Authors: Jeffrey Allen
Popped Off (5 page)
11
Along our walk out of the church to one of the smaller outer buildings, I learned Pink Cross Hat’s name was Marie and she’d been a member of New Spirit since it formed. And it had saved her life.
“Your life?” I asked as we walked.
She nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, sir. I was wandering down the wrong path, and New Spirit swooped in and pointed me down the right one.”
“Ah.” What else was there to say to that?
“Where do you attend?”
And there it was. In Texas it was as commonplace a question as “Where do you work?” or “Where were you born?” or “How’d you meet your spouse?” “Where do you attend?” Meaning, what church?
“Uh, we don’t.”
She stopped dead in her tracks. “Excuse me?”
“We don’t attend anywhere,” I said. “We sleep in on Sunday mornings.”
“We have Saturday evening services,” she said, completely missing my weak attempt at humor.
“Sure,” I said. “It’s just not our thing.”
She kept her eyes on me, studying me like she’d just found a rare insect in her shoe. “So you don’t attend . . . anywhere?”
“Nope.”
She blinked several times, trying to process my answer. “Well, that’s . . . interesting.”
We crossed a massive courtyard, at the center of which stood a fountain, and she punched a code on a panel next to a door to gain entrance to a smaller, more generic-looking building. We went up a short switchback stairway, and she pointed to a massive set of double oak doors.
“Charles would be happy to talk to you,” she said, smiling.
“Charles?”
She nodded, then realized I didn’t know who she was referring to. She shook her head, a mixture of amusement and disgust on her face. “Our pastor. Charles Haygood.”
“Oh. All right.”
She was still shaking her head as she disappeared down the stairs.
I knocked on one of the doors, and a voice beckoned me in.
The doors opened to an expansive corner office. There was a small living room set up to my right, with leather sofas and a glass-top coffee table. To the left were four square-back easy chairs arranged around a woven rug. In the center of the room, backed by floor-to-ceiling windows, was a massive desk.
Charles Haygood stood behind the desk. Thick dark hair was swept back above a smooth tan forehead. Bright blue eyes and a blinding smile welcomed me into the room.
“Mr. Winters,” he said, hands on his hips. “Nice to see you. Welcome.”
He was handsome, but I couldn’t help but think he looked like a figure from a wax museum. He was fit, well dressed, and a little stiff.
He came around the desk, and we shook hands. He gestured to the four chairs, and we each took one, sitting across from one another.
“Your daughter is here for camp, I understand,” he said, settling back and folding his hands in his lap.
“Yeah. First time.”
“She’ll have a great time.”
“I’m sure.”
“Have you been to New Spirit before?”
“I have not.”
His smile widened. “The Lord brings us people every day.”
“My Honda brought me here.”
He laughed, a little too enthusiastically. “Of course. Forgive me. But it would be a pleasure if we could persuade you to attend one of our services. I think you might enjoy it.”
“I appreciate the invitation.”
He rubbed his chin, nodding, momentarily placated. “So . . . you asked about Moises?”
“Yes.”
He stared at me, committing to nothing.
My natural inclination was to continue babbling, but one of the things Victor was adamant about was that you learned more when you shut your mouth and stayed patient. Neither was my strong suit, but I’d seen that philosophy in action and it worked. I couldn’t argue.
So I waited.
Haygood crossed his legs and readjusted his hands. “Technically, he is still employed here.”
“Technically?”
He uncrossed his legs and shifted his weight in the chair, like he couldn’t get comfortable. “We haven’t seen him in several days.”
“Why’s that?”
He tented his fingers in front of his chest. “Why are you asking, Mr. Winters?”
“I’ve been hired to find him, ask him a few questions.”
“You’re an investigator?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “I thought you were a football coach or something.”
“I’m both,” I answered.
He thought about that, then nodded. “I see.”
I thought it was interesting that he knew I coached football. I begrudgingly admitted that many folks still knew me from my high school playing days, but I didn’t think he was around back then. I let it go for the moment.
“So you haven’t seen him in several days?” I asked.
