“Big of him,” said Walker. Tap. Tap. Dark eyes moving back and forth across the screen.
“Reggie Lee Atlas,” Darrel read. “Evangelical minister, Georgia born. Married, four children. Board of Western Evangelical Alliance. Honorary degrees. Got the calling at eighteen. Drove a bus around the South. Name of the bus and his ministry was Four Wheels for Jesus. Guest appearances and his own programs. Actually used a tent early on. Grew his followers. Things took off in 2005 when smartphones boomed. Lots of social media. Four Wheels for Jesus went online about a year ago — sermons from Pastor Reggie Atlas. Reggie picked to lead White House prayer breakfast. Bought the Encinitas property two years back, tore down the old meditation center, built the cathedral, and opened for business a year ago. Plans to expand. Plans for Four Wheels for Jesus cathedrals in Texas, Florida, and Georgia. Forbes guessed Four Wheels for Jesus Ministry assets at twenty-two million last year.”
Darrel looked at me over the top of the screen. “I had no idea he’s raking it in like that. You figure his nonprofit tax exemptions must be good as — well, gold. The church buildings and real estate alone are worth twelve million. No complaints against Reggie Atlas. No civil or criminal filings. No lawsuits. Not a whiff of sexual misconduct, harassment, anything. Squeaky-clean, Roland.”
“Do you doubt my client?” I asked.
“I doubt everyone. Including this pastor man who thinks he hangs out with Jesus.”
“Has anyone seen Daley since San Clemente?” I asked.
Darrel’s eyes found me over the top of his monitor again. “Not yet.”
I didn’t quite believe him and he didn’t quite care. Later, I’d ask that question again. He sat back, put his hands behind his head.
“After I talked to her last week, I did some digging on Penelope Rideout,” he said. “The sister — or now, possibly, the mother. She came up clean. Good family, public schools. She was appointed legal guardian of her sister after the death of their parents. A car accident. I got the ODOT report on that accident. Used to do those myself, accident fatality investigations. Nothing suspicious about it. Penelope managed to finish college. An aerospace technical writer. Job shops. Moved around a lot. Stayed single. But just exactly how Penelope managed to pass her daughter off as her sister for fourteen years isn’t clear to me, Ford. Maybe you know something I don’t.”
I’d been thinking about that, too. The key was, Penelope hadn’t done it alone.
“Her mom and dad engineered it,” I said. “They were conservative southerners. Churchgoers. No abortions, especially not for their girl. Adoption? Well, why give away what you already love, sight unseen? Keep the child. Start the coverup early and move fast. Keep ahead of the gossip. Daley gets a normal-appearing girlhood. Penelope gets to help raise her daughter. It would account for all the family moves after Daley was born. The new neighbors didn’t have time or reason to question things. Nothing to question, by the look of things. June Rideout was only thirty-five when Penelope had Daley. I saw a picture of her. June looked young for her age. Easily a mother of two. You wouldn’t even stop to think about it.”
Darrel leaned his elbows on his desk and worried a yellow pencil in his large black hands. Stared at me. “And what was Atlas doing all this time?”
“Building his ministry and tracking Penelope and his daughter,” I said. “Demanding Penelope’s silence.”
“And she?”
“Trying to dodge him,” I said.
“Penelope thinks he’s after the girl now?”
I nodded.
“You believe he’d do that?” Walker asked.
“It’s not something that people like us can understand.”
“His own daughter?” asked Darrel, disgust in his voice and on his face.
I let the obvious answer go unspoken.
“What if she’s lying about all of this?” asked Darrel. “According to your story, she’s been lying successfully for fourteen years.”
“I believe her.”
Darrel set the pencil on his desktop. “Do you want to believe her?”
“Does it matter?”
“You bet it does, so don’t fool yourself. I’ve met her. She’s convincing. Beautiful, too.”
“I believe her, Darrel.”
A sigh and a dry smile from the detective. “My mom likes Reggie Atlas. Never misses Four Wheels for Jesus on her damned phone.”
One of Darrel’s Explorers came to the cubicle with two cups of coffee, set them on his desk, told Darrel that one of the lieutenants needed him when he was finished. Darrel thanked him for the coffee and said he was almost done.
I still hadn’t gotten an answer to my biggest question, but before I could ask it again, Darrel surprised me.
“SNR Security is a secretive bunch,” he said. “Privately owned. Won’t talk to the press, as you’ve probably discovered. Won’t talk to law enforcement without a warrant or a subpoena. But here’s the kicker — they don’t like black people or Muslims very much. I’m a Black Law Enforcement Union member, right? So-Cal chapter. Have been for years. We have a good relationship with the Southern Poverty Law Center. Long story short: There’s a list of complaints against SNR longer than any other private security company in the whole damned country. Everything from verbal abuse to physical assault. SNR won’t hire blacks or Muslims, and they won’t work for black- or Muslim-owned companies. This, according to complaints filed with us and the SPLC. SPLC has yet to take legal action. They have to choose their battles. That’s why the private databases have nothing on SNR.”
I tried to make sense of discriminating against Muslims and people of color often enough to raise complaints. Maybe legal action. Bad publicity for a company trying to guard its privacy. No upside at all that I could see.
“So,” Darrel said. “Let me know when you’ve got SNR all figured out. Right now, I have to run.”
“Has anyone seen Daley since the 7-Eleven?” I asked again. “I figure you’ve been in touch with your counterparts in San Clemente.”
Darrel weighing me, sharp eyes in a heavy face. A distant tug of brotherhood between us, but maybe not enough to count for much.
“A girl who looked like Daley Rideout was seen at the Blue Marlin in La Jolla, two nights ago. So says the manager. Daley was with three men and a woman. All older, relationships unknown. They ate dinner in one of those upstairs cabanas that have the privacy curtains you can pull.”
“To hide the missing child you’re socializing with,” I said.
“The general manager is Yvette Gibson. Tell her Darrel says hello.”
“I owe you, Darrel.”
“Yeah, you do.” He drummed his big fingers on the table. “Roland? I don’t want to believe Penelope Rideout. It would confirm my worst opinions about the human race. But I do believe her. So this favor is just Darrel Walker betting his conscience. Keep me in the loop.”
23
Yvette Gibson met me in the lounge of the not-yet-open Blue Marlin, a prosperous restaurant in a jewel-like town. She was one of the most striking women I’d seen, tall, elegant, and ebony-skinned. Hair up, a sleeveless silver dress, and sharp short boots. No smile. I told her hello from Darrel and still got no smile.
She walked me through the stainless-steel stools and bistro tables, past the huge aquarium that divided the dining room. Hundreds of fish, big and little, locked in that hypnotic round-and-round thing they do.
We climbed the stairs. Through the smoked-glass walls I saw the Pacific surging against the rocks below and sailboats clipping atop the spangled sea. One of my favorite writers is buried down there.