The Hiding Place by David Bell

digging in his garden.
    “Guess where I am?” Stynes asked.
    “A home for bald-headed perverts?”
    “I’m at Reverend Arling’s Zion Church.”
    “Jesus. Did you do something wrong in a previous life?”
    “You know who works here, right?”
    “Did you get a message saying I wanted to play Trivial Pursuit over the phone?”
    “Your boy, Dante Rogers.”
    A long pause. Stynes could hear Reynolds breathing. “Really,” he said. “Shit, I saw in the paper he was working in a church, but I didn’t put it together that it was that one.”
    “Someone came in today and filed a complaint about him.”
    “What did he do? If he violates, we can send his ass right back—”
    “That’s what I’m here to find out, boss.”
    “I never understand why these guys don’t move out of state. Everybody in fucking Dove Point knows who he is. If he sneezes on somebody they’re going to call the cops.”
    “I was planning on calling you when I was done here,” Stynes said. He looked out his window. Two kids went by on the same bike. One of them pedaled while the other perched on the back. They laughed when they saw Stynes. “I was going to give you an update on Dante, and I wanted to talk to you about some other stuff. You have any time?”
    “I have nothing but time, unless Jeannie sends me to the store for a loaf of bread.”
    “Or more adult diapers.”
    “I saw that story in the paper yesterday, the one with you and the Manning woman.”
    “Yeah?”
    “Nice of the reporter to make the whole town look racist.”
    “She’s a kid.”
    “I don’t miss that shit, I tell you.”
    Stynes gathered a pad and pen from the center console and slipped them into his jacket pocket. “I’ve got to go in here now,” he said. “But I’ll call you later. We can get together.”
    “Sure,” Reynolds said. “And give Reverend Fred a message from me.”
    “What would that be?”
    “Tell him I said, ‘Fuck you.’ ”
    The Reverend Fred Arling stood six feet tall and was rail thin. His mostly gray hair had receded half the distance across the top of his large head. He opened the side door wearing a black suit, white shirt, and narrow black tie. He looked at Stynes over the top of small gold reading glasses and smiled.
    “Detective.”
    “Reverend.”
    “Here to be saved?”
    The reverend stepped back and showed Stynes down a short hallway into a small room that served as an office. The room was surprisingly clutter free—as opposed to Stynes’s own desk, which swam in paper—and smelled like it had just been cleaned. A new laptop sat open on the desk, and next to it was a well-worn, leather-bound Bible.
    “Are you running a special?” Stynes asked.
    “Always.”
    The two men sat on opposite sides of the desk. The reverend’s posture made him seem even taller than he was, and Stynes wondered what it was like for a member of his flock to sit down in this room seeking guidance or forgiveness.
    “I understand you have Dante Rogers working here,” Stynes said.
    “Let me guess,” the reverend said. “A woman named Letitia Myers came to see you.”
    “Go on.”
    “Sister Myers read the newspaper story about Dante, sawthat he was working here in my church, and—how do you white folks say it—had a cow?”
    “She doesn’t think a convicted child killer should be working in a church around small children.”
    “Did she accuse Dante of something?”
    “Not directly.”
    “Are you here to arrest him?”
    “Not yet. But just being around small children could be seen as a violation of his parole. There are restrictions on where he can go and what he can do.”
    The reverend removed his glasses and leaned forward, folding his hands on the desk. “Let me explain something to you, Detective. Do I look like I’m stupid? Do you think I’d let a man who might harm children, or harm anyone, around my congregation?”
    “Why is he working here?” Stynes asked.
    “Detective, I’m sure you can imagine what it would