“Correct.”
“How many is several?”
He raised his eyes to the ceiling for a moment, then brought them back to me. “Six, I believe. Six.”
“He hasn’t called in sick?”
“No.”
“No call at all?”
“None.”
He was playing cat and mouse with me, but I wasn’t sure why.
“Can I ask what position he holds here?” I asked.
The lines around Haygood’s eyes tightened. “He worked in accounting.”
“Doing?”
He cleared his throat. “As our controller.”
Another connection to money. Maybe Victor was right. This didn’t seem so hard.
“May I ask why you are looking for him?” Haygood questioned, rubbing his chin.
“Because he’s missing.”
He cracked an insincere smile. “Yes. Of course. Any other reason?”
“I can’t really say. It’s a private issue.”
He stared me down for a long minute, his eyes locked onto mine, maybe waiting to see if I’d break.
I didn’t.
He finally nodded. “Understood.”
“Has he ever taken off before?”
He shook his head, smiling. “No. He was a very good employee, actually. Started as a part-time worker, worked his way up.”
“I assume you’ve attempted to reach him.”
Yes. I went to his home myself to see if I could . . . locate him.”
I found it a little strange that Haygood had gone looking for him, but I didn’t think it was totally out of the ordinary. If the church was a tight-knit community, I could see them taking care of their own. Worrying about their members.
“I’ve been there several times, in fact,” Haygood said. “To his home.”
“Several times?”
“Yes.”
“You must be worried.”
The corners of his mouth twitched. “Yes. I am.”
“About Huber? About what might’ve happened to him?”
He took a deep breath and blinked several times, then set his hands on his knees. “I’m more worried about the half a million dollars he stole from me.”
12
“Technically, it’s not my money,” Charles Haygood explained. “It belongs to the church. But I’m responsible for it.”
He’d gotten up and poured himself a glass of ice water from a pitcher on a shelf across the room. He came back and sat down without offering me any.
“We called him the first day when he didn’t show up,” he explained, holding the glass between both of his hands. “No answer. Not a huge concern. Maybe he’s really sick, unable to get to the phone.”
I nodded.
“But then he never called back,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “That seemed . . . odd. Especially from him. Like I said, never a red flag before.”
He sipped from the glass, then went back to squeezing it. “So we called again. No answer or response. So we sent someone over to his home. No answer there either.” His lips tightened. “Then we realized the money was gone.”
“How?”
“End-of-the-day accounting,” he said, shrugging. “We have a routine process. Checks and balances. Nothing special, but routine things that we do to keep our books in order. Much of our money comes from cash donations at our services, so we are careful and detailed.”
I figured there was probably a great deal of cash coming in based upon the campus of New Spirit and the size of Haygood’s office.
“At the same time we were calling the authorities to do a welfare check on his home, I was informed that the money was no longer in the account,” he explained. His fingers were white, wrapped tightly around the glass. “We did our due diligence and realized that it had been withdrawn the previous evening.”
“He had the ability to clear that much on his own?” I asked.
“No. I believe he forged the second signature.” His entire face tightened. “Mine.”
“Wow.”
He nodded grimly. “Yes. This is the kind of thing that brings churches down, Mr. Winters. Destroys them. I am concerned for the members of this community.”
Not to mention, you know, himself.
“Did you know him well?” I asked.
“Well enough. We didn’t socialize, but he was a regular here at New Spirit. Showed up at our services and our events. As the controller, he and I worked closely together on financial matters. It’s my church. I’m responsible for it in all ways. So I can be a bit . . . detail oriented.” He flashed a thin smile. “Probably micromanaging most of the time.”
I appreciated that he could admit his flaws. He wasn’t coming across as arrogant or entitled. He seemed genuinely concerned for the well-being of the entire church, as well as himself. Despite my skepticism, I liked him.
“So my guess is that perhaps you are looking for him for similar reasons,” Haygood said.
“Perhaps.”
He nodded, believing he was correct. Maybe knowing. I wasn’t exactly known for my poker face.
