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Shit. So much for a relaxing night with Miranda and Kingston.
Sitting in Pastor Jonathan Green’s office the next afternoon, I look around and try to hold back my disgust.
Growing up with the Patricks, we were required to attend church every Sunday with them, and it was during that time my belief in organized religion became skewed. I could not understand how the pastor could stand in front of the congregation, asking them to give more, while most of the families sitting in the pews were barely making it to the end of the month with a couple of dollars in their account. Meanwhile, the pastor was trading out his car every year for a new one, living in the best part of town, and sending his kids to private school.
I did not, and still do not, believe that if God were amongst us today, he would approve of the way humankind has continued to use his name to profit off people who are looking for something to believe in that is bigger than themselves.
And sitting here, it’s obvious Pastor Green is cut from the same cloth as the Patricks pastor. Between his very-expensive desk, the art on the walls, photos of Pastor Green and his family vacationing all around the world with iconic landmarks behind them, and the Mercedes Benz SUV that’s parked in a designated spot for him behind the church, it’s obvious the tithe his congregation hands over each week is affording him a very nice lifestyle.
Oh, I’m sure that World Church and its attendees donate money and hold fundraisers during the holidays, but I’d bet my own money that the cash each person hands over weekly is tucked away in the pastor’s personal bank account so he can show people that if your belief in God is big enough, you might just be able to drive a two hundred thousand dollar car too.
“I’m sorry to keep you guys waiting.” Pastor Green steps into the office carrying a cup of coffee and wearing a pair of jeans with a rock ‘n’ roll T-shirt and a belt around his waist that probably cost a grand.
“No problem.” Miles and I both stand to shake his hand and introduce ourselves, then we watch him take a seat behind his desk that is almost comically too big for him.
“So how can I help you today?”
“We spoke with Barbara Stable, and she confirmed Kristen Stable used to attend youth group here and that she worked at the daycare on site during Sunday service.” I pull up the photo of Kristen I have on my phone and pass it over to him. I watch him as he looks at her picture, and the slight flare in his eye and the way his fingers curl around my cell tells me he remembers Kristen.
“She did.” He passes my phone back to me. “But it’s been a while since she attended. I…. We all heard about her passing and were saddened by the news.”
“Can you tell us a little about her time here and who she spent it with?”
“Well…” He sits forward, setting down his coffee cup. “I wish I could tell you that I remember her well, but there are over two thousand people who attend service most Sundays, and the youth group has well over a hundred kids. I don’t run that; my nephew, Steven, does. I’m sure he would be happy to talk with you.”
“Is he here today?”
“Let me check.” He picks up the phone on his desk, and we listen to him ask Steven if he’s around and then to tell him to come to the office after explaining two detectives would like to speak to him. “He’ll be here in just a few minutes. He’s on the other side of the building.” He looks between the two of us. “Would you like a coffee or water while we wait?”
“I’m good,” I reply, and Miles says the same.
He nods. “Do either of you attend church?” he asks, sitting back with his cup of coffee.
“No,” we say in unison, and he must read that we’re not open to discussing more on that topic with him, because he doesn’t say anything further. But he does look relieved when there is a knock on the door a few minutes later.
“Come in,” he calls out, and Steven steps into the office.
The first thing I notice is he’s a good-looking guy in his early twenties with longer hair and boy-band features. Like his uncle, he’s dressed in fashion that would be considered cool—jeans and a hoodie, with expensive shoes on his feet. If he’s in charge of the youth group, the girls are more than likely all crushing on him, and the boys probably wish they were him.
“Steven, this is Detective Beckett and Detective Thatcher.” He swings his hand out toward us.
