Immaculate Deception

By Gary J. Crawford

Patricia Pollard is wealthy, beautiful, and needs Sam McClouds help. Mrs. Pollard is upset by the indiscretions of her preacher husband, Peter Pollard; and to make matters worse, her best friends husband, the corporate financial officer of Pollards religious empire, has disappeared. As a private investigator in the North-Central California City of Modesto, McCloud struggles to keep his relationship with the gorgeous Mrs. Pollard on a professional level.

Mac enlists his cousin, Swede Anderson, the owner of the Downtown Athletic Club, to assist in the investigation. The twists and turns extend into Hawaii, Mexico, and the Sierra Nevada Mountains, with treachery everywhere.

As Mac and Swede follow a confusing trail of clues in Norman Adkinss disappearance, they discover a network of slavery, drugs, and murder and attempts to discourage both of them in the pursuit of the truth. As it turns out, the truth can be stranger than fiction.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 18, 2013
• ISBN: 9781479785797

Gary J. Crawford

Gary James Crawford is a retired educator, having taught physical education, business, health, and journalism. He has been a licensed real estate broker, building contractor, appraiser, and housing inspector. He has coached baseball and football at the high school level. He has been a sports reporter and photographer and was awarded a fellowship by the American Society of News Editors to the University of Maryland. He is an alumnus of Modesto Junior College, California State University Chico, and Chapman University. Crawford and his wife, Debbie, live on a ranch in the Central Valley of California.

Book preview

1

The telephone buzzed, interrupting my contemplation time when I solve what needs to be solved and chew on what needs to be chewed. Currently I was solving why I didn’t have anything to solve and was doing my best to eradicate a very suspicious-looking jelly donut.

Yes, Sara, I said.

There’s a Mrs. Pollard here to see you, my secretary said.

Send her in.

A vision of absolute loveliness walked through the door. Her legs began on a pair of black high heels and seemed to go on forever. A white wool skirt started above the knee and ended at a tiny waist packaged in a light blue silk blouse and wrapped in a dark blue blazer. She had a light complexion, large blue eyes, full sensuous lips, and shiny black hair. I notice these things, of course, because I am a professional investigator.

She also had an air of superiority. One might say, snotty.

With a forced smile that showed perfect white teeth, she asked, Mr. McCloud?

Yes, how may I help you? I asked, using my most professional demeanor as I indicated for her to take a chair across from my desk.

She sat down and elegantly crossed her ankles and primly held her black clutch purse on her lap and said, I’m Patricia Pollard. Dina Thompson suggested that I consider hiring you.

Dina Thompson was a gorgeous attorney that could geld you before you knew it. She is a partner in Driscoll, Thompson, and Baker.

I need someone to look into my husband’s activities.

Okay, I said.

You have a lovely office, she said, looking around the room.

My office was housed in the bottom floor of an old 1890s Victorian on Fourteenth Street that my father and I remodeled. The original parlor was occupied by my attractive Latina secretary, and my office was in the one-time living room—a darkly paneled room with floor-to-ceiling bookcases. The large walnut desk faced the doorway with ample lighting streaming in from two large windows behind it. My residence was on the second floor, though most people did not know that.

I carefully studied the stunning Mrs. Pollard. Some women just ooze femininity. I couldn’t take my eyes off her full red lips as she spoke. Then I looked up and got lost in those big, sparkling blue eyes buried in a very serious face.

Fighter? she asked.

Lover.

Your nose—it’s squished and crooked.

Football.

You have scars on your lip and chin.

Hammer.

Hammer?

Long story short, I used to build houses with my father. I was on a ladder and hit a gang nail with my waffle head and hit my mouth.

Waffle head?

Hammer.

Why do they call a hammer a waffle head? she asked.

It has a wafflelike pattern on the striking portion of the hammer head to better grip the hitting surface and does a bang-up job on one’s mouth, I said.

My, did you fall off the ladder?

No, and a butterfly bandage and some dental work fixed me up.

Mrs. Pollard seemed to relax a little.

Well, you’re certainly big enough, she said.

Big enough?

