He uttered a silent grace, then cut his stack of hotcakes in half, sawing straight through to the bottom. Rotating the plate, he sliced again, then once more until the pile had been sectioned into eighths. Lauritz Montez would approve.

Montez and Wascomb had both chosen to minister to sinners. I supposed they couldn’t be blamed for seeking the illusion of an orderly world.

Wascomb ate with such enjoyment that it seemed a shame to interrupt him. I worked on my own plate, finally said, “Who was Cherish’s bad friend?”

He put his fork down. “This is absolutely necessary for your investigation?”

“I can’t answer that until I know, Doctor.”

“Appreciate your honesty.” He wiped his lips, removed his glasses, touched his temples with his fingertips. “Not a friend. Her husband.”

“Drew Daney.”

Slow nod.

“How’d he get her in trouble?” I said.

“Oh,” said Wascomb, as if the memory made him weary. “I had reservations about him early on. We’re small and chronically short on funds, we need to be selective in who we accept. Our typical student is an honors graduate of a respectable Bible college, trained in the evangelical tradition. Cherish was such an individual. She graduated first in her class from Viola Mercer College in Rochester, New York.”

“And Drew?”

“Drew claimed to have attended a very solid school in Virginia. In truth, he dropped out of high school. That was the extent of his education.”

“He lied on his application.”

“He falsified transcripts.” Wascomb sighed. He pushed his plate away, one-third eaten. “No doubt you think I’m a gullible fool. Or slipshod. Without sounding overly defensive, I would like to stress that this was an aberration. The vast majority of our graduates are out in the world doing the Lord’s work in an exemplary manner.”

“Drew must’ve been good to fool you.”

He smiled. “That’s very kind, sir. Yes, he did say the right things, seemed well-grounded in Scripture. As it turns out, his religious experience was limited to serving as a counselor at several Christian summer camps.”

“He learned the jargon,” I said.

“Exactly.”

“When did all this come out?”

“Seven and a half years ago.”

Precise memory. Six months after Kristal Malley’s murder.

I said, “What caused you to look into his background?”

“Someone else looked into his background,” said Wascomb. “A very angry man who claimed that Drew was committing adultery with his wife.” He winced. “A claim that turned out to be true.”

“Tell me about it.”

He shook his head. Pushed his plate away. “There are issues of respect, here. For innocent people involved- ”

“A half year before you found out about Drew, he and Cherish were involved in a murder case as part of their community service work for Fulton. Counseling a boy who’d killed a toddler. I’m sure you recall that, Dr. Wascomb.”

He blinked twice, started to speak, stopped himself.

“Sir?”

“That poor little girl.” His voice had gone hoarse. “There’s more to that? After all this time?”

“One of the boys who murdered Kristal Malley has been murdered himself.”

Wascomb winced. “Oh, my. Then I suppose I need to be forthright.” He clicked his dentures. “Drew committed adultery with one of the lawyers on that case. A defense attorney.”

“Sydney Weider.”

Nod. “It was her husband who barged into my office with medical reports, raving about the school, my incompetence, how could I train a person like that, I was a hypocrite, all ‘Bible freaks’ were nothing but hypocrites.”

He looked away from me. “I’m afraid I’ve lost my appetite.”

“Sorry,” I said. But not sorry enough to drop it. “We’re talking about Martin Boestling. A movie producer.”

“A loud man. At the time I thought him crass. After some consideration- after the shock wore off- I considered what he’d endured and felt compassion for him. I called him, tried to apologize. He was gracious, as far as that went.”

“What he’d endured,” I said. “More than adultery.”

He stared.

“You said Boestling brought medical reports. As in lab tests?”

Slow nod. “His own and his wife’s.”

“He’d been infected with something. AIDS?”

“Not that bad,” said Wascomb, “but bad enough. Gonorrhea. His wife had given it to him and Boestling claimed Drew had given it to her.”

Wascomb shook his head. “The implication, of course, was promiscuity. I took a closer look at Drew, learned of his lies, and expelled him. We’ve had no contact since then.”

“And Cherish left with him,” I said. “Because she was a dutiful wife?”

“Because she was ashamed. As I said, we’re a small community.” He fooled with his fork. “How is Cherish, nowadays? Are they still together?”

“They are.”

“Has Drew repented?”

“I couldn’t say.”

“I always hoped she’d find peace… now you’re here asking questions about her.”

“They may come to nothing, sir.”

“Is she… has she maintained herself as a woman of character, Dr. Delaware? Or has Drew’s influence polluted her soul?”

If you only knew. I said, “From what I can tell, she continues to do good works.”

“And him? What’s he up to?”

“The same.”

His eyes got flinty. “There’s a lesson for you, Dr. Delaware. Judging behavior isn’t always sufficient. It’s what’s beneath the surface that matters.”

“How do you measure that, sir?”

“You don’t,” he said. “We don’t.”

He got up to leave. “God does the measuring.”

“One more question, Dr. Wascomb. Cherish told me Troy Turner was buried on the grounds of your school.”

He placed a hand on the table, as if needing support. “That’s partially true.”

“How so?”

“Cherish asked me- begged me. We’ve got a small cemetery in San Bernardino. For faculty and indigent individuals recommended by donors and other trustworthy people. We view it as a community service.”

“Cherish qualified as a trustworthy person.”

“She still does, Dr. Delaware, unless there’s something you tell me that suggests otherwise.”

I didn’t answer.

He said, “Affording that boy hallowed ground was compassion for the sinner. After some deliberation I felt it would be appropriate. We provided the boy with a service.”

“Who attended?”

“Cherish and myself and my wife.”

“Not Drew.”

“Drew, as well,” he said. “He wanted to lead the service. I decided to do it myself.”

“What about Troy’s mother?”

“No,” said Wascomb. “Cherish said she had tried to reach the woman but was unable. I remember the day. Late spring, nice weather, the air was clean. Small coffin, it barely made a sound as they lowered it into the ground.” He placed money on the table.

I said, “On me.”

“No, I won’t hear of it.”

“Split check, then.”

“All right.” He smiled at me.

“Sorry if this was upsetting, Dr. Wascomb.”

“No, no, you’re doing important work.” He turned to leave, stopped. Touched my shoulder. “The boy did a terrible thing, Dr. Delaware, but you’d never know it to look at that coffin.”