desk to shake hands. He’d grown thick over the years. His big belly hung over his waist, pushing against the yellow polo shirt he wore and forcing the belt on his khaki pants lower. His hair had turned completely gray but still remained full.
“Have a seat, Detective,” he said, returning to his spot behind the desk.
Stynes sat and brought out his notebook. “I’m sorry to walk in on you like this, but I was in the neighborhood.”
“It’s no problem.” Bower tossed the glasses onto the scattering of papers on his desk. “You do have my curiosity piqued, I have to admit. It’s been a long time since we last crossed paths. I hope it’s nothing as serious as that.”
Stynes smiled. He could picture Bower bellied up to a table at the local country club. Not Indian Lake, the most exclusive club, the one that only Dove Point’s richest residents could afford. More likely Bower would pay the dues at Rolling Hills, the older and less exclusive club, the one that a middle-to upper-middle-class bookkeeper could afford to join. He would be perfectly at ease drinking beer with the boys after a long round, his face florid from the sun and the alcohol, telling jokes and complaining about the national debt or the tax code or the way kids today just didn’t understand the meaning of hard work and sacrifice.
“I’m happy to say it’s not nearly as serious as the Manning murder.”
Bower nodded. He did look relieved. “Good.”
“One of your clients is the Reverend Fred Arling, right?”
Bower made no effort to conceal the eye roll. “Yes, the Reverend Fred. I’ve been doing his books for about ten years. Not much money there, but, you know, it’s a service. Sort of like a lawyer doing pro bono work.”
“You do his books for free?” Stynes asked.
“No, no. He’s just not a very big client, that’s all.”
“Has he ever complained to you about missing money?”
Bower rolled his eyes again. “Only every week for the last three years-Cindy? Cindy?” The girl appeared in the doorway, her face open for whatever task the boss would assign. “Can you get me the Reverend Fred’s folder, please?” When she was gone, Bower pointed to his computer and said, “Some of this stuff is still easier to look at on paper.”
“I get it,” Stynes said. “I hate computers.” He looked around. No pictures of a wife or kids or grandkids. Stynes tried to remember if Bower was still married to the same woman. He didn’t wear a wedding ring. But even if he was divorced, why no pictures of his son, Michael? Wasn’t that Small Businessman 101? Scatter the place with pictures of your family so everyone thinks you’re a regular guy?
“I don’t even have a cell phone or one of those BlackBerry things,” Bower said. “If they can’t reach me here, they don’t need me, right?”
“I hear you,” Stynes said. “They make me carry one.”
Cindy breezed back in carrying a manila folder. She brought it around behind Bower’s chair and, while moving about as close to the man as she possibly could, laid it open on his desk. Stynes saw she wore a gold engagement ring on her left hand.
“He needs a phone,” Cindy said. “What if there was an emergency or something?”
Stynes started to see the picture developing. Cindy did everything but give Ray Bower a kiss on the cheek.
“Thank you, Cindy,” Ray said.
She picked up on the hint and left the room.
Ray flipped the folder open when she was gone and let out a long sigh. “Let’s see,” he said. “The Reverend Fred.”
“I’m not looking for every detail of his financial holdings,” Stynes said.
Bower didn’t look up from the file. “You couldn’t do that without a subpoena anyway.”
“I just want to know if there’s validity to his complaint, or is it just a misunderstanding.”
Bower looked up. “Of course there’s no validity to the complaint,” he said. He leaned back in his chair, the springs groaning as he adjusted his weight. “The Reverend Fred is a little too literal-minded to understand the way business works. He thinks if a certain amount of money is in his account at one point during the month or a quarter, then that amount is always going to be there.”
“Shouldn’t it be?”
“A few years back, a rich elderly woman who had been going to Reverend Fred’s church for about forty years up and died. Classic little old lady who lived frugally and tucked her money into nice safe investments and drove the same car for thirty years, and when she died she had a decent amount socked away. She didn’t have any kids, so she left the money to Reverend Fred’s church.”
“What’s he doing with the money?” Stynes asked.
“I know the place looks like a rattrap, but he did use the money for some capital improvements. He put a new roof on. Bought new Bibles and pews. Cleaned up some debts. About what you would expect.”
“So what’s the problem?” Stynes asked.
“None really. I set the money up in a mutual fund for him. Pretty safe stuff, enough to generate a little income and build a nest egg.” Bower rubbed his right eye. “Of course, the economy went off the cliff a couple of years ago, and even people who invested in safe stuff lost a chunk of change.”
“And so did Reverend Fred.”
“He did. It’ll come back eventually, but he blamed me for it. Thought I should have been even safer and more conservative than I was.”
“Should you have?”
“A guy in my business can always be safer,” Bower said. “But you can be so safe sometimes you’re not doing anybody any good. At some point, you might just want to stuff the money under your mattress, you know?”
“And is this the root of the reverend’s complaint?”
“Every time he gets a quarterly report and the account has lost a few hundred bucks, he calls me up and accuses me of ripping him off. Usually, by the time the next report comes along the money is made up again. Sometimes he makes a lot more, and then he cools down. He’s a hothead.”
“Why doesn’t he fire you?”
“Like I said, I’m cheap. And so is Reverend Fred. The better question is why don’t I dump him. He’s a permanent headache.”
“And why don’t you?” Stynes asked.
“I have to be honest, I kind of like the guy,” Bower said. “I disagree with everything he believes, and he’s a pain in my ass, but he’s entertaining. I don’t get much entertainment in my line of work.”
Stynes closed the notebook but didn’t get up. “Yeah, I kind of agree with you, Mr. Bower.” Stynes hooked his pen back onto his shirt pocket. He didn’t look at Ray Bower when he said, “How do you feel about Reverend Fred hiring Dante Rogers to work at his church?”
“He did what?”
“Don’t you read the paper?” Stynes asked.
“You mean those articles about the murder?” Bower said. “I didn’t read them. I try not to relive that stuff. I have a lot of bad memories from that time.”
“Dante works at the Reverend Fred’s church,” Stynes said. “I saw him there just yesterday.”
Bower’s lips pressed together. His face darkened. “I didn’t know that. As far as I’m concerned, they shouldn’t allow that bastard back into society at all. He killed a kid. And he’s a pervert.”
“He did his time.”
“Not enough. Not enough at all.”
“You seem pretty angry about it still,” Stynes said, although Bower’s anger possessed a practiced, almost scripted quality that Stynes had seen before. People often felt they had to display their anger in a predictable fashion, the way they saw people on TV do it to reporters and news anchors. They worried if they didn’t express anger and outrage in its proper, acceptable forms, others would feel they were heartless and unfeeling. Stynes filed the response away in the back of his mind. “You know the Mannings pretty well, right?”
“Sure.”
“Still see them?”
“Not really.” Bower seemed to want to stop his answer right there, but Stynes just kept watching him,