You’re big enough to handle any problems that might come your way. Patricia Pollard was observing Sam McCloud closely. He wasn’t much for conversation, but he certainly seemed sure of himself, almost cocky. And he sure was handsome in a rugged sort of way: tan from the outdoors, crow’s feet around the eyes, sandy hair, and those scars and that nose. I think my husband’s cheating on me, she said finally.

What makes you think he is cheating on you?

He’s gone a lot, answers the phone, and walks into other rooms to talk. He seems to work late all of the time. He travels a lot and is gone on most weekends.

That’s not necessarily evidence of infidelity, I said.

That’s not the whole story, she said. Some people from his company have disappeared. My husband says things like that happen in companies. Some people become unhappy and just move on without notice. My friend Cynthia’s husband has been gone for a week, and she is really worried.

What’s your husband’s name, Mrs. Pollard?

Peter.

And your friend’s full name?

Cynthia Adkins, and her husband is Norman.

Sam made a few notes and then asked, What would you want me to do, Mrs. Pollard?

I would like you to investigate the disappearance of Norman and find out what my husband is up to.

I looked at Mrs. Pollard. She definitely looked concerned. Mrs. Pollard, I’m not sure you have a legitimate concern here. It could be expensive and time-consuming.

Well, believe me, he’s guilty of something, and it’s not a figment of my imagination that Norman is missing. The cost isn’t important—finding out the truth is, she said.

The fee will be $500 a day with a five-day retainer.

Dina said you weren’t cheap, but worth it, she said as she pulled out her checkbook.

Sam noticed what looked to be, at least, a two-carat diamond on her finger as she wrote out the check for $2,500. She had model’s hands and wrote elegant cursive script.

As she handed over the check, McCloud handed her note paper and said, Please write down names, addresses, and telephone numbers of your husband’s, husband’s company, your residence, and Cynthia and Norman’s information. How would you like me to contact you?

Call me on my cell phone. I almost always have it with me. How soon should I expect to hear from you?

I’ll be back in touch in a few days.

Mrs. Pollard quickly wrote down the requested information and handed me the tablet. Their address was in the Del Rio Country Club area. The Del Rio area is a beautiful and pricey neighborhood on a parklike golf course north of town. The Adkins address was in the Scenic Drive neighborhood overlooking Dry Creek west of town. She stood to leave, and I shook her hand. I was surprised at her firm grip. She turned and oozed out of the office.

After taking a deep breath and collecting myself, I buzzed Sara to come into the office. I handed Sara the check, and she said, Just in time, the landlord was ready to evict us.

Sara Vazquez is all about sass. Sometimes I think she thinks that she is the boss of me. Lucky for her, she’s a good secretary, and she’s an even better parent. Sara is a cute little Latina that married a little guy in a wifebeater. He was covered in tattoos, and he couldn’t give up his homeys for married life. She finally left after he hit her. I wanted to show him the error of his ways, but Sara insisted I stay out of it. I acquiesced, but I sure would like to run into him one of these days. She’s a wonderful girl and has a cute three-year-old little boy.

Sara left to go to the bank, and I turned to my computer to google Peter Pollard. There were several pages devoted to Pollard’s many enterprises. He even had his own website.

I started with his website and was dazzled with pictures of happy, smiling, beautiful people. There were numerous glowing testimonials about Pollard’s ministry and fellowship. Included was a map directing people to his church in Ceres. There was a picture of a white church with a steeple and stained-glass windows. Interestingly, the address given to me for Pollard’s business did not match the church address.

There were several links on the website under the section Grow with God. I checked on the first one entitled Rags to Riches. It encouraged the parishioners to donate and support a thrift store on J Street in Modesto. The store was called Cornucopia Consignment.

I clicked on the second link with the title Bibles for Believers. There were several versions and price ranges of bibles for sale, with the most expensive being leather bound and autographed by Pastor Pollard himself.

Next was a line of clothing with many religious sayings and biblical quotes imprinted on them. There was even a tee shirt with a picture of Pollard on it. Pollard was quite the evangelical entrepreneur.

