Five p.m. and still bright out. It was unseasonably warm for spring in Virginia, but humidity hadn’t infiltrated the Roanoke Valley yet. The cherry tree in the corner of my lawn was in bloom, like wearing a wedding dress.
Most of the time I met clients at my office or a coffee shop, maybe a restaurant or bar. Food and drink give the hands something to do, a discharge of tension. But the two men I expected had asked to meet at my home. An odd request, yet I remained undaunted—an attorney named Brad Thompson vouched for them, said they wouldn’t murder me.
I waited on my front porch drinking a lemonade and rocking back and forth in the chair, issuing an aura of professional competence and wondering what Max Scherzer, ace of the Washington Nationals, was doing right then. Probably drinking lemonade too.
The first man arrived in style. A Toyota FJ40 Land Cruiser. The boxy kind Toyota quit making in the early 1980s, now coveted by robust men everywhere. This guy’s was pristine, rebuilt and running better than modern models, sky blue with a white roof. Had a jerry can strapped to the tail next to the spare tire, and I felt the need to swap out my lemonade for something manlier.
The second man arrived with lesser verve and élan; he drove a Porsche. A cherry Boxster with the top down, three hundred horsepower under the hood.
The two men emerged from their disparate vehicles and greeted each other, standing on Windsor Avenue under the shade of budding maple trees. They spoke a moment, ignored by the Grandin neighborhood population returning from work and school, and they came up my walk. They matched their automobiles—polar opposites.
I stood. Never shake a man’s hand sitting down.
“Mackenzie August?” asked Porsche. He was a thin guy, like a pencil in pinstriped dark slacks and suspenders. Around his neck, a bowtie; goodness, maybe more verve than I gave him credit for. Wire-framed glasses, black hair, clean shaven, like coming home from Wall Street. He wasn’t a stock trader—he was a corporate lawyer. “My name’s Hugh Pratt, we spoke on the phone. I didn’t realize you were so tall.”
“I’ve tried but I cannot get my impressiveness to convey sonically,” I said.
We shook hands. It was fine; I wouldn’t remember it.
Then I shook hands with FJ40 Cruiser. I survived. Barely.
This guy growled when he talked. “Robert Wallace. Always liked this neighborhood. Been in Roanoke long as I have. Strong houses built here, before building codes told contractors to do the minimum.”
Wallace was a workhorse of a guy, though I’d guess his age at mid-seventies. He had a broad back and beefy forearms like he swung a sledge for a living—he didn’t; owned a logging company. He had all his shaggy brown hair, and he wore Levi jeans and a red t-shirt.
I said, “I was admiring your Land Cruiser, the FJ40. It makes me want to be a better man.”
Wallace laughed. Hugh Pratt laughed. I reveled.
I asked for drink orders; they requested beer and I brought three cans of PBR and we sat in rocking chairs on my porch.
“I appreciate you meeting with us on short notice,” said Hugh Pratt. He drank some beer and heaved a sigh.
I knew the sound. Trouble afoot.
“Emergencies,” I said, “are often inopportune.”
“Precisely. We find ourselves in unfamiliar territory, in need of a guide.”
Wallace made a grumbling sound.
Hugh Pratt continued. “You come highly recommended. I vetted you from three sources. They say you’re a former homicide detective in Los Angeles, now on your own and working with local law firms. I’m told you find the truth in dark situations.”
I drank some PBR. I tried to do it humbly.
He said, “I won’t insult you by asking this conversation to remain confidential.”
“I won’t point out you just did. Just a couple of guys, not saying stuff.”
“We have a situation.”
I nodded.
He said, “Rob and I have known each other twenty years. We became friends at church and remain close. We’re both on vestry.”
“My sixth time serving on vestry,” said Robert Wallace.
“What is vestry?” I asked. Humiliated.
“Think of it as a church’s board of overseers. I’m the senior warden.”
“The CEO of your church?”
