Rage (30 page)

“She
had something to do with the accident scandal?”

“No,
I was speaking analogously. The Bible issues repeated exhortations against
keeping bad company. Cherish and I failed to heed those warnings, but I was the
teacher and she was the student, so I suppose some of her error lies at my
door.”

“Cherish
got blamed for something a friend did.”

“Cherish
was put in an uncomfortable position through no fault of her own.”

Heather
brought our food. “Here it is, guys!”

Wascomb
smiled up at her. “It smells wonderful, dear.”

Her
left eyebrow cocked. “Enjoy.”

He
uttered a silent grace, then cut his stack of hotcakes in half, sawing straight
through to the bottom. Rotating the plate, he sliced again, then once more
until the pile had been sectioned into eighths. Lauritz Montez would approve.

Montez
and Wascomb had both chosen to minister to sinners. I supposed they couldn’t be
blamed for seeking the illusion of an orderly world.

Wascomb
ate with such enjoyment that it seemed a shame to interrupt him. I worked on my
own plate, finally said, “Who was Cherish’s bad friend?”

He
put his fork down. “This is absolutely necessary for your investigation?”

“I
can’t answer that until I know, Doctor.”

“Appreciate
your honesty.” He wiped his lips, removed his glasses, touched his temples with
his fingertips. “Not a friend. Her husband.”

“Drew
Daney.”

Slow
nod.

“How’d
he get her in trouble?” I said.

“Oh,”
said Wascomb, as if the memory made him weary. “I had reservations about him
early on. We’re small and chronically short on funds, we need to be selective
in who we accept. Our typical student is an honors graduate of a respectable
Bible college, trained in the evangelical tradition. Cherish was such an
individual. She graduated first in her class from Viola Mercer College in
Rochester, New York.”

“And
Drew?”

“Drew
claimed to have attended a very solid school in Virginia. In truth, he dropped
out of high school. That was the extent of his education.”

“He
lied on his application.”

“He
falsified transcripts.” Wascomb sighed. He pushed his plate away, one-third
eaten. “No doubt you think I’m a gullible fool. Or slipshod. Without sounding
overly defensive, I would like to stress that this was an aberration. The vast
majority of our graduates are out in the world doing the Lord’s work in an
exemplary manner.”

“Drew
must’ve been good to fool you.”

He
smiled. “That’s very kind, sir. Yes, he did say the right things, seemed
well-grounded in Scripture. As it turns out, his religious experience was
limited to serving as a counselor at several Christian summer camps.”

“He
learned the jargon,” I said.

“Exactly.”

“When
did all this come out?”

“Seven
and a half years ago.”

Precise
memory. Six months after Kristal Malley’s murder.

I
said, “What caused you to look into his background?”

“Someone
else looked into his background,” said Wascomb. “A very angry man who claimed
that Drew was committing adultery with his wife.” He winced. “A claim that
turned out to be true.”

“Tell
me about it.”

He
shook his head. Pushed his plate away. “There are issues of respect, here. For
innocent people involved— ”

“A
half year before you found out about Drew, he and Cherish were involved in a
murder case as part of their community service work for Fulton. Counseling a
boy who’d killed a toddler. I’m sure you recall that, Dr. Wascomb.”

He
blinked twice, started to speak, stopped himself.

“Sir?”

“That
poor little girl.” His voice had gone hoarse. “There’s more to that? After all
this time?”

“One
of the boys who murdered Kristal Malley has been murdered himself.”

Wascomb
winced. “Oh, my. Then I suppose I need to be forthright.” He clicked his
dentures. “Drew committed adultery with one of the lawyers on that case. A
defense attorney.”

“Sydney
Weider.”

Nod.
“It was her husband who barged into my office with medical reports, raving
about the school, my incompetence, how could I train a person like that, I was
a hypocrite, all ‘Bible freaks’ were nothing but hypocrites.”

He
looked away from me. “I’m afraid I’ve lost my appetite.”

“Sorry,”
I said. But not sorry enough to drop it. “We’re talking about Martin Boestling.
A movie producer.”

“A
loud
man. At the time I thought him crass. After some consideration— after the
shock wore off— I considered what he’d endured and felt compassion for him. I
called him, tried to apologize. He was gracious, as far as that went.”

“What
he’d endured,” I said. “More than adultery.”

He
stared.

“You
said Boestling brought medical reports. As in lab tests?”

Slow
nod. “His own and his wife’s.”

“He’d
been infected with something. AIDS?”

“Not that
bad,” said Wascomb, “but bad enough. Gonorrhea. His wife had given it to him
and Boestling claimed Drew had given it to her.”

Wascomb
shook his head. “The implication, of course, was promiscuity. I took a closer
look at Drew, learned of his lies, and expelled him. We’ve had no contact since
then.”

“And
Cherish left with him,” I said. “Because she was a dutiful wife?”

“Because
she was ashamed. As I said, we’re a small community.” He fooled with his fork.
“How is Cherish, nowadays? Are they still together?”

“They
are.”

“Has
Drew repented?”

“I
couldn’t say.”

“I
always hoped she’d find peace . . . now you’re here asking
questions about her.”

“They
may come to nothing, sir.”

“Is
she . . . has she maintained herself as a woman of character,
Dr. Delaware? Or has Drew’s influence polluted her soul?”

If
you only knew. I said, “From what I can tell, she continues to do good works.”

“And
him? What’s he up to?”

“The
same.”