Elsewhere on the website, there was an area devoted to the ministry that directed the viewer on how they could become an ordained minister. The doctrine espoused to strive for life’s riches, do right, be true to the God each of us worships, and to support the Valley Cornucopia Church bylaws. There was a caveat that each state has its own laws about licensing to perform marriage ceremonies and that each ordained minister must adhere to them. My curiosity was further aroused by the label Save a Life. There was a paragraph touting the goodness of Valley Cornucopia’s doctrine and the importance of spreading God’s wealth. The site encouraged the sponsorship of foreign aliens into the country. The various means ranged from cash donations to adoption. Parishioners were encouraged to employ these people and bring them into the fold. The contact person was a Brother Juan Medina.

I searched one last item: the Cornucopia Crusades. The crusades were scheduled for San Francisco, Los Angeles, and San Diego over the next six months. The promotional posters showed a dapper Pollard surrounded by beautiful, happy people.

2

The next day, I headed north on Highway 99 toward the quaint little town of Ripon. Ripon is known for its large truck stop, agriculture, beautiful Spring Creek Golf Course, and its volleyball and basketball teams. I’ve traveled through Ripon many times on the way to Lake Tahoe via scenic Highway 88. Before Ripon and north of Salida, there is an industrial/office park off Hammett Road. Peter Pollard’s offices were in a modern four-story building next to the Chapman University building.

I parked my Jeep in a visitor parking space and walked into a large reception area. An attractive young receptionist greeted me, May I help you, sir?

Being called sir makes me feel old. My dad was sir. My professors were sir. I don’t think of myself as a sir. Oh well, I’ll give this little girl some slack. After all, she looks about eighteen years old.

I’d like to see Mr. Pollard, I said as I handed her my business card.

Do you have an appointment?

No, but I think he will want to see me.

May I tell him what this is about?

Just tell him I have been retained to investigate matters regarding missing persons and activities that may not be deemed appropriate.

She stared at me in silence for a moment and said, I’ll see if he is available. Please have a seat.

A dapper GQ-dressed man came swishing through the office. He flipped a dismissive, elegantly manicured hand at me and said, The pastor is just too, too busy to see you.

It’s very important that I see him. It’s a matter of life and death, and this place may be in peril, Mr. . . .?

Ramsey. Randall Ramsey at your service, he said, giving me a limp handshake.

And what is your position here, sir? I asked.

I’m Pastor Pollard’s personal attaché, he said with an arrogant pride.

After a few minutes, the receptionist came out and said, Brother Pollard will be with you as soon as he can.

I settled in for what might be a long wait. Ramsey’s superior-than-thou attitude gave me the impression that I wouldn’t be admitted to the Grand Poopa’s kingdom right away. I was surprised when the secretary came over to guide me in after just a ten-minute wait.

As I entered his palatial office, I was greeted by a slender man in an expensive beige suit, peach shirt, and lime-green tie. Have a seat, Mr. McCloud. What can I do for you?

Pollard was tan, with graying temples and a beautifully white, insincere smile. His handshake was soft but firm.

A client has hired me to investigate a missing person by the name of Norman Adkins, among other things, I said. Can you shed some light on that, sir?

Who hired you, Mr. McCloud?

My client is confidential right now, I said. What is it that your company does?

We are a Christian conglomerate, Mr. McCloud. We do God’s work. We provide educational seminars and materials related to Christian beliefs. We also have a church in Ceres and promote annual crusades.

Ah, you’re Pastor Pete, I exclaimed.

Yes, I am. Apparently, you have seen my Sunday morning services on television.

I have tripped across your show looking for the morning news.

Uumph, the pastor chortled. It’s a religious service, not a show.

I was looking at Pastor Pete with a whole new mind-set. I really did think he put on a show, and I have doubts about the legitimacy of his ministry, and therefore, I was having doubts about his business. One of Pastor Pete’s mantras was that God wants everyone to be successful and rich. By gifting to his ministry and buying his religious trinkets, God will enable his brethren to become rich and famous just like him.

Tell me, Mr. Pollard, what happened to your associate, Mr. Adkins?

I don’t know, Pollard said. One day, he didn’t show up for work. He never gave notice, and we have not heard from him.

What was his position with your firm? I asked.

Mr. Adkins was our chief financial officer. As CFO, he was responsible for paying our bills and keeping the books.

