With a sigh, I rub my eyes and resolve to talk to Claire and Daniel again. I must tread lightly with my clients. It wouldn’t be the first time the people who seem most eager to solve the crime turn out to be the perpetrators. But the moon is setting across the bay, and it’s long past the witching hour. I’ve done a good day’s work — I have some leads to follow and no one mentioned the police so I know I’m ahead of any investigation from the APD.
Plus, Olafson hasn’t come to arrest me for breaking and entering.
I’ve only got one more thing to do, and I spend a couple of hours doing it. There’s a room in the basement which has been finished, unlike the rest of the lowest story. It has a window, a closet, and a locking door. I pull down the shade and turn the space into an incident room, complete with maps, pictures, and post-it notes.
In the morning, I’ll be ready to roll.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“I WANT TO talk to you about Victoria Harkness,” I say to Reverend Takahashi.
It had taken a good part of the morning to find him, with the help of the friendly lady at the church administrative office. I’d finally tracked him down to a shelter for transient men in a repurposed rambling bungalow on Bond Street.
“It’ll have to wait, Audrey. I’ve got a ministry to attend to here.”
“I’ll just follow along and hold your coat.” I don’t want him to get away from me, and he seems to have a full schedule. Besides, this will give me an opportunity to observe him in his element.
He looks at me oddly but doesn’t argue. We go inside to the common room, where a few men have gathered. Two sit on a rust-colored corduroy sofa with armrests dotted with cigarette burns. One slouches, arms and legs crossed, in a hard-backed rocker. Takahashi nods to the men and sets up a few folding chairs.
It’s been a week since I visited the Church of the Spirit and met the preacher for the first time. The Chandlers had challenged his presence then, and he’d said Pastor Harkness had invited him to come to that evening’s service. I want to find out more about that, and I don’t intend to allow Takahashi to evade my questions with any slick preacher-ese. If I have to sit through a sermon or a prayer meeting, so be it.
More men enter slowly, by ones and twos, heralded by quiet conversation. Two are commenting on the Episcopal Church dinner they went to last night. Another breaks into their discussion and says the best place to get a hot meal is at McDonald’s: if you wait near the drive-through menu board, someone will eventually order something for you.
“You gotta do it right. Standing at the end of the drive-through is no good. People have already placed their orders. But if they want to help, they’ll generally say, and then you can go around to the pick-up. Sometimes they even ask you what you want.”
“But there’s that sign, says it’s illegal to give food away from a car.”
“Just go stand on the sidewalk, off the property. Public way. You got the right to be there.”
The gathering tops out at nine. My own chair is tucked unobtrusively into a back corner, where I can view everyone in the room. The Reverend himself is also seated in a folding chair, the focus of a ragged parabola of haunted eyes. The men look cynical, bored, calculating — anything but devout. I wonder why they’re even here. But Takahashi doesn’t seem to be bothered by the lack of enthusiasm.
He starts off with a casual wave. “Hi guys. As some of you know, I’m Seth Takahashi, pastor for Riverside Christian Church. But you don’t have to call me ‘father’ or ‘reverend,’ just ‘Seth’ will do fine.”
I notice he still wears his shirt buttoned to the top. But the black trousers and shiny shoes he wore a week ago have been replaced by blue jeans and hiking boots. Dressed as I am in a navy blazer and white blouse, I’m a tad formal for the surroundings.
“I hear last Thursday Father O’Callaghan from the Catholic church was here. He’s a good guy. Could talk the birds out of the trees if he wanted to.” The men chuckle. One rolls his eyes. “Before we get started, I’m going to say the Lord’s Prayer. Join in if you want.”
Takahashi bows his head. His voice is smooth and compelling. A couple of the men say it with him, and I find myself echoing the familiar words. It’s been a long time since I’ve been to church, or believed in anything but what I can see and hear for myself, but I still remember that iconic prayer.
After the final ‘Amen,’ he leans forward, elbows on knees. “This is how the early Christian church was born, just groups of disciples — friends — meeting in someone’s house. Just interested folks, like yourselves, stopping in for fellowship and conversation.” He makes eye contact with each of the men. “If you can imagine, there would be some guy, a visitor like me, or maybe the householder himself. He’d say, ‘Hey, I heard about this teacher named Jesus. He said we’re all forgiven for everything we’ve ever done.’ And then someone else might say, ‘Yeah, the Romans killed him. Guess they weren’t really the forgiving type.’”
A couple of the men snort with laughter. Takahashi smiles, as though joining in the amusement. His smile is a flash of light that seems to illuminate the room. He goes on speaking, still very colloquially, delivering the standard message of sin and redemption. But as he gives it, I can feel his sincerity. It isn’t the holier-than-thou, glorify-the-lord and by association, glorify-me kind of preaching which has become so common
