I parked in the bank lot across from All Saints, watching, detecting, and vigilantly listening to baseball podcasts. It was only April yet I already felt forlorn about the Nationals fading in September.
Might be time to switch to self-improvement podcasts instead. One about parenting young boys; Kix deserved a father who wasn’t depressed about baseball games not yet played.
While I waited, I scoured the internet for Jeremy Cameron. He was intermittently active on Reddit— discussing movies and books—and he had a public Photobucket folder, plus obligatory Facebook and Instagram accounts. No Twitter or Snapchat that I could find. His Masters of Divinity dissertation was published to an online library—one hundred and eleven pages on modern day transubstantiation trends and instruction among Anglican, Episcopal, and Catholic seminaries. Yuck. I went backwards through social media photos and comments far enough to determine who his closest friends were in undergrad and grad school. Bonus—I found an old girlfriend named Miriam.
Further research yielded phone numbers for her and an undergrad buddy. I left a message with Miriam, but Tommy Houston answered; I explained Jeremy Cameron was up for a grant to pay off his student loans and Tommy Houston was one of six references listed; did he know of any reason why Jeremy shouldn’t receive the grant? I grilled Tommy thoroughly—no no, Jeremy Cameron was the best, great guy, the voice of reason in the shared house of seniors at UVA, was always the designated driver, played guitar at his wedding, really terrific, tell him I said Hello.
Miriam called back an hour later—Jeremy was the sweetest, cried when they broke up, wouldn’t hurt a fly, prayed with her when her grandfather died, Jeremy made the best priest she was sure, he absolutely deserved the grant, tell him I said Hello.
Jeremy sounded like a hoot in college. As long as you were into late night studying at the library.
Louis Lindsey appeared from the church’s heavy wooden doors at 3:15.
Ah hah. Bingo. He would lead me to all the clues.
He slid into a white Audi convertible. The canvas top rolled back and disappeared into the car’s trunk. I glared accusingly at my Honda; it didn’t even have a moon roof.
Louis Lindsey pulled out onto Church Street, rolled through a stop sign, made an illegal right turn, and sped into the South Roanoke neighborhoods. I gave him a little distance and followed two cars back. He took the Franklin bridge near Virginia Tech’s medical college, passed River’s Edge fields, and parked in the drive of an impressive colonial on tony Avenham Avenue; the house was a hundred years old, preserved and updated and perfectly manicured. Hot dang those were splendid red maples.
I parked on 26th and watched him enter the house. I pulled up the title of the house online—the colonial belonged to Louis Lindsey.
I’d followed him home. Not to all the clues.
I observed and reconnoitered and monitored until dinnertime. By then I had convinced myself I’d seen his face watching me through windows on the top floor, but that was mere imagination and boredom. I drove to Kix’s sitter’s house feeling glum and useless. On the bright side, I found a parenting podcast that convinced me I wasn’t an irredeemable wreck of a father. But I should probably read more books to him, which I was willing to do.
Unless he asked for James Patterson.
I had standards.