Angel Condemned (11 page)

“Not much to go on there,” Ron observed. “Anything else?”

“An interview with Chambers in his local paper, upon his return to the United States immediately after the event. He vows to dedicate his career to the recovery of the artifact and the body of our unfortunate client.” Petru placed a second piece of paper on the conference table. It was a photo of a younger, somewhat haggard Chambers. A thin, fierce-eyed woman stood next to him. The article was a few short paragraphs iterating Chambers’s commitment to recovering the Cross. The photo caption read,
Professor Allard Chambers and wife Jillian
. Bree wondered at that. Jillian was a professor, too, wasn’t she?

Petru smoothed his rough black beard with one hand. “There are few mentions of the professor’s search for the artifact throughout the years. I did not bother to print them out as they provided little of substance to the case at hand—other than proving that the search continued. There were no results until eight months ago, when Chambers e-mailed his university that he had successfully recovered the Cross. But not, alas, the bones of our client. It may be worthwhile to note that the university had just notified those on the dig that the funding for these trips was to be cut.”

“Oh, dear,” Ron said.

“Yes. The professor had quite a motive for fraudulent representation.”

“If he was the one who made the fake cross,” Bree said. “White has a lot of contacts in the art world. He’s more likely to have commissioned a fake, don’t you think?”

Petru pursed his lips. “From my own time in Istanbul, I can tell you that there are many, many opportunities to have elegant copies made by those more interested in preserving historical continuity and the past than in the strictness of an actual artifact.”

“It’d be easy to find someone to make a good copy?” Ron said. “If that’s what you mean, why don’t you just say so? Honestly, Petru. You’d think we bill by the word here.”

Petru ignored him. “I then retrieved increasingly acrimonious communications between Chambers, Prosper White, and eventually, the university authorities who stripped the man of his position, denied him his pension, and cast him adrift to run the antiques store, Reclaimables. The correspondence is noteworthy for the passion with which Mrs. Jillian Chambers attacks all concerned.” Petru closed the manila folder and tapped it. “No mention of the lad Schofield Martin at all.”

“Did he have brothers and sisters?” Lavinia asked softly. “A mamma and daddy to mourn him?” She shivered a little, although it wasn’t cold. Bree was concerned to see that she was looking faded. The soft gold light she carried with her was dimmer than it had been.

“I have not come across such as yet, Lavinia. The lad appears to have had a brother. He was a scholarship student. That I did ascertain.”

“What about a report from the Turkish police?” Bree asked.

“That is here.” Petru flipped to the back of the file and retrieved a yellowed parchment-like document. “It is in Turkish, of course. It is fortunate that I read Turkish. I made a translation for you, Bree. It is attached. I can sum it up, if I may. No witnesses. No foul play. No body. No clues. Disposition of case: accidental death.”

“He’s claiming he was murdered?” Ron said.

“Chambers told me that a good man died in pursuit of the Cross,” Bree said. “If he was referring to Schofield Martin, he was wrong about the good part.”

Ron raised his eyebrows. “You have taken against this client, haven’t you? We don’t know why he was condemned to the seventh circle, do we? For Violence against Art he said? An odd sort of felony, seems to me.”

“Not to Signor Dante Alighieri, who catalogued many of the crimes that we appeal,” Petru said. “I have researched Dante, also. The felonies range in degree from first to third: to wit, desecration of a work of art and artist; perversion of a work of art and artist; defacement of a work of art and artist; mutilation of—”

“Enough.” Bree tapped the newspaper articles into a neat pile. “I’ll take a look at the disposition of Martin’s original case when I go and see Goldstein this afternoon. But it doesn’t really matter at this point. We’re turning him down.”

Nobody moved, expect Lavinia. She crushed a bud of lavender between her thumb and forefinger. The sharp, welcome scent heartened Bree, and she swept the table with a smile. “Petru, if you could prepare a short summary of what we know to date, attach the exhibits, and draft a referral letter, I’d appreciate it.”

“A referral to whom?”

“There must be somebody else. I was hoping that you guys might help with that. You were acquainted with my father and mother. They couldn’t possibly have taken on all the clients who approached them for an appeal.”

Nobody said anything. Bree raised her voice, hoping she didn’t sound as defensive as she felt. “Well, did they?”

“Leah didn’t take on any work when she was pregnant for you,” Lavinia said. “That I do recall.”

“There,” Bree said, with relief. “So there must be a process for referral.”

“Leah wouldn’t have been offered any cases while she was pregnant,” Ron said. “As for a process for referrals, there isn’t anyone else. There’s only one advocate at a time. We can’t just walk away from this one, Bree. What about Beazley’s murder?”

“What about Beazley?” Bree said sharply. “Beazley’s murder isn’t our concern, except as it affects Cissy. And if I can get Chambers to drop this case against White, Beazley’s surviving partners aren’t going get anywhere near my family again. We’re not going down that road. Not this time. We’re turning Schofield Martin’s case over to somebody else, and that’s that.”

There was a short pause, heavy with silence.

Ron reached over and patted her hand. “There are many strands of time, and manifold realities. Mr. Martin can afford to wait, I suppose. “

“As for Mr. Martin?” Petru said heavily. “You have told him you are declining?” His eyes were black, and sharp