He paused, looking out at the fence. “‘Yeah,’ I told him. ‘Start getting that place cleaned up. New fence, new locks. Get a security company to cruise by the place. I don’t want any more people dying in my old angel hotel. Those angels are sad enough.’”
“And that’s all you knew when I called?”
He nodded. “That’s all I knew. I didn’t know it was Lucas Monroe. I didn’t even know Lucas was dead. I didn’t know that you and your friend were the women-I found all that out late Monday, when one of the older boys called. He had called the police to find out if it was okay to do some work around the place, and found out more than his brother.”
“This has all been done in one day?”
“You teach seven kids to work as a team, they can get anything done! But to be honest, we were already making plans when this happened. The windows were already ordered. Fence wasn’t a problem for a construction company. Same with the general cleanup of the grounds, and the first floor. They probably called in some favors. The kids are fond of the place, believe it or not. Talked me into buying it so Roland wouldn’t level it.”
“Roland Hill?”
He nodded.
“Why the attachment?”
He smiled. “See those angels on the corners? Well, we used to live not far from here when the kids were little. I was just starting to make my way. My wife was alive then, of course. We were driving past the place one day-a day when the kids had been giving my wife fits. The youngest looks up and asks his mother why those angels are so sad. ‘Why, those must be your guardian angels,’ she said. ‘And who could blame them for being sad?’
“Well, my oldest girl pipes up and says, ‘There are seven of us and eight angels.’ Without missing a beat, my wife says, ‘The saddest angel up there is your father’s.’”
I smiled, but when I looked back at him, his face was full of regret.
“She was right,” he said. “Back then, I used to drink pretty heavy. Left her with so much work, I sent her to an early grave.” He opened his car door. “Come on, I’m getting tired of sitting in here.”
I got out, taking my envelopes with me. I watched him take out a separate set of keys and unlock the gate in the fence. He looked back at me, and said, “We won’t go upstairs, if that’s what you’re worried about. I know that’s where he was. But how about the lobby? Have you been in the lobby?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Oh, you’re in for a treat. You’re gonna love it.”
A security company cruiser stopped by just then. Keene talked to the guard for a moment, then motioned me to follow him through the gate. He locked it behind us, and seeing my face said, “You want to hold the keys?”
“Yes.”
He handed them to me, but didn’t make a move toward the hotel. He was waiting for an explanation.
“I had a bad time once,” I said. “Being locked in a place.”
He nodded, opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it again. He started walking toward the hotel, across grounds that were now swept clean.
I followed him to the top of the steps, where he stood looking up at the sad angels, then smiled at me. “One night,” he said, “while my wife and I were out, my second-youngest son was shoved into a broom closet by his older brothers, who thought all his screaming and carrying on was funnier than hell.”
I think my face went white.
“They didn’t let him out for over an hour,” he said, not smiling now. “Kid had nightmares for years after that. To this day, he can’t sleep in a tent, won’t go into a phone booth. Has to know where the doors are. Hates being in any closed place. One day, I had an idea. I let him carry my keys. As long as he had the keys in his hand, he was okay. Discovered it made life a little easier for everyone.”
“I guess there’s not much that raising seven kids won’t let you experience.”
“Not much. In some ways, we’re all kids, I suppose. So, would you please unlock the front door?”
I did as he asked. The glass-and-brass doors were almost as shiny now as they must have been in the 1920s. Keene stepped inside.
“They’ve done good,” he said with pride.
I followed him into the lobby of what must have been a grand hotel in its day. It wasn’t perfectly restored by any means, and it was empty and devoid of furniture, but it was also clean and smelled of wax and polish.
We stood on a large mosaic entry depicting Botticelli-like celestial beings. There were angels everywhere. A dry fountain in the entry was graced with carvings of embracing seraphim. Behind it, a grand staircase ascended to a wide balcony on the next level. Except for the angels and the elaborate woodwork, the Angelus seemed an entirely different hotel than the one I had been in on Sunday.
The room was open and the ceiling a full story above us. Marble columns rose to meet it. It was painted a twilight blue with gold stars, and all around its edges bemused cherubs looked down on us. Several walls were painted with murals; there was wood paneling elsewhere; the windows were tall and their casings ornate. Afternoon sunlight streamed in.
“Well?” he asked.
“You’re right, I love it.”
“Here, sit with me on the staircase,” Keene said.
We sat there in silence for a moment, then he said, “I’m not sure what you already know about all of this. I’ve spent the last two days trying to figure out what I should and shouldn’t tell you. At first, I was just going to try to point you in the right direction. But things have changed.”
“Changed how?”
“Someone is just going crazy now. Honest to God, if I thought I knew who it was, I’d go to the police. You have to believe that.”
“Tell me what you mean by ‘going crazy.’”
“Hurting people! Maybe-maybe even worse. Hell, probably worse. When I heard about the woman who runs the shelter getting hurt, I guess I decided I’d tell you just about everything.”
I waited.
“I’ve got one or two promises to ask you to make. First, promise you won’t drag my kids into this. They’ve never known any of it, and I owe my late wife that much.”
“If they haven’t had anything to do with it, I won’t be the one to drag them into it, as you say. But I can’t make promises about what other reporters will or won’t do.”
“I understand. The second promise is more selfish, but I’m not ready to give up my hide yet, and I’m afraid that’s what I’d be doing if whoever is going around hurting people knew I talked to you.”
“What’s the promise?”
“You protect me as a source-keep my name and any description of me off the record. I’ll tell you all I can. But nobody knows I’m the one that talked to you. Not the police and not the public.”
I hesitated.
“I won’t do it any other way,” he said.
“Okay, I’ll protect you as a source. But if you’re investigated by the police, they may learn things on their own. I can’t protect you from the law.”
“Married to a cop, I suppose not.”
“Does that make you mistrust me?”
“Hell no. I know how you reporters work. You ever leak this to your husband, pretty soon you’ve got no reputation as someone who can be trusted. No one talks to you. You go nowhere, because no one will tell you anything they wouldn’t want the cops to hear.”
I nodded. “I guess you do understand how it works. But the cops are working on this, Keene. They aren’t stupid. Reed Collins, Jake Matsuda-the guys who are working these cases-they make connections on their own.”
“Good. I want the person who’s doing all of this to be caught. I just don’t want to be crucified while they’re looking for the guy.”
“So talk to me.”
He stared off toward the fountain, but I don’t think he was looking at it.
