Chapter 17
“Jesus is watching. He has a few notes.”
-Flint
After meeting with the financial planner guy, Celia didn’t have the heart to continue interviewing suspects and tracking down clues. I took her home and then visited Jayden Newkirk, church treasurer and victim of Octavio’s embezzlement.
The Flamingo Cove Baptist Church gleamed in an otherwise dreary working-class neighborhood. Suspicious faces glared at me from porches as I drove past in one of the LSS black SUVs. Trash and cars on blocks littered several yards. Weeds poked out of the broken concrete sidewalk in front of the church. I nearly tripped on the cracked front steps as I entered the sanctuary.
The church secretary led me into their conference room, where I found Mr. Newkirk frowning over haphazard stacks of paperwork.
“Mr. Newkirk?”
The 60-something man looked up from his ledgers, peering at me over his reading glasses. “Yes?”
I stepped into the room. “I’m Flint Mendota with Luke Saber Security. Keeton Tenley might have told you I was coming?”
“Oh, yes, yes,” he pushed his reading glasses to the top of his head and stood slowly. He offered me a gnarled hand to shake, then gestured to an empty seat. “Please sit. I don’t stand too long these days. Arthritis.”
I pointed to the books. “Must make being the treasurer hard.”
He laughed and twisted his back each way before settling back in his chair. “It’s not ideal, but this is one of those jobs no one in the church wanted. I wasvolun-told! The Lord works in mysterious ways. One of those mysterious ways is big-time guilt from your fellow parishioners.”
I chuckled. I understood that. Lukevolun-toldme to do a lot of things. Especially since he’s been calling me “Mendota” with that growling tone of voice.
“Mr. Newkirk, I wanted to talk to you about the embezzlement,” I folded my hands on the table.
“Ah, yes. That nasty piece of business,” Newkirk sighed, his brown eyes drooped down. “I can’t believe someone would steal from a church.”
“If it makes you feel any better, Octavio Cruz stole from a lot of different people,” I offered.
He shook his head. “Oddly enough, that doesn’t make me feel better. I worry about his immortal soul.”
“How much did the church lose?” I pointed to the ledgers.
“About 600-thousand dollars. That money was earmarked for a daycare center we were opening in the neighborhood,” Newkirk frowned. “We want to offer free, or nearly-free, childcare to parents in the neighborhood who need to work. It’s part of our mission to give back to the community. Give people a handup,not a handout.”
“That’s admirable.”
“Luke 14:14,” Newkirk quoted. “‘You will be blessed since they do not have the means to repay you; for you will be repaid at the resurrection of the righteous.’”
I nodded. The verse sounded familiar.
“Must have made the congregation mad when they found out about the missing money?” I prompted.
“They all wanted to pray for the poor sod,” Newkirk shook his head. “I wanted to go a more secular route.”
“Which was?”
“Prosecution. Then, prayer.”
“You filed a police report?”
“We needed it to file an insurance claim,” Newkirk sighed. “But, when we filed our claim, we received another surprise.”
Dread settled in the pit of my stomach. “Cruz didn’t pay the insurance premiums?”
The man nodded, then ran his hands over his face. “So, we are royally screwed, pardon the expression.”
