Dead Giveaway

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