Tara Holloway 03 - Death, Taxes, and Extra-Hold Hairspray (9 page)

After a couple more songs, the overhead lights went black, then colored lights began chasing each other over the audience and walls.

“What is this?” Nick said. “A circus?”

A booming male voice came from the speakers. “Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, put your hands together for the Ark Temple of Worship’s very own Pastor Noaaah Fischerrr!” He drew out the last syllables like a cheesy game show announcer.

Around us, the audience roared with applause. Nick and I exchanged glances. If we didn’t know better, we’d think a rock star was about to take the stage.

The spotlight followed a fair-haired man making his way up the center aisle, smiling and waving to the crowd, stopping to shake hands with those on the aisle as if he were a glad-handing politician.

Noah Fischer.

In the flesh.

Fischer’s black suit looked pricey and fit him perfectly. My guess was Armani. Underneath he wore a pink dress shirt with a white collar and a black tie with diagonal white stripes. I’d never seen a minister look so fashionable. Although not visible from our distance, a small bald spot on the back of the minister’s head was revealed by the enlarged image on the jumbo screen, his virtually transparent blond hair encircling the bare skin and reflecting the spotlight like a hair halo.

He made his way up to the podium, waving first to those on one side, then the other, offering a thousand-watt smile to the deafening crowd. When the noise declined to a dull roar, he raised his hands skyward. “To God go the glory!” he cried.

“To God go the glory!” repeated the parishioners, following their proclamation with a fresh round of applause.

Eventually the pastor motioned with his hands for the congregants to take a seat. He leaned one elbow casually and confidently on the lectern.

“My, my,” he said, grinning from ear to ear. “That was quite a welcome. Quite a welcome, indeed. It’s wonderful to see so many faces out there, especially such good-looking faces.”

The audience laughed, several around us turning to each other and grinning as if to say
We are good-looking, aren’t we?

Pastor Fischer raised his arm over his head and made a wide arc, waving to the television cameras. “Good morning to those of you all across our good nation who are watching from home today. Thanks for being with us this morning to share in worship and fellowship.”

Yep, the Ark’s services were broadcast throughout the United States, including Alaska and Hawaii. When I said this guy was popular, I meant
POPULAR
. Advertising rates for commercial spots before and after the service were among the highest for weekend programming.

Pastor Fischer stepped down onto the first step and looked out across the crowd. “Today we’re going to continue our series of sermons on the seven deadly sins. Over the past few Sundays, we’ve covered gluttony, sloth, and envy. Today’s sin?” A percussionist in the orchestra whipped his sticks in a loud drum roll and Pastor Fischer dramatically threw his arm into the air, pointing upward to the jumbo screens. On cue the word “Pride” appeared, flashing in bloodred letters against a black background on all three screens.

“Pride!” the audience shouted in unison as if controlled by a single brain. I found the groupspeak a little eerie.

Pastor Fischer’s pointing hand clenched into a raised fist now. “You got it, folks. Today we’ll be talking about the sin of pride.”

He turned and walked to the other side of the sanctuary to address the people seated there. His voice was softer now, not much more than a stage whisper, and he leaned toward them as if sharing a secret. “Pride turned an archangel into the devil, folks. Pride is man’s way of telling God—” His voice became a shout as he raised a palm toward the heavens in a sign of rejection. “We don’t need You!”

The image on the jumbo screens changed, now featuring Proverbs 16:18 in glimmering gold lettering against the black backdrop.

Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall.

Prophetic words.

Pastor Fischer recited the Scripture and continued on in dramatic fashion, elaborating on the sin of pride, distinguishing it from mere confidence and self-esteem, both of which were apparently A-okay with the Creator.

At one point, Fischer’s mouth continued to move, but no sound could be heard. When he realized his microphone had stopped working, he stepped back to the podium and spent a few seconds fiddling with the wireless system mounted there. In no time, he had the system up and running. Looked like his dad had taught him a few things about electronics.

“Sorry about that, folks,” the pastor said. “Minor technical difficulties. But we’re back in business now.”

He stepped back out in front of the crowd and continued his sermon.