Hugh Pratt waffled his hand. “More or less. But the rector is the true leader of a parish.”
I winced some. “Rector? Parish?”
“You’re not Episcopalian, I see.”
“I attend an Episcopal church, in fact. But the jargon eludes me.” Infinite mortification. Good thing no single girls were witnessing my ignorance.
“The rector is the head pastor. The parish is the church.”
“Got it.”
“Our church is the reason we’re here,” said Hugh.
“Dammit. I fretted you might be.”
“Why are you fretting?”
“I prefer it when churches are cities on a hill, rather than gravestones,” I said.
“Are you quoting something?”
“Yes. But botching it. Horribly.”
“Which Episcopal parish do you attend?” said Hugh Pratt. He pulled a little at his bowtie.
“St. John’s.”
“Good. No conflict of interest then. The church in question is All Saints.”
“Ah. All Saints is the big church.”
“Yes. The big church.”
“Been there for ninety years,” said Wallace. His face wrinkled with pride, like a man discussing his golden son.
“Rob’s grandfather helped found All Saints, and he’s been a part ever since. Rob’s royalty, in my eyes.”
“Some things in this world are more important than others,” said Robert Wallace. “And church’s one of them. I do my part.”
“You’re here to elicit a large financial donation,” I guessed.
Hugh’s eyes crinkled. I’m hilarious.
He said, “I wish it was that simple. But All Saints does not hurt for money.”
“How nice for God.”
“Church is healthy as it’s ever been. Keeping something that old running ain’t easy,” said Wallace.
I indicated his Land Cruiser.
“You like to preserve classics.”
“Could say it that way.”
“Which is why we’re here,” said Hugh Pratt. He adjusted his glasses. “Preserving something important. Do you know Louis Lindsey?”
“Know of him. The celebrated, handsome, and gregarious priest. One of Roanoke’s most treasured citizens. He’s often on television, holding forth.”
Wallace nodded with approval, like a big bull would.
“That’s him,” said Hugh Pratt. “He’s our church’s rector. Or senior priest, I mean. And someone has come forward with allegations against him.”
A Lexus pulled into the drive before I could reply. A model four years old, driven by a man who enjoyed the finer things but refused to purchase new cars. My father climbed out, closed the driver's door, opened the rear door and scooped out an infant. My father’s shoes crunched on the gravel.
I stood. “Hugh and Robert, a pause while I greet my family. This is my old man, Timothy August, local elementary school principal. Timothy, these are nameless and faceless prospective clients.”
My father, good-looking guy, wise and honest face like a news anchor going grey at the temples, greeted them, “Gentlemen, I know the drill. You were never here.”
I collected the infant from his arms. He looked like a bald cherub with bright blue eyes. I guess he wasn’t an infant anymore. Time moves fast. But he couldn’t walk yet. What did that make him? Whatever he was, he was adorable.
“And this is my boy, Kix,” I said.
Both Hugh and Robert wanted to give my son high fives, which Kix suffered with a visible lack of patience. He felt himself above such antics, even if he still had trouble with consonants.
Hugh Pratt and Robert Wallace returned to their rocking chairs and beers to wait while I walked Kix inside. The house felt silent. I set him in his playpen and fetched some juice.
He watched me coolly, like, Father, I have returned home with lesser fanfare than is our tradition. Usually this is when we have rousing father-son games. Yet today, I cannot help but notice you are distracted.
“I need to talk with the gentlemen on the porch. Shouldn’t be long,” I said.
Get rid of them. Immediately.
“Thanks for picking him up.”
“Sure,” said Timothy August from the kitchen. He poured himself a scotch, took off his tie, and loosened his collar. “I’ll make dinner. Your clients staying?”
They are not.
“They are not. I’m about to send them off.”
“So quick?” he said.
“Yes. The problem they have is a church problem.”
“So you’ll refuse the job?”
“Most likely.”
“Why?” He added a single cube of ice, sipped his scotch, turned on the stove and hunted for olive oil.
