All of their doors were closed until I came to Pastor Reggie Atlas, whose door stood open.
He sat behind a desk, his back to me, looking through a window that faced the courtyard, where the last of his ten a.m. congregation was disassembling. Rungs of sunlight and shadow through half-drawn blinds.
He pivoted. “Yes?”
“I enjoyed the service. My first time here.”
“Thank you, and welcome. Come in if you’d like.”
I met him halfway to his desk, where we introduced ourselves and shook hands. Strong and cool. I took off my hat.
“Looks like a bad one,” he said.
“T-boned at a four-way stop. He never even slowed down.”
His grand smile. “Good insurance, I hope. Do you live nearby?”
“Fallbrook.”
“I have friends there. And some of my congregation, too. Please have a seat. I was preparing for noon fellowship, but I have a few minutes.”
He pulled out a chair for me, then took up his own again behind the desk. We talked San Diego: weather, surf, drought, wildfire.
“So, why do I have the feeling you didn’t come here to hear my message?” he asked pleasantly.
“I’m looking for a girl named Daley Rideout. She’s fourteen and she came here once last month.”
“Has something happened?”
“Yes, but I’m not sure exactly what.”
“What relation are you?”
“I’m a private investigator, hired to locate her.”
“Then this is very serious.”
“I believe it is.”
“I sincerely apologize, but I’ll need to see some ID.”
I got the wallet from my coat pocket, handed him a laminated copy of my license and a business card. He studied them, then handed back the mock-up.
“What day was she here?” asked Atlas.
I gave him the August date that Penelope had given me. I described Daley and said she had come with two friends, girls her age. I handed him my phone. He stared at the screen, scrolling along with one finger.
“Not familiar,” he said. “Certainly possible, though. I’m sorry, but as you saw today, the young people really turn out. So long as you don’t wake them up too early. The young are our future, Mr. Ford. They will multiply us into heaven. It wasn’t like that when I started out all those years ago. It was always the old folks back then.”
“I liked the old-man-as-an-angel story.”
A raise of an eyebrow. “Not an angel, probably. But every word of it true.”
“I believe you.”
“Do you think that something bad has happened to the girl?”
“Disappearing at fourteen is bad.”
“Are the police looking for her?”
“They are. Do you know Nick Moreno?”
Reggie Atlas sat back, placed his hands flat on the desk. “Yes. He was almost a regular here. I heard what happened to him from my singles minister. Ugly and sad.”
“Do you know Alanis Tervalua or Carrie Calhoun?”
He shook his head.
“Daley’s age,” I said. “Friends.”
“No. But you should talk to our youth minister, Danella. She’s out of town now, but she’ll be back on Friday.”
“What about Penelope Rideout?”
Reggie shook his head again, then spread his hands in a gesture of mild surrender. “I’m sorry. Related to the girl?”
“Sister and guardian. Richard Hauser?”
“No again, sorry again.”
A moment of near silence. Distant seagulls and murmurs from outside. Through the window I watched a man tidying up the courtyard. He was young and muscular, with a white buzz cut, a sun-flushed face, and pointed ears. No aloha shirt and cargo shorts for this deacon. Chinos and a black golf shirt and shiny black duty boots. Clean cut, All-American, and doing good deeds for fellow man.
“You’ve come a long way from the hollers of Georgia,” I said.
A thoughtful look from Atlas. “I did the first years of my preaching from that VW van and a series of recreational vehicles. All through the South. I was too young to know any better. To know what a challenge it would be. As in my message today. I was absolutely consumed by the word of God. I got my first real brick-and-mortar chapel many years ago in a town so small you could blink and miss it. Now here — the cathedral of my dreams. Bills to pay, though. Leave it to Pastor Reggie to covet some of the most valuable real estate in the country.”
“I see you have an online program.”
“Four Wheels for Jesus. It does very well.”
“And you’ve got quite a following on the social networks,” I said.
He opened his palms and shrugged, a humble gesture. “‘The word of God is quick, and powerful... and is a discerner of the thoughts and intents of the heart’.”
“Hebrews,” I guessed.
A full smile then, and a knowing nod. There was something intimate about Pastor Atlas, something you-and-me about him. I’d noted the same quality in many successful salesmen.
“I feel powerless sometimes,” he said. “There are moments, though. With the Lord. With my wife and children and my believers. When I feel the power of the word coming through me. Not from, but through. He commands my body and soul. Are you strong in Jesus, Mr. Ford?”
“I read the Bible when I was in college. It took me a year, but I was glad I did. That seems like a long time ago. So we’ve met.”
“Well, that’s quite an acceptable start, I’d say. Please, come worship with us whenever you’d like. Bring your friends and family. Jesus will change your life.”
He raised his shirt cuff for a look at his watch.
“Who handles church security?” I asked.
“Security? I don’t know which company, but I can find out for you. Why?”
“It’s not important,” I said.
He nodded slowly, taking me in with steady blue eyes. For a moment he looked every one of his forty-nine years, if not more. Then, through some personal light and magic, his youth reappeared. He sighed and stood.
“Well, please, if I can help in any way...”
“You’ve been generous, Pastor. Thank you for your time, and for the good sermon. I’m glad you kept preaching.”
“I hope you’re sincere.”
“I’m usually too sincere.”
“Should I be worried? Nick? The missing girl? This alleged car accident that happened to you? This violence in the air?”
“Just keep your eyes open. And call me if you learn anything that might point me to Daley Rideout.”
“Yes, I’ll do that. But, Mr. Ford, do you think my family and I are safe?”
I wasn’t sure what to say, so I just looked at him.
“I know,” he said. “You can’t answer that. In a world like this.”
13
Later that Sunday, Burt and I tracked down the San Clemente 7-Eleven clerk who had seen Daley Rideout early Thursday morning. Yash Chowdhury lived on West Escalones, a few blocks from the store.
He squinted at Daley’s pictures on my phone, nodding. “She was upset. I felt bad for her. I thought of calling the police, but she seemed to know the people she was arguing with. So I decided not to. I see things all the time. There was nothing physical, no forcing. Her sister called the police, but they got here after the girl left. The sister got so angry, they almost arrested her.”
Yash was early twenties, short and slim, with a head of black curls and a mustache. His wife, Riya, was studying medicine at UC Irvine. Their house was small and neat and smelled of incense and laundry detergent. Riya retreated to the bedroom to study while we talked. Burt and I sat across from Yash in the living room.
“The girl came to the store at three ten,” he said. “I checked the time because I was bored. She was in a white van. It was a commercial van with no windows, not a minivan. Old. The driver was hard to see. A middle-aged white man. She got out and he rolled his window down and said something, but she didn’t turn around. She came inside and went down the household aisle and watched the van leave. Then she went outside and used the pay phone.”