“That would be fine, Dr. Wascomb.”

“I wouldn’t mind getting away from campus,” he said. “But it has to be somewhere close, I’ve only got forty-five minutes . . .”

“I know a place,” I said. “A bit south of you on Brand. Patty’s Place.”

“Patty’s Place . . . haven’t been there in ages. Back when the school was undergoing remodeling I’d sometimes meet there with students— did you know that, sir?”

“No,” I said. “I just like pancakes.”

* * *

Baylord Patterman pulled up five hits on Google. A Burbank-based attorney, he’d been arrested a year ago for running an insurance fraud ring that set up phony traffic accidents. The bust resulted when a fender bender on Riverside Drive turned into an air-bag disaster that killed a five-year-old girl. Patterman, his hired drivers, a couple of crooked chiropractors, and assorted clerical staff were charged with vehicular homicide. Most were pled down to white-collar crimes. Patterman ended up with a conviction for involuntary manslaughter, was disbarred, and sentenced to five years in state prison.

The Fulton Seminary connection appeared in two of the citations: Patterman was the son of a founding trustee of the school and a continuing donor to the cause. Dr. Crandall Wascomb was quoted as being “unaware and appalled” by his benefactor’s dark side.

If he was sincere, I felt sorry for him. All those years pushing virtue and he was going to be disappointed again.

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 29

My week for coffee shops.

Patty’s Place smelled of butter and eggs, meat on the grill, pancake batter, the soap-and-water breeze that accompanied a cheery young Latina waitress name-tagged Heather who said, “Anywhere you like.”

The restaurant was half-filled with serious eaters of retirement age. Big portions, tall glasses, grease on chins. To hell with the food nazis. My presence brought down the median age by a decade. I took a booth with a view of the entrance and Happy Heather brought me a mug of dangerously hot coffee unspoiled by pretentious labeling.

Dr. Crandall Wascomb showed up at seven after one, tugging at the knot of his tie and smoothing his white hair. He was short, very thin, wore black-rimmed eyeglasses too wide for his knife-blade face. He had on a brown herringbone sport coat, a white shirt, lighter brown slacks, and tan loafers. His bright blue tie stood out like a nautical spinnaker.

When his eyes found mine I gave a small wave. He came over, shook my hand, sat down.

The hair was shorter and sparser than in his official photo. His smooth dome was scored by parallel lines. I guessed him at seventy or so. He blended right in with the clientele.

“Thanks for meeting with me, Dr. Wascomb.”

“Certainly,” he said. “Do you have preset notions about evangelical Christians, Dr. Delaware?”

“When I judge people it’s by behavior not belief.”