“I’ll just bet it does.”

“How’s the soul-saving business, Reverend?”

Glenda grinned. “There’s never a lack of work.”

“I’ll bet.”

“Sit down,” said Glenda Stephenson. “Cup of coffee?”

Milo saw no urn or pot. Just an alms box on the desk, next to a neat stack of what looked to be government forms. Impulsively, he reached into his pocket, found a bill, dropped it in.

“Oh, that’s not necessary,” said Glenda.

“I’m Catholic,” said Milo. “Put me in a religious environment, and I have an urge to donate.”

Glenda giggled. Little girl’s giggle. For some reason it wasn’t as foolish coming out of that dinner-plate face as it should’ve been. “Well, then come by often. There’s never a lack of need, either. So . . . Edgar said this is personal?”

“In a way,” said Milo. “Work and personal—what I mean is it needs to be kept confidential.”

Glenda sat forward, and her bosoms brushed the desk top. “Of course. What’s the matter, dear?”

“It’s not about me,” said Milo. “Not directly. But I am involved in a case that’s . . . ticklish. A name came up, and I traced a connection to the mission. Vance Coury.”

Glenda sat back. Her chair creaked. “The son or the father?”

“The son.”

“What has he done?”

“You don’t sound surprised.”

In repose, Glenda’s customary face was unlined—nothing filled wrinkles as well as fat. But now worry lines appeared at the periphery—etching the corners of her mouth, her eyes, her brow.

“Oh, dear,” she said. “Could this reflect in any way on the mission?”

“Not that I can see. I certainly wouldn’t do anything to put you in a bad position, Reverend.”

“Oh, I know that, Milo. You were always the kindest. Taking time from your patrol to deliver sad souls. The way you held their arm, the way you . . . ministered to them.”

“I was trying to clean up the streets, and you were there. I’m afraid there’s nothing pastoral in my makeup.”

“Oh, I think you’re wrong,” said Glenda. “I think you would’ve made a wonderful priest.”

Milo’s face went hot. Blushing, for God’s sake.

Glenda Stephenson said, “Coury, the son . . . when Fred and I accepted the building, we had our reservations. Because you know we’re grizzled old veterans of this neighborhood, knew darn well what his father had been like—everyone on Skid Row knew about his father.”

“Slumlord.”

“Slumlord and a mean man—never gave us a dime, and Milo, we asked. That’s why we were shocked when a few months after he died we received a letter from the son’s lawyer letting us know he was donating the hotel to the mission. I’m afraid our immediate response was to harbor uncharitable thoughts.”

“As in, what’s the catch,” said Milo.