A Touch of Grace (18 page)

Bewildered, Ian asked, “Why not?”

“We just can’t. Not yet. I need more time.”

A cold fear snaked up Ian’s spine. “More time for what? What are you not telling me?”

Roger collapsed into the only other chair in the room. His harsh breathing was the only sound for several sec
onds while Ian prayed that there was nothing wrong with the ministry’s finances.

“I don’t know how to tell you.” Roger’s long bony hands clenched and unclenched on his khaki-covered knees. “I failed you, Ian. I failed God. I didn’t mean to. I was trying to do something right for once in my life, but I need more time to straighten everything out.”

A trembling started way down deep in Ian’s gut. Something was very, very wrong. “Tell me what’s going on.”

“I’m going to pay it back, Ian. I swear. It was a loan.”

The trembling grew to quakes. Not Roger. Not his trusted friend.

“You took money from Isaiah House?” His voice was barely a whisper.

“A loan, Ian. You have to believe me.” Roger raked shaky fingers through greasy hair, already awry. “I’d never steal from you. It was a loan.”

Ian sank lower in his chair and prayed for wisdom and a calm he couldn’t seem to find lately. Hands folded, he tapped thumb knuckles against his chin, desperately seeking the grace that had always carried him through.

Grace, Lord. Grace.

Yet, he couldn’t even remember what grace meant at the moment.

His trusted friend sat before him about to confess to a crime that could ruin Isaiah House. There was no grace in such an admission.

“From the beginning. Spill it.”

“I have a son.”

Ian blinked. “You never told me.”

“I figured he was better off without me. His mother
moved him out of state a long time ago.” He rocked forward in the chair, intense, agitated. “You don’t know what it’s like, Ian, to be a father. I wasn’t always a drunk. When Ronnie was little he tagged after me and wanted to be just like Daddy.” His lips twisted bitterly. “He succeeded.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s gotten into some trouble down in Mexico. If he’s convicted, he’ll be in prison for the rest of his life! You know what Mexican jails are like. I can’t leave him there to rot.”

“Drugs?” Ian guessed.

Roger nodded. A strand of greasy hair flopped forward. “You know what they do to drug smugglers down there.”

He didn’t, but he could guess.

“I’ve never done anything good for that kid. Just this once he needed me to be his father, and I couldn’t turn my back. Not this time. Not when he cried to me over the telephone. He was scared, Ian. Scared and alone. We found a lawyer down there. With enough money to the right people, the lawyer can get him off. I had no choice.”

“You’re talking about bribes.”

“I don’t know. All I know for sure is that this lawyer says for enough money Ronnie can come home.”

Incredulous, Ian asked, “And you thought taking from the ministry was the answer?”

“I knew you wouldn’t understand. That’s why I didn’t tell you. You had a good father to learn from. My boy never did. It’s my fault he ended up in trouble. How can
I claim to be a Christian and turn my back on my own son when he needed me most?”

“Do you realize how twisted that sounds, Roger? You stole from the ministry to do a Christian deed? That doesn’t make sense.”

“A loan, Ian.” Roger’s volume rose. “I’m telling you I borrowed the money.”

“How did you plan to pay it back? And when?”

Roger slid lower in his chair, the hangdog expression filled with despair. “Ronnie’s mother, my ex, has been trying to get a bank loan. No luck yet.”

Stomach churning, Ian tapped the desktop. “How much money are we talking about?”

“Twenty thousand.”

Ian’s heart nearly stopped. “Twenty thousand! How? How did you do that without me noticing?”

“You don’t pay much attention to the books.”

Another failing on his part.

“What about the budget report each month to the board?”

He knew the answer as soon as he asked. The records were kept by hand. Roger could have altered the report without any of them noticing, especially in the area of cash donations.

He suspected now that Roger had taken the cash at Christmas, too, to divert attention elsewhere in case he checked the accounts at year’s end. Like a fool, he hadn’t.

Disappointment mixed with bitter realization settled over Ian like a depression. His friend had been afraid to ask him for help.

“You should have told me. I would have helped.”

