel always says the el
ement 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 w
as 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?"
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