The CFO is one of the most important positions in a company. He is the one that takes the financial pulse of a company. A company’s success, or failure, can be attributed to the job done by the chief financial officer. The CFO is also privy to the deep, dark secrets of a company. I wondered if Mr. Adkins took any secrets with him.

Did Norman Adkins have an office in this building? I asked.

Pollard appeared like he didn’t know if he should answer me or not. After a few moments, he said, Yes, his office is down the hall.

May I see it, please?

Pastor Pollard looked uncomfortable as he pondered my request. What in the Lord’s name for?

Apparently, the show never ends, I thought. There may be something there that would indicate where Mr. Adkins is. You would like to find Norman Adkins, wouldn’t you?

O-o-of course, he stuttered. Right this way.

He arose from behind his desk and politely showed me the way to the door. Turning right, he led the way down to the end of the hall. Pollard opened the door, turned on the light, and said, It’s pretty much the way he left it.

I went over to Adkins’s desk. Typical of an accounting-type person, it was fastidiously neat. Not a thing out of place. I opened the center drawer and found the same neat organization. Some pencils, paper clips, staples, and a package of spearmint gum. I closed the center drawer and opened the left top drawer. Slowly I went through the contents. I opened a box of business cards and put one in my pocket.

Pollard said, I have to make some calls. When you are done, come by my office on your way out.

I thought it interesting that he would leave me alone to go through Adkins’s office. Did he have nothing to hide, or did he know that I wouldn’t find anything because it had all been removed?

Thank you, I’ll be just a few minutes, I lied.

Whatever the reason, I was glad that Pollard left. I grabbed the old-fashioned Rolodex on the corner of the desk. I began going through the names and addresses, slipping any that I thought might be significant into my coat pocket. I’ll look at them in detail back at the office.

It wasn’t so much what I found in the desk that was interesting, but what I didn’t find. No accounting information, no calculator, no laptop—not even a computer in the room.

Behind the desk was a credenza with a picture that appeared to be of Adkins, his wife, and two cute little girls. I took the picture out of the frame and slipped it into my pocket.

On Adkins’s walls were some framed prints and his framed college diploma: a masters degree in accountancy from the University of California at Berkley. Certainly, this would be an item you would want to take with you if you were voluntarily leaving an organization.

After gleaning what I could from Norman Adkins’s office, I walked down the hall to Pastor Pollard’s office. His door was ajar, and he was talking to his secretary. I overheard him telling her to call him after I returned to his office and to tell him he had to attend an important meeting. Apparently, my presence at Christian’s Conglomerate Inc. was not desired as much any longer.

I gave a polite tap on the door as I entered.

That will be all for now, Ms. Stevens, Pollard said. I trust you found everything in order, Mr. McCloud.

I’m curious, I said. Why don’t I see financial stuff in Mr. Adkins’s office?

Financial stuff?

Yes, you know—calculator, computer stuff.

Well, uh, I’m sure that whatever was removed was taken by Mr. Adkins. His secretary input most of his information at her computer station.

So you’re telling me that most of Mr. Adkins’s stuff was his personally.

Yes, I would think so, he said.

Essentially, you are telling me that Mr. Adkins left, taking his personal effects, of his own volition.

Of course, he said. I have no reason to think otherwise.

Pollard’s phone rang. He quickly picked it up, listened for a moment, and said, Yes, Ms. Stevens, I’ll be right there. He cradled the phone and got up hurriedly and said, I have an important meeting, Mr. McCloud. Please feel free to contact me if I can be of further help.

The good pastor ushered me to the door and shook my hand. I had an overwhelming urge to go wash it. This guy was just too slick and slimy for me. Just one thing more, Mr. Pollard. Why wouldn’t Adkins take his diploma with him when he left?

Startled, Pollard looked at me and said, He must have overlooked it.

I looked at him incredulously and said, I’ll be back in touch.

I walked out to my Jeep and dialed detective Daniel Kelly. Danny, how about meeting for drinks at Luigi’s?

Sure, I can get free at about five thirty, he said.

Danny was a good cop. He and I worked together years ago. He could handle the structure and politics of institutional law enforcement much better than I.

I headed back to town. The heat of the valley summer baked the freeway, sending up wiggling waves off of the pavement. Why would a CFO just disappear? Money? A woman? Fear? All of these?