His
eyes got flinty. “There’s a lesson for you, Dr. Delaware. Judging behavior
isn’t always sufficient. It’s what’s beneath the surface that matters.”

“How
do you measure that, sir?”

“You
don’t,” he said. “
We
don’t.”

He
got up to leave. “
God
does the measuring.”

“One
more question, Dr. Wascomb. Cherish told me Troy Turner was buried on the
grounds of your school.”

He
placed a hand on the table, as if needing support. “That’s partially true.”

“How
so?”

“Cherish
asked me— begged me. We’ve got a small cemetery in San Bernardino. For faculty
and indigent individuals recommended by donors and other trustworthy people. We
view it as a community service.”

“Cherish
qualified as a trustworthy person.”

“She
still does, Dr. Delaware, unless there’s something you tell me that suggests
otherwise.”

I
didn’t answer.

He
said, “Affording that boy hallowed ground was compassion for the sinner. After
some deliberation I felt it would be appropriate. We provided the boy with a
service.”

“Who
attended?”

“Cherish
and myself and my wife.”

“Not
Drew.”

“Drew,
as well,” he said. “He wanted to lead the service. I decided to do it myself.”

“What
about Troy’s mother?”

“No,”
said Wascomb. “Cherish said she had tried to reach the woman but was unable. I
remember the day. Late spring, nice weather, the air was clean. Small coffin,
it barely made a sound as they lowered it into the ground.” He placed money on
the table.

I
said, “On me.”

“No,
I won’t hear of it.”

“Split
check, then.”

“All
right.” He smiled at me.

“Sorry
if this was upsetting, Dr. Wascomb.”

“No,
no, you’re doing important work.” He turned to leave, stopped. Touched my shoulder.
“The boy did a terrible thing, Dr. Delaware, but you’d never know it to look at
that coffin.”

H
eather came by and eyed Wascomb’s uneaten food. “Do
you want a doggy bag?”

“No,
thanks.”

She
followed Wascomb’s slow walk out the door. “He barely touched his food. Is he
okay?”

“He’s
fine.”

“Is
he your dad?”

“No,”
I said. I handed her the total plus ten bucks. “Keep the change.” Big smile.

“Were
you working yesterday?”

“Here?”
she said. “I think so. Yeah, yesterday I was here.”

“Working
two jobs?”

“Three.
Here, KFC after five, and then Thursday and Friday nights I babysit for an
emergency room doctor at Glendale Memorial.”

“Tough
schedule.”

“That’s
what my dad says. He keeps bugging me to quit something and have some fun.” She
stuck her tongue out. “I’m saving up for fashion school.”

“Good
for you,” I said. “Yesterday morning, around nine, did you notice a couple who
came in for breakfast? She had long blond hair; he was tall and wore a leather
cowboy hat.”

“Them,”
she said. “Sure. I served them. I remember him because he reminded me of this
actor my dad used to like. Peter . . . Peter something.”

“Fonda?”

“That’s
it. There’s this real old movie my dad watches over and over. It’s got Jack
Nicholson in it but he’s a lot younger and skinnier.”

“
Easy
Rider.
”

“Uh
huh. Jack and some other guy and the other guy— Peter— they’re like biker
hippies.” She giggled. “Peter’s kind of a cutie if you go for that retro hippie
thing. That’s what that guy— the guy with the hat— reminded me of.”

“Retro.”

“Lost
in the sixties. His hair was like down his back and his shirt had
snaps
on
it. Which gave me an idea for a dress. Cowboy Punk thing.”

“Original.”

“Thanks.
How come you’re asking about them?”

“I
work with the police.”

Her
eyes got huge. “You’re a cop?”

“Consultant.”

“Wow,”
she said. “They did something nasty?”

“They’re
just people we’re interested in.”

“Like
witnesses?”

“Something
like that. Is there anything you remember about them?”

“Not
really. They didn’t talk much.”

“To
each other?”

“To
each other or me. I’m a real motormouth, like you can’t tell. I’m always
talking to the customers, it makes them feel you’re interested in them and it
pays off in the tips department. Didn’t work with those two, they just sat
there, like they were having a fight.”

“They
eat?”

“They
ordered but only he ate. Bacon and eggs. She asked for a sweet roll and milk
but she didn’t touch it— like that old guy you were with. I figured there
wouldn’t be much payoff and I was right. Ten percent tip, which is
old.
She
paid.”

“Overhear
any conversation?”

“There
wasn’t any that I saw.”

“Have
they been here before?”

“Once
before,” she said. “Last week. Lauren served them. It was dinnertime and I was
going off shift.”

“When
last week?”

“Let’s
see.” She pressed a finger to her lower lip. “Lauren works Tuesdays and
Thursdays and Fridays and it wasn’t Friday because I’m off Friday and it wasn’t
Tuesday because she called in sick Tuesday because her boyfriend got tickets to
the Jason Mraz concert.” She stopped for breath. “Had to be Thursday.”

“Around
what time?”

“Five-ish.
Wow, so this is like an investigation?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You
can’t tell me what they did?”

“Sorry,
Heather.”

“Cool,
I understand.”

“So
they’ve only been here twice.”

“That’s
all I saw.”

“How
long have you been working here?”

“Three
years, off and on.”

“How’d
they act on Thursday?”

“The
same. That’s how I remember. Lauren said they didn’t talk, just sat. He ate,
she didn’t.”

“Ten
percent tip.”

“Eight
percent, actually.” She grinned. “I guess it’s my charm.”

I
thanked her and gave her another ten.