Popped Off

by Allen, Jeffrey

  “Already?”

  He waved a hand. “Getting into someone’s e-mail is child’s play.”

  “No wonder it’s so easy for you.”

  “Har, har. I got into his e-mail. I figured you might wanna take a look.”

  “You see anything in it?”

  “No. Because I didn’t look. That’s your job.”

  “Okay.”

  He produced a stapled packet of papers. “I printed them all out. If there’s an address that isn’t familiar, shoot it back to me. I’ll figure out who it belongs to.”

  I took the stack of paper and fanned the pages. There looked to be about thirty pages worth of material.

  “Your kid can swim,” Victor said.

  I glanced up. They were now racing the length of the pool, and Carly was ahead by about three body lengths.

  “She’s pretty good,” I admitted.

  “Probably your wife’s genes.”

  He was trying to get a rise out of me, and I wasn’t going to give him the pleasure. “Probably.”

  He waited for me to say something else, but I stayed quiet. He fidgeted in his seat for a moment, looking uncomfortable and irritable. Though you could argue that was how he always looked.

  “She a good sleeper?” he asked. “Your daughter?”

  “Yeah, pretty good.”

  “What about when she was a baby?”

  “Oh, hell no. She was awful.”

  “What did you do?”

  I started to respond, then caught myself. “Are you asking for my help?”

  He scowled but kept his mouth shut.

  “Baby not sleeping, Victor?”

  He put his head in his hands. “I swear to God, if he doesn’t sleep tonight, I’m taking him back to the hospital and getting a kitten or something. Kid hasn’t slept in a week. And neither have we!”

  Victor and his wife had a three-month-old, Victor Junior. He hadn’t said much about the baby since he was born, and I hadn’t pried. It wasn’t like we hung out together and babysat each other’s kids, so I didn’t know much about Junior.

  “Say it,” I said.

  “Say what?”

  “Say you need my help,” I said, smiling.

  His cheeks flushed as he remembered our conversation from two nights ago He mumbled something under his breath, then coughed. “Fine. I need your help.”

  I let his words settle between us for a moment, relishing the feeling of a petty and juvenile victory. Still, it felt good.

  “Do you swaddle him?” I asked.

  “What him?”

  “Swaddle. Wrap him up in a blanket.”

  “No. She’s afraid it’ll freak him out or something.”

  “Do it. Wrap him up. Tight.”

  He stared at me for a minute, attempting to decipher whether or not I was being honest with him.

  “I’m not kidding, Victor,” I assured him. “And I may like to give you a hard time, but I wouldn’t tell you to do anything that would harm your son.”

  His expression softened, and I could make out faint dark circles beneath his eyes. The badges of honor for new parents.

  “Lay him on the blanket,” I explained. “Get his arms flat to his sides, and pull the blanket over him. Tuck the blanket around him, like a burrito. And you can’t do it too tight.”

  “What if he can’t breathe?”

  “Promise you, he’ll be able to breathe.”

  He pursed his lips. “I don’t think it’ll work.”

  “I’ll bet you a case of beer it does.”

  He hopped out of the chair. “Deal. I like Shiner.”

  “And I’ll take Stella,” I said. “Bottles, not cans.” I grinned. “It’ll work.”

  He lifted his chin in my direction. “The e-mails. Check the e-mails.”

  “Why?”

  “You may find some things.”

  “I thought you said you didn’t look at them.”

  He headed for the door. “I say a lot of things, Stilts.”

  10

  Before I could skim the e-mails, Carly bounced out of the pool area, needing a towel and dry clothes. I supplied both, and we were out the door in less than ten minutes, as I didn’t feel the need to stand there and brush out her hair and make her pageant ready, like the other parents did with their children.

  “Daddy, we’re going to camp now, right?” Carly asked, chomping on a bagful of Cheez-Its I’d brought along for quick nourishment.

  “Yep.”

  “At that church, right?”

  “Yep. At that church.”

  “That church” was one of the mega-sized churches that seemed to pop up daily in the Dallas suburbs. I was pretty sure the only thing people in Texas liked more than barbecue was going to church. Julianne and I were indifferent to them—except when they created traffic and we were trying to go out to breakfast on a Sunday morning—but Carly hadn’t stopped talking about going to that church since Audrey invited her to attend vacation Bible school.

  Vacation Bible schools were a tradition in the South, and they were less about the Bible than they were about being summer camps. Swimming, games, sports, and crafts, all sprinkled with a generous dusting of Jesus. And they were usually dirt cheap. So as long as Carly wasn’t being brainwashed by some sort of religious cult, I didn’t mind her spending a few hours at a VBS.