“I don’t want to investigate a church.”
“You attend a church. Shouldn’t its purity matter to you?”
“I’d prefer you not use logic and reason. Not after five in the evening.”
“Above all else, son, you are logical and reasonable. This reluctance piques my curiosity, especially since you recently declared your work has not been stimulating.”
“This is the wrong stimulation. With churches, seems like it’s always the priest diddling some poor kid.” I indicated Kix with a tilt of my head. He glared over his juice.
Turn on Sesame Street. This instant.
“You’re afraid the case might hit too close to home,” said Timothy August.
“Yes.”
“If that’s the assignment, and if the guy is guilty, clearly he must be stopped. That’s what you do. Stop evil people.”
“If he’s guilty, I might shoot him.”
“That happened some in the Old Testament, if I remember Sunday School right. With spears and stones. Righteous zeal and all that.”
“That’s a sin now. Jesus outlawed it in the New Testament…I think. Focus on cooking, pagan.” I went outside into the warm noise while Timothy August pulled chicken out of the refrigerator.
I resumed my seat on the front porch.
“Adorable boy,” said Hugh Pratt. “Are you married?”
“I’m not. Long story; the apotheosis of which is, his mother died.”
“Oh. Sorry to hear that.”
“Must’ve been tough,” said Wallace.
“You were saying that allegations have come forward about the leader of your church, Louis Lindsey,” I said.
“Yes.”
“Are these allegations of a sexual nature?”
Hugh Pratt nodded, mouth a grim line.
“They are.”
“Do the allegations involve unwanted homosexual advances?”
Hugh Pratt set his beer down and held up his hands, as if to slow me down. “It’s not like that. Not like the Catholics in the news. He’s not accused of molesting children. He’s accused of making unwanted advances on a younger clergyman.”
“Clergy means priesthood,” I said, pleased I knew something at last.
“Yes. A younger man at our church. While far less heinous than molesting children, a priest making unwanted advances on his male clergy is still inappropriate.”
“A priest making unwanted advances on anyone is inappropriate. Is Louis married?”
“He is.”
Robert Wallace shifted in his chair and cleared his throat. “Listen, August. Louis Lindsey ain’t gay. He’s been at the church more than a decade. We know him. A great man. Done a lot of good. Then this young guy comes along and accuses him of…you know, hitting on him. No way.”
“Still makes a heck of a scandal. Which is why you didn’t want anyone seeing you walk into my office. Or talking with me at a restaurant.”
“Right.” Hugh nodded. Picked up his beer. Set it down again. Rubbed his hands together. “Right. You yourself are somewhat well known for what you do.”
“Besides,” said Robert Wallace. “Louis’s a genius. Hear me? A genius. Think he’d be stupid enough to get caught? He’s the smartest guy you’ll ever meet. He ain’t gay and he wouldn’t get caught if he was. The kid’s lying.”
“Tell me about the kid and the accusation.”
Hugh Pratt said, “The ‘kid’ is Jeremy Cameron. He’s a priest, early thirties. He’s been with All Saints a few years. Maybe three. Cameron told me Louis’s been making advances on him. But not just him—him and another person. Jeremy refuses to divulge his identity. He says the second person is a younger man with ties to the church.”
“When did Jeremy come forward?”
“Last week. I was wrecked, obviously. I spoke with Rob, then we both talked with Jeremy. Now we’re here. Looking for answers.”
“Does he indicate rape?” I ask.
“No. Nothing forced. No need to involve the police.”
“You want to know if Jeremy Cameron is lying.”
“Yes. Investigate. Find the truth. We can’t believe Father Louis is guilty but…we don’t know. You can imagine how messy it’s about to get,” said Hugh. “Of course Louis will deny it. At least I assume he will, innocent or not. His lawyer will get involved. Our church’s lawyer will get involved. The victims might need one too. Jeremy Cameron will talk with the Bishop, our overseer, and who knows how that’ll go. Louis is a beloved figure in the news and also in Episcopal circles. It could destroy the church. And here we are, the group charged with leadership of All Saints, clueless what to do. Clueless what to believe. Before shit hits the fan, we need to know the truth.”
