“The parish has nothing it needs to hide,” I said.

“See that it stays that way,” he said, turning toward the hall door.

“This church has had forty-five years of order, and I intend to keep it.”

He walked out of the office without the organ repair bill, leaving the heavy oak door resting on its brass latch.

The evening chill had settled over the church parking lot by the time I unlocked my 2004 Buick LeSabre at a quarter past five.

A tall man in a dark gray trench coat stepped out from behind the brick rectory wall, holding a brown expanding legal folder against his chest.