My cell phone rang. I hate answering the phone in the car; besides, it’s illegal and I could be fined. Come to think about it, I’m not too crazy about answering the phone even when I’m not driving. And I’ll be damned if I’ll wear one of those stupid blue things in my ear and look like Bob Space Cadet. I really don’t get the younger generation’s fascination with cell phones and texting. Big fat fingers don’t do well on those tiny little buttons.

I answered the phone, anyway.

Mac, Gordon Jones.

Hey, Gordie, how you doing?

Fine, but we’ve had several instances of purse snatching here at the mall and would like to talk to you about some additional security to catch this guy before he hurts someone. We also want to apprehend him before it starts hurting business.

"Yes, I’ve read about it in the Modesto Bee."

I hate the negative publicity, Gordie said.

Gordon Jones was the manager of the Vintage Mall, the largest shopping mall in town. While their security is very good, from time to time, Gordon calls on me to assist them because of their legal, geographical, and staffing limitations. Also, the police department does the best they can with their limited budget and resources, and sometimes they need more manpower for specific circumstances—like a serial purse snatcher.

I’m almost to the north side of town now. I can stop by in a few minutes, I said.

Good, I’ll be in my office, he said.

As usual, when I pulled into the mall parking lot, there was a vast sea of parked cars. I knew there were mall security cameras in strategic locations; a couple of little white security trucks with yellow flashers on the top of their cabs circulated around. While the little trucks are a help, they aren’t tall enough to see very far, and all mall security personnel are unarmed.

When I entered, Gordie’s beautiful secretary Darlene Fox invited me to go right in because she was expecting me. Gordon and I shook hands, and he directed me to their security room with its vast array of video consoles being monitored by a couple of security people.

We have some tape of this guy snatching purses, Gordon said. He’s knocked a few women to the ground and banged them up. We’ve had one shoulder dislocation, but he hasn’t been violent beyond that at this point.

Gordon showed me some video of a medium-built white guy wearing a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. He had on jeans, sneakers, had light brown hair, and was about as average looking as you can get. What little of his face I could see appeared to be clean-shaven. He would quickly move up behind his victims that were loaded down with bags and packages and yank off their purse and take off running through the many rows of parked vehicles.

We haven’t been able to determine how he leaves the area. We don’t know if he’s on foot, rides a bike, or has a car parked somewhere nearby. Obviously, we can’t do sting-type operations or patrol the surrounding area. That’s why we need your help, Mac, Gordon said.

Okay, I’ll need the days of the week he has struck, along with the times, locations, etc. Would it be possible to get them tomorrow, Gordie?

No problem, he said. You’ll have everything we have by ten o’clock in the morning.

Good. I’m meeting the police department shortly, and I’ll see what they have. I’ll be back in the morning.

I didn’t tell Gordie that my meeting was with Danny over drinks. I wanted to appear to have some professional decorum.

3

I was sitting at a pub table near the bar enjoying a glass of Wild Turkey, observing the fine feminine fauna in the happy-hour crowd of Luigi’s, when Danny walked in the door. Danny Kelly was a formidable-looking man: Danny’s six foot three, and 250 pounds of solid muscle. Even before we were cops together, we played football together at Modesto Junior College while we were going to the Police Academy. We played for the legendary Stan Pavko, a 1940s Pittsburgh Steeler that ate nails for breakfast. He once recruited Gino Marchetti, who later became a Hall of Famer playing for the Baltimore Colts, telling him that if he didn’t play for him and the Modesto Junior College Pirates, he was going to kick his ass.

Danny signaled for the bartender to bring his usual, a Jameson’s on the rocks. I too, on occasion, enjoy the sweet smoothness of Irish whiskey, but I was in need of strong bourbon after being with Pastor Pollard.

How ya doing, Mac? Danny asked.

I’m fine. I’m working on a case and need your help.

Danny gave me that again look. What now?

I have been retained by a Patricia Pollard to look into the activities of her husband, Pastor Peter Pollard, and the disappearance of an employee and family friend, Norman Adkins.

Danny raised an eyebrow. Pastor Pete and Pat Pollard? What are their kids’ names—Pam and Percy?

Have you heard of Pastor Pete? I asked.