Wallace frowned at Hugh. “You said shit.”
“Ah. Sorry. I’m a Christian but sometimes my mouth has its own power of attorney. That’s our request, Mr. August. Find the truth. Can you do that?”
“Sure.”
“That easy? Sure?”
“How?” said Robert Wallace. “How can you?”
“This is what I do.”
“Yeah, but how.” Wallace hadn’t moved much. He sat still, like a thick stone.
“Talk to them,” I said.
“That’s it? Talk to them?”
“Talk to them with brio and panache.”
“What’s that mean?” asked Wallace.
“Vigorous confidence.”
“So you’re being funny. I don’t like it,” he said.
“Even though I’m using big words?”
Hugh Pratt cleared his throat. “I’m still curious what exactly you’ll do.”
“I’ll speak with Jeremy Cameron,” I said. “I’ll talk to Father Louis. Then talk to the second anonymous guy. Investigate. Poke. Prod. Find the truth. These things are simpler than you think.”
“Simple doesn’t mean easy,” said Hugh Pratt.
“Correct.”
“So it’s simple but hard?”
“Few can do it.”
“And you can,” said Wallace, still unhappy.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Practice. It can be a scary thing and I experience less fear than most, I think. And the truth matters to me.”
“And you’re a big guy,” said Wallace. “Strong hands. You about six feet four? Two fifty?”
“Whatever I am, I’d look ludicrous in the Boxster.”
Wallace waved his hand toward the Porsche. “Everyone does. Even Hugh. Being so big, you have less reason to worry about getting hurt.”
“Though it is purity of heart and virtue which protects me. Not muscle.”
“You’re being funny again.” Wallace picked up his untouched can of PBR. Popped it open with a hiss of fizz.
“Can you do this without talking to Father Louis?” said Hugh.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” I said. “He holds part of the truth. He’ll find out one way or the other.”
A car approached—a Camaro. It bypassed the FJ40 and the Porsche and made a u-turn at the intersection beyond. Hugh and Wallace ignored it. I didn’t; I typed a quick text message and hit send.
Need a favor. Stay in your car and listen.
Slipped the phone back in my pocket. The Camaro parked and went silent.
The evening air had thickened and street lights would buzz soon. The sky was purple in the east, but pink and orange on the western horizon through the trees.
Hugh Pratt was saying, “Okay. Do what you need to do. Even if it means talking to Father Louis. Good Lord, my stomach’s in knots. I have an awful feeling.”
“Don’t tell him I’m coming,” I said.
“You want to spring a trap?”
“Not a trap. But I’d prefer his genuine reaction. Not practiced answers.”
“That makes sense. When can you begin?”
“I’ll start tomorrow. Nothing on my docket is pressing.”
“Perfect.” Hugh nodded to himself. “Perfect. Good. What do you need from us?”
“Nothing. I have the names.”
“That’s all you need?” asked Wallace. He crunched the empty PBR can in his fist. “Names? And you think you can find out who’s lying?”
“Like I said. Simple.”
“But hard. Like an ax,” said Robert Wallace. He nodded to himself, the issue settled in his mind.
Hugh Pratt withdrew a checkbook from his pants and scribbled on it. I remained calm.
“I’ll pay for this personally. Keep the church’s hands somewhat clean.”
“I’m not cheap,” I said.
“Good.” Wallace grunted approval. “You’re the best, you shouldn’t be cheap.”
Hugh waved away my concern. “I have plenty. And I feel somewhat responsible.”
I gave Hugh an amount for my retainer. He doubled the number, signed it, handed it over.
“Okay. Well then…” He stood. Looked like he didn’t know what to do with his hands. “Feels like I just signed our church’s death warrant.”
That was, I thought, hurtful.