The harried man rose and paced to the French doors, then turned and paced back, spreading his hands in a pleading gesture. “Then, help me now. He’s my son. And I’ve got a record.”

“I know.”

“They’ll send me to prison.”

“I won’t let that happen.” Though he had no clue what to do to stop it. “Let me call our attorney, talk this over with him.”

“No! I’m responsible. I’ll face the consequences head-on. All I ask is that you let me get my son out of Mexico first. Please, Ian, friend to friend. If the press gets wind of this, Ronnie will be stuck in a foreign prison for the rest of his life. Keep my name clear until he’s safely across the border.”

The pounding in Ian’s temples grew exponentially. His sympathy for his friend wrestled with ethics. What was the right thing to do? Betray a friend, and his son, for the sake of the mission’s reputation? Or help a friend in need and hope for the best?

The hammering in his brain accused him. If he’d been the minister and friend he claimed to be, Roger would have come to him first.

“How much time do you need?” He couldn’t believe he was actually considering this. And the scary part was he didn’t know if it was right or wrong.

“I’m not sure. I wired the money more than a week ago, but the wheels don’t turn as fast down there as they do here.”

“The audit will take a few days, maybe longer. Maybe we’ve got time.”

Gretchen snapped her briefcase shut and extended her hand. “Thanks for your cooperation, Reverend Connely. I think we have everything we need.”

The final segment on Second Chance Ministries would air tonight. Unlike Riverside Shelter, this report would spotlight a well-run drug-recovery ministry that citizens could support without reservation.

“Your cell’s ringing.” Jonathon, her photographer, motioned toward the van. She loped over to answer it, hoping to find Ian on the other end. During yesterday’s trip to Baton Rouge, they’d regained some sense of camaraderie, although he’d seemed unusually preoccupied. But what did she expect? He was overworked at the mission and now his mother was ill.

Five minutes later, she squinted up at the bright sky and wished she’d gone into some other occupation. The auditors at Isaiah House, according to her tipsters, had found a serious discrepancy. And Ian refused to discuss it.

A few months ago, she would have danced around the van in victory at any allegations against Isaiah House. In her eagerness to blame Ian for Maddy’s death, she’d focused far too much attention on the mission for runaways.

A sick feeling burned her throat. She didn’t want Ian to be dirty. She loved him. All her instincts, however, had been warning her for days that something was very wrong in Ian’s world.

“Trouble?” Jonathon said as he loaded camera and gear into the back of the Channel Eleven SUV.

“I hope not.” She shoved her briefcase behind the
seat and slammed the door. “Drop me off at Isaiah House.”

“Don’t you need a photographer?”

“No. I only need some answers.”

She didn’t get them.

What she did get was more to worry about.

From outward appearances Isaiah House was the same as always. After greeting a handful of kids coming out of a meeting room, she started upstairs to Ian’s office.

She heard his quiet voice long before she made the top step. His door was open. He stood at the French doors looking out, a cordless telephone against his ear. Something in his stance made her pause.

“Yes. I have it.” The tension in his words raised prickles on her skin. Something was going on here. As a friend she wanted to make her presence known. As a reporter, she needed to listen unobserved.

Quietly, she backed out and waited in the hall out of sight.

“I’d rather no one else know about this. I need a little more time.”

Silence.

And then, “Treehouse Restaurant? In the atrium. Sure, I know the place. Seven o’clock is as good a time as any, I guess.” He sounded strained, nervous, maybe even scared. “I’ll bring it with me.”

The Treehouse was about as far away from the French Quarter as he could get and still be in New Orleans. No one would recognize him there.

Gretchen’s investigative antenna went on red alert.
Whatever was going on must be connected with the allegations of embezzled ministry funds. But what could it be? She was certain he wasn’t involved with drugs. Gambling, perhaps? Was that it? Was he over his head in gambling debt? Or maybe blackmail for some indiscretion?

Somehow she couldn’t reconcile the Ian she knew with a man who would take money from his own ministry. Yes, she knew it happened all the time, but not Ian. Not the man she loved.

Dismay as heavy as a monster truck pressed down on her. For months, she’d dug for this kind of shady story, but instead of feeling victorious she was heartbroken.