Danny thought for a moment and said, I think I read where he had some IRS issues at one time. He tries to hide a lot of income from taxes using the religious umbrella. One of his income streams is from indiscriminately selling ordained-minister licenses. He gives a simple online test after a short infomercial, and with the payment of $50, they become associate pastors in his church. That’s not the end, however. They must renew every year for $25. They can put it on their credit card with automatic payments.

It sounds like this guy is a cash cow, I said. Have you heard anything about the missing person—Norman Adkins?

Yes, his wife filed a missing person report after the necessary forty-eight hours. There’s no evidence of foul play. He may have just run off with another woman. With our caseload, I’m afraid not a lot of time has been spent on trying to locate him.

I took a long pull of my Wild Turkey, observing a couple of attractive ladies enter the bar. Being a trained detective, the sight of the two ladies entering ceremoniously did not go unobserved by Danny. As Danny started to comment, his cell phone rang. He walked outside the bar as he answered the phone. I continued to appreciate the feminine view as Danny talked onthe phone outside. I walked over to the bar and ordered another Wild Turkey and a Jameson’s for Danny and asked the ladies if I could buy them a drink. They looked at me without disgust, and I was encouraged.

Thank you, sir, they said in unison.

I must be getting old; there’s that sir word again. What are you having? I asked.

Sex on the beach, they said together again, smiling.

Do you girls always say the same thing at the same time? I asked.

No, they said together.

As Danny returned from taking his phone call, I put a twenty on the bar, and as I turned to go back to my table, they said thank you in unison. I set Danny’s drink in front of him and sat down heavily. It was one of those days that I can’t seem to make any headway with anything.

So, what now? Danny asked.

Well, I think it’s time I go see Cynthia Adkins. I need to find out when she last saw Norman, and if she has any idea where he might be. I need to get a better feel about what Pollard and his company are all about.

Danny, what do you know about the guy snatching purses at the mall?

Not too much. We’ve increased patrols out there the best we can, but honestly, it’s not been a high priority at this point.

Gordy has retained me to help out, and I’ll be putting some people on it.

Good, Danny said. We need to get another slime ball off of the street. We only have so many resources. Let me know if anything goes down and you need some backup.

Will do, I said. Would you please check and see if there is any more information with the patrol guys in the area?

I’ll do some checking back at the precinct, Danny said.

I got my cell phone out and dialed Cynthia Adkins’s house.

Hello, a strained and tired-sounding voice answered.

Mrs. Adkins, this is Sam McCloud. I’ve been retained to investigate the disappearance of your husband.

Yes, Mr. McCloud. Patricia Pollard is my best friend, and she told me that she was going to get someone to help look for Norman. She also hasn’t been too pleased with her husband as of late, either.

She mentioned that to me, I said. Would it be all right if I come over to your house tomorrow morning?

Pat and I usually play tennis at the country club on Wednesday mornings, but I am not really up to it. I’ll cancel with her. How about nine o’clock in the morning?

Mrs. Pollard gave me your address. I’ll see you at nine, I said. I put my cell phone away and took a big swallow of my Wild Turkey. She sounds pretty wiped out, Danny. I don’t get the impression that she had anything to do with her husband’s disappearance.

No, I have the same feeling. She was really upset when she filed the missing person’s report.

I polished off my drink and ordered another from Greta, the waitress. I gave Danny an inquiring look, and he said, No, I’m good right now.

I looked over at the giggling unison girls. They seemed to have done a pretty good job on their drinks. Greta brought my drink, and I ordered two more for the girls. "Just tell them it’s from an anonymous sir," I said.

Greta brought the girls another drink, told them what I said, and they turned and smiled a thank you together.

Danny and I finished our drinks and went to check in with our respective offices. As I passed the two girls, I said, Have a nice evening, ladies. They harmonized a thank you.

Sara had gone home for the day. I went into my office and checked messages. I had a message from Pollard’s secretary on my voice mail. I didn’t recognize the phone number on the readout.

I hit autodial. Hello, a young voice said softly.

Ms. Stevens? I asked.

Yes.

This is Sam McCloud returning your call.

"Hello, Mr. McCloud. Thank you for returning my call. I’m calling on my cell phone.