  I pulled the minivan into the massive parking lot of New Spirit Fellowship Church. When I say massive, I mean the size of about three football fields. The church itself was more of a campus, with numerous buildings, fountains, athletic fields, and the massive main church, all metal and glass with high-angled rooflines. It was an impressive structure, and I was pretty sure that, like Cowboys Stadium, it was large enough for God to spot from Heaven.

  We walked into the mammoth vestibule. A long table was set up, with a bevy of smiling faces behind it, beckoning us in. We stepped up to a lady wearing a giant smile and a pink baseball cap with a bejeweled cross on it.

  “Well, good morning!” she greeted us. “How are we today?”

  “We are fine,” Carly announced.

  Pink Cross Hat directed her energy at Carly. “And are we ready for camp?”

  “Yes, we are.”

  “And are we ready to have a fantastic time?”

  Carly turned to me. “Daddy, why does she keep saying ‘we’? I don’t even know her.”

  I wanted to tell her because people thought using the first person was a cute way to build camaraderie, but that it just made people sound silly. I refrained.

  “Probably because she’s part of the camp,” I told her. I looked at the woman. “Last name is Winters.”

  Her smile did not fade at Carly’s interrupting her cavalcade of we’s, and she pressed on. “Well, of course you are.” She scanned the list and her finger stopped. “There we are. Miss Carly Winters.”

  Carly beamed.

  “And is Audrey Risberg here yet?” I asked. “They’re buddies, and Audrey invited her to come this week.”

  She scanned the list, then shook her head. “No, it doesn’t appear as if she’s here yet. But I’m sure the Lord will have her here any moment!”

  I pictured the Lord pulling up in a minivan. I wondered if the Son of God would prefer a foreign or domestic model.

  The woman handed Carly a name tag and a bright red T-shirt that exclaimed SUPER SUMMER FUN TIME! The letter T was in the shape of a cross. I felt my skepticism rising at being surrounded by all this religion but managed to keep my mouth closed.

  She pointed in the direction of Carly’s group leader, and we weaved our way through the crowd of parents and children. The leader’s name was Elizabeth, and she was an older teenager sporting the same T-shirt Carly had just been handed. She welcomed Carly like she’d known her forever. She shook my hand, told me where the pickup location was, and returned her attention to the kids clamoring around her. Carly gave me a quick kiss good-bye and began chattering with the other kids.

  I worked my way back through
the crowd, toward the table and Pink Cross Hat. She was making notations on the list.

  “Excuse me,” I said. “I’m sorry to bother you again.”

  She lit up with a megawatt smile. “It’s never a bother when you’re serving the Lord. And that’s exactly what I’m doing with all these wonderful little people!”

  “Right, absolutely,” I said, biting my tongue and swallowing the thirty-seven sarcastic answers that formed in my narrow-minded brain. “Was wondering if you might be able to help me find someone who works here at the church.”

  The smile grew impossibly larger. “Sir, I know everyone that works here. Would you like to speak to someone in ministry? There is always someone here to speak with regarding ministry or finding the Lord.”

  “No, no,” I said, holding her off before she had me baptized. “Someone specific.”

  “Who?”

  “Moises Huber.”

  Her smile flickered. If I hadn’t been looking for it, I might have missed it. But the name surprised her, and the reaction wasn’t a positive one.

  She shuffled the papers on the table and stood. “Let me see what I can do. I’ll be right back. Mr. Winters, correct?”

  I nodded.

  She whispered something to one of the women at the table next to hers, and the woman nodded and slid over to take over Pink Cross Hat’s chair and check-in duties. She smiled at me but said nothing.

  I stepped to the side and watched families roll in and out for a few minutes. If the day camp was any indicator, the church’s membership was thriving. At a time when many religious communities were struggling to survive, this one seemed to be doing just fine. People knew one another, hugged, shook hands, seemed happy to see one another. If they were all showing up on weekends and dropping money in the baskets, New Spirit was more than flush.

  Pink Cross Hat returned, the bright smile back on her face. The momentary tick that I’d seen before she left was nowhere to be found.

  “Mr. Winters,” she said, clapping her hands together. “You are in for such a special treat.”

  For a moment, I thought I’d hit the jackpot. “Mr. Huber is here?”

  “Better!” she said.

  “Better?”

  “If you’ll follow me, please.”

  “Where are we going?”

  She smiled and clapped her hands again. “You’ll see.”

  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.”