She’d wanted Ian to be what he seemed to be. To think that he might be a wolf in sheep’s clothing hurt too much. There had to be a mistake. Surely, she wasn’t such a fool that she would fall in love with a charlatan after all she’d been through with the Family of Love.

Standing in the hallway, she gathered her scattered thoughts and screaming emotions into hand. Following a few minutes of silence in the office, music from a saxophone began to play.

Gretchen put her face in her hands. She loved hearing him play. Though she didn’t recognize the melody, she recognized the emotion. Ian was hurting.

Everything in her screamed to go to him, to comfort him, but she couldn’t. She wouldn’t. Not until she knew for sure that he was exactly who and what he claimed to be.

When the music trembled into silence, Gretchen forced a happy face and knocked on the doorjamb.

Ian, his back still to the doorway, turned, saxophone tilted against one shoulder. “Gretchen. Hey.”

He didn’t smile.

“Got a minute?” He looked so tired.

“Sure. Come in.”

“The music was sad. You okay?”

“Yeah.” He set the saxophone into a stand against the wall and straightened, turning toward her. “No, I’m not. Not really.”

“I knew that. Want to talk about it?”

For once he didn’t ask if she was on the record or off. She was relieved because as much as she despised the situation, anything he said was on the record.

“Want a soda?” he asked, going to the tiny fridge behind his desk.

“Sounds good.” Watching him, trying to gauge what was happening behind those beautiful blue eyes, Gretchen settled into a chair.

He took two orange sodas, popped the tops and handed one to her. He leaned against the front of his desk, tennis shoes angled out in front of him. Another new pair, she noticed. Surely, a man wouldn’t embezzle money to buy tennis shoes.

Instead of sipping his drink, Ian fiddled with the can’s tab. His mind seemed to be preoccupied and distant.

When he spoke, she had the feeling that he barely knew she was there.

“Have you ever had to do something, that you’re not sure if it’s right or wrong?”

Did he mean like now when she was pumping him for information and all she really wanted was to throw
her arms around him and promise that everything would be all right?

“Have you?”

“Something’s going on here, Gretchen. Several things actually. I wish I could share the facts with you.”

“But you can’t?”

“No.”

The admission hurt. “Because of my job?”

He pointed a finger at her, a half smile lifting his lips. “Bingo.”

“I know about the problems with the audit.”

He flinched. “Is this going on television?”

“Are you guilty?” Please say no.

“I’d rather not talk about that right now.”

Which meant he probably was. The heaviness in her chest pushed upward until she thought her throat would swell closed.

“I need you to be honest with me, Ian.”

“For the report or for yourself?”

“Both.” Her hand grew slick on the cold soda can. “I care about you.” Boy, was that a gross understatement.

His eyes studied her with a sadness that was wrenching. “I know you do.”

She waited, hoping to hear him admit he cared, too. He didn’t.

Had she misunderstood the signals? Was she so messed up that she didn’t know when a man was falling in love with her?

Angry at herself, Gretchen jerked upright. “You’re not going to tell me anything, are you?”

“I wish I could.”

“You said that already.” She slapped the soda onto his desk. Orange liquid splashed out. He hadn’t mentioned the phone call and now he refused to discuss the financial discrepancies. A man who wouldn’t talk usually had something to hide.

And knowing that was killing her.

She loved him, for crying out loud!

With effort, she said, “Look, you’ve had a rough day. Why don’t we forget all this for a while and go somewhere for a nice dinner? I’ll make you laugh and forget your troubles.” She held up two fingers. “Promise. I should be finished at the station by six. We could meet somewhere at say, seven?”

Backing him into a corner was a sneaky thing to do. But she had to give him one more chance to tell her where he was going tonight.

Ian rolled the pop can back and forth between his palms. “Could I take a rain check?”

“You’re too busy to eat?”

“You know my schedule. The soup kitchen, chapel, street patrol.”

Not a word about his mysterious meeting.

All right, then. Fine. She stifled an inward sigh.

She’d find out for herself what he was hiding. And if Ian Carpenter had a dirty secret, she’d have no choice but to tell the world.

Chapter Fourteen