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."