“Have you reported the theft to the police?” I asked.
He hesitated, then shook his head. “No.”
“Why not?”
“I can’t afford the attention,” he said, shifting uncomfortably in the chair. “If anything about this gets out, the church and the community will suffer.”
“I understand that. But that’s a lot of money.”
He stared at me for a moment. “Yes. It is. So we are working on it . . . independently.”
“Independently?”
“Much like whoever your client is, I suppose. We are attempting to locate him without involving the authorities yet.”
“We?”
Haygood stood. “Mr. Winters, I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help.”
I stood as well. He wasn’t going to answer my questions, and he was done with me. He hadn’t gotten anything from me, and he was frustrated.
Maybe I didn’t like him, after all.
We walked toward the door.
“I do hope that if you locate him, you’ll let me know,” he said.
“I’ll do what I can,” I answered because I wasn’t going to promise him anything.
Haygood nodded and we shook hands.
“The Lord works in mysterious ways,” he said. “I’m sure He will help us locate Mr. Huber.” His eyes narrowed. “And will administer to him him any punishment he deserves.”
13
I made my way out of Haygood’s office and the outer building and headed back toward the church, seeking both a bit of air-conditioning and a few minutes to process my conversation.
I didn’t think Haygood knew where Huber was, but I definitely got the impression that he knew more than he was letting on. And the way he’d talked about looking for Huber creeped me out. I wasn’t sure if he had some sort of Jesus posse out there looking for him, but I felt certain that he had something cooking. And Huber would be the main course if they found him.
The cool air-conditioning cascaded down on me as I reentered the church. The check-in tables had been pushed aside, and the masses of children were gone, herded off to classrooms and play areas. It looked like a church vestibule again—quiet and orderly.
The walls were lined with glass-framed photos, and I walked closer to them, partly out of curiosity and partly because I wasn’t quite ready to venture back out into the heat. The photos were of church-sponsored events—picnics, baptisms, fund-raisers, holiday services.
The next-to-last photo caught my attention, because Moises Huber was in the middle of it.
“Can I help you, sir?” a voice asked from behind me.
I turned around. An older woman with gray hair and a pleasant smile stood there with her hands behind her back.
“Oh, I just dropped off my daughter at the VBS,” I said.
“Excellent,” she said. “She’ll be well taken care of.”
“I’m sure.” I gestured to the photos. “These pictures are terrific.”
She stepped closer and adjusted the glasses on her face. “Oh, yes. We usually have a photographer at every New Spirit event. We like to document the memories.”
I pointed at the photo of Huber. “This looks great. What was it?”
She leaned closer. “Oh, that’s our annual Casino Night.” She grinned at me. “Of course, it’s all with play money, and the donations collected are spread throughout the families in need here at New Spirit.”
“Wow, that’s great,” I said. “This guy in the picture, he looks like he’s having a good time.”
“Ah, yes,” she said, nodding. “Mr. Huber. He’s been here awhile.”
“Has he?”
“Well, I think so. I’m just a volunteer. But I see him quite often.”
“That right?”
She nodded, certain. “Oh, yes. As a matter of fact, if I’m not mistaken, he was in charge.”
“In charge?”
“Yes, sir. Of Casino Night. He’s organized it the last few years.”
I glanced at the photo. He had his arms around two people, a man and a woman, big fuzzy dice in one hand and a red plastic cup in the other. A crooked smile slithered across his face, his dark hair slightly askew.
“He’s the reason Casino Night is such a success,” she said.
“Really? How’s that?”
“Why, he organized all the games.”
“The games?”
“The casino games,” she said. “Blackjack, poker, some other card games I’m afraid I don’t know much about.”
That was interesting. “Really? He’s the guy?”
“Oh my, yes. They had a hard time making any money at Casino Night. It’s somewhat expensive to stage, and no one here had the know-how to put it all together. So it was actually costing us money to put it on.”
“What kind of know-how?” I asked, looking at the photo.
“Someone who understood casino games,” she answered. “And Mr. Huber is apparently an expert.”
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