“Good for you.” His eyes didn’t move. Bluer than in the photo. Or maybe they’d absorbed some of the necktie’s intensity. “I assume you checked into the Baylord Patterman issue.”

“I did.”

“I won’t offer excuses but I will explain. Baylord’s father was a fine man, it was he who helped us get started. That was thirty-two years ago. I’d come out from Oklahoma City, worked in the petroleum supply business before going back to school. I wanted to make an impact. Gifford Patterman was that rare man of wealth with an open, warm heart. I was naive enough to think the same applied to his son.”

Heather arrived, pad in hand.

Wascomb said, “It’s been a long time since I’ve been here. Are the flannel cakes still fabulous?”

“They’re awesome, sir.”

“Then that’s what I’ll have.”

“Full stack or half?”

“Full, butter, syrup, jelly, the works.” Wascomb flashed cream-colored dentures. “Nothing like breakfast in the afternoon to make the day seem young.”

“Something to drink, sir?”

“Hot tea— chamomile if you have it.”

“And you, sir?”

“I’ll try the flannel cakes, too.”

“Good choice,” said Heather. “You’re gonna love your meal.”

Wascomb didn’t watch her leave. His eyes were on his napkin.

I said, “Baylord Patterman let you down.”

“He let Fulton down. The investigation into his activities gave us a black eye because we were the largest beneficiary of his filthy lucre. You can imagine the reaction of some of our other major donors.”

“Race to the exit.”

“Stampede,” said Wascomb. “It hurt. We’re a small school, operating on a shoestring budget. I call us the seminary that does more with less. The only reason we’re able to survive is that we own the land the school sits on and maintenance costs are just about covered by a good Christian woman’s will. Baylord Patterman’s grandmother.”

His tea arrived. Pressing his hands together, he bowed his head and uttered a silent grace before sipping.

“Sorry for your problems,” I said.

“Thank you. We’re getting our head above water. Which is why I chose to meet you here rather than at the school. I simply can’t afford any more bad publicity.”

“I have no intention of giving you any.”

He studied me over his tea. “Thank you. I’m going to deal openly with you because I’m an open person. And frankly, there’s no longer any privacy. Not in the computer age. But that doesn’t mean I can talk freely about a former student without that student’s permission. Not without good reason.”

Holding on to his cup, he sat back in the booth.

I said, “What would be a good reason?”

“Why don’t you tell me what you’re after?”

“I’m limited in what I can say, too, Dr. Wascomb. There are certain details the police keep to themselves.”