“All over America there are people who slept in this morning after a night carousing on the town. Those people were too proud to come to church today. Those lazybones, those sinners, they’ve got no use for God, no use for a savior.” He stepped down another step, bringing himself closer to those seated. “But all of you,” he said, sweeping his arm to include all of those in attendance, “you’re better than that. You’ve pleased God by being here today. He’s taken note and will reward you with great blessings.”

At least a dozen shouts of “Amen!” echoed through the expansive chamber. Bring on the blessings!

Pastor Fischer flashed a gleaming grin. “The clock’s ticking, folks.”

The percussionist picked up a wood block and hit it four times with a stick, imitating the sound of a clock.
Ticktock, ticktock.

Fischer swept an arm at the audience again. “You all have heard that ticktock and given your souls to God. You’ve made the smart choice, the right choice. God is saving a special place in his heavenly kingdom for each and every one of you.”

More “amens” punctuated his words.

Ironic that the subject of the sermon was pride when Fischer was feeding their egos, making his audience feel superior to the heathen riffraff who’d failed to come to church today, assuring the congregants they’d secured an eternal home in the ultimate, most exclusive gated community.

Slick.

He concluded his sermon by noting that he’d cover the sin of greed in his next sermon two weeks from now. Since many of the women would be away the following weekend on the women’s retreat, he planned to let Associate Pastor Walters lead next Sunday’s service.

It was time for the offering. The lights dimmed slightly and Pastor Fischer led the group in a prayer. “Dear Lord, let us all show how much we need you. Let our offerings today be a reflection of our faith and commitment to you. Don’t let pride hold us back from giving generously.”

Salvation for sale.

Nick gave a small snort.

Pastor Fischer reminded those at home to join in by making an online donation—
right now!
—by simply clicking the links on the Ark’s Web site. He also reminded the congregants that they could set up an automated payment plan to ensure timely payments in the event they missed a service due to an illness or vacation. “With so many ways to pay, we’ve made it easy for you to further the Lord’s work here at the Ark.”

And easy for Pastor Fischer to finance his upcoming trip to Aruba. According to the Ark’s financial records, the plane tickets had already been purchased and reservations secured for an ocean-view suite at a five-star beachfront hotel. No need for a manger, there’d be lots of room at this inn.

Fisher raised his arms again. “To God go the glory!”

And to Fischer go the cash.

As the collection plate headed our way, Nick nudged me and made a writing motion with his hand, indicating he needed a pen. He wasn’t going to write a check to the church, was he? It made no sense to line this shyster’s pockets.

The mischievous grin on Nick’s lips told me he had something else in mind. I dug through my purse, found a ballpoint at the bottom, and handed it to him. Nick pulled out one of his business cards and turned it over. On the back he wrote “Render unto Caesar.”

The man sitting next to Nick passed the collection plate. The thing was nearly overflowing with checks and cash.

Nick plopped his business card on top of the pile. I dug through my wallet and added an expired coupon for fifteen cents off a can of cat food. I suppose I should’ve felt cheap, but no way was I going to support Pastor Fischer’s lavish lifestyle. God would understand. Wouldn’t He?

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Like Father, Like Son?

When the service concluded, Nick and I eased out of our seats and slowly made our way down the stairs. The crowd had thinned some by the time we reached the lobby, though a few of the choir members milled about.

Pastor Fischer stood at the open double doors next to his wife, Marissa. She was tall and thin, with the large brown eyes of a doe—a doe who’d spent a small fortune on eye shadow, liner, and mascara at the Lancôme counter. Copper and bronze highlights accentuated Marissa’s naturally brown hair, which hung in loose curls down to her chest. She wore a sleeveless white chenille dress with a flowing hem and peek-a-boo collar, along with a gorgeous pair of genuine Jimmy Choo mock Mary Jane pumps.

Marissa’s expensive wardrobe was yet another personal expense the Fischers had financed tax-free through the Ark’s accounts. The shoes alone cost over eight hundred dollars. I should know. I’d ogled them at Neiman’s just last week, even tried them on for grins. A perfect fit, leather soft as butter. But far out of my price range, dang it.

