He entered the mission lobby. The vaulted space had been converted to a TV room where a dozen or so bums sat slumped on folding chairs, staring at a movie on big-screen. The scene featured actors and actresses in long hair and beards and camel-colored robes wandering through a desert that looked like Palm Springs. Despite the camels. Some biblical epic that asked you to buy the Hebrews as blond and blue-eyed. Milo shifted his attention to the reception desk—maybe the very desk where Vance Coury had obtained the key to his rape den. The counter was topped by several plastic, screw-top cookie jars, and the bookcase behind it was jammed with red-bound Bibles with crosses on their spines. Off to the left were two brown-painted elevator doors. A metal-railed staircase ran straight back and hooked sharply to the right.

The place smelled of soup. Why did so many places dedicated to salvation smell of soup?

An old black guy, more cleaned up than the others, got up from his chair and limped over. “I’m Edgar. May I help you, sir?”

Big bass voice but a little bandy-legged fellow wearing pressed khakis, a blue-gray plaid shirt buttoned to the neck, and sneakers. Bald except for tufts of kinky white cotton above his ears. White-white dentures made for smiling. The total effect was clownlike, benign.

Milo said, “Are Reverend Fred or Reverend Glenda in?”

“Reverend Fred’s at the City of Orange Mission, but Reverend Glenda’s upstairs. Who shall I say is calling?”

The guy had a refined way of enunciating, and his eyes were clear and intelligent. Milo could see him doing butler time at some country club, kissing up to rich folk using perfect grammar. Different skin color, and maybe he’d have been the one getting served.

“Milo Sturgis.”

“And this is about, Mr. Sturgis?”

“Personal.”

The old man regarded him with compassion. “One moment, Mr. Sturgis.” He made his way slowly up the stairs and returned a few minutes later. “Reverend Glenda’s waiting for you, Mr. Sturgis. Next floor up, second door to the right.”

Sitting behind a small, oak desk in a small, nearly empty office fitted with an ancient radiator and masked by yellowed venetian blinds, Glenda Stephenson looked exactly as she had ten years ago. Fifty pounds overweight, way too much makeup, a teased-up meringue of brunette waves atop a broad, welcoming face. Same kind of clothes too: pink, dotted Swiss dress with a frothy collar. Every time Milo’d seen her she’d worn something frilly and inappropriate in that same soap-bar pink.

He didn’t expect her to remember him but right away, she said, “Detective S! It’s been so long! Why haven’t you brought me anyone in so long?”

“Don’t hang out much with the living these days, Rev,” said Milo. “Been working Homicide for a long time.”

“Oh, dear,” said Glenda Stephenson. “Well, how have you been with that?”

“It has its moments.”