Thou shalt not covet,
my inner angel reminded me. My inner devil scoffed in return.
My, aren’t we a self-righteous nag?

With their trim builds, perfectly proportioned features, and designer wardrobes, Noah and Marissa Fischer looked like a Hollywood celebrity couple posing on the red carpet. The two smiled and shook hands with those exiting the building, Noah occasionally reaching out to pat a parishioner on the back or tweak a child’s chubby cheek. Marissa smiled down at the children but didn’t touch them, instead clasping her hands behind her back and bending forward slightly to bid them adieu, as if she were afraid she’d catch cooties if she came too close to them.

“Check it out.” Nick jerked his head almost imperceptibly to our right, where a towheaded toddler stood on a stepstool at the children’s water fountain, getting a drink. The rump of the boy’s navy blue elastic-waist pants bore the telltale bulge of a diaper. Looked like he wasn’t yet ready for potty training. His fair hair had an unusual iridescent quality.

Standing next to him was his mother, a petite young woman in her early twenties with dark auburn hair that hung in a straight sheet halfway down her back. She wore one of the aquamarine choir robes, the front unzipped to reveal a fitted pink dress that stopped just above the knee. Though her hand was on her son’s back to support him, her hazel eyes cut to the side, locking on Pastor Fischer and his wife, watching them intently as they continued their meet and greet.

The toddler turned around and looked up at his mother with sky-blue eyes.

“All done?” she asked, turning her attention back to him. She didn’t wait for an answer before lifting the tiny boy off the stepstool, standing him on the floor, and taking his hand in hers. Forgoing the line of people waiting to congratulate Pastor Fischer on his oh-so-inspiring sermon, the woman led her young son out through a side door.

“Keep your mouth shut and come with me.” Nick grabbed my hand and pulled me along after him. Maintaining a distance of thirty feet or so, we followed the woman and child outside to the parking lot. Why, I had no idea. I only knew I felt a slight tinge of disappointment when Nick released my hand.

The Ark’s pearlescent white limo sat idling at the curb, the air conditioner running to keep the interior cool, global warming be damned. A shark-fin satellite television antenna graced the top of the car, while two magnetic fish graced the back. The uniformed driver waited alongside the car, ready to open the rear door for Pastor Fischer and his wife once they’d finished their duties.

The auburn-haired woman stopped when she reached a silver SUV, opening the back door and lifting her son up to load him into the safety seat buckled inside. Nick’s eyes registered the SUV’s license plate as we continued past.

Once we were out of earshot, he once again demanded my pen. He wrote the woman’s license plate number on the back of his hand and returned the pen to me.

“What are you doing?”

“You saw the kid, right?”

“Yeah.”

“He look like somebody to you?” Nick held up his copy of
Toss Your Net
and pointed at the face of Noah Fischer on the cover.

Whoa.
“You think Pastor Fischer fathered that kid?”

“Call it a hunch.”

A hunch. Instinct. Intuition had served me well in this job. If there was one thing I’d learned since becoming a special agent, it was to never ignore my gut.

On the other hand, a gut was just that. A gut. A feeling, an emotion. Logic and reason had to be taken into consideration, too. Sure, the boy and the pastor shared similar coloring, but there were lots of blue-eyed blonds in the world, right? Heck, for all we knew Noah Fischer was sterile. He and his wife had been married for ten years but had no children. Still, if I had to hazard a guess, I’d say their childless state was by choice.
Marissa’
s choice. She’d seemed almost repulsed by the children who’d passed through their receiving line. Her body language had belied the pleasant smile plastered on her face.

If the boy was Fischer’s son, though, tax problems would be the least of the pastor’s worries. The shit would hit the fan if word got out that Noah Fischer had had an affair with a member of the church and fathered an illegitimate child.
Thou shalt not commit adultery
was a black-and-white rule with no wiggle room. The guy would lose his ministry, his home, and his reputation, everything he’d worked so hard to build.

Given the potential consequences, would Fischer take such a risk? Was he that stupid? That ballsy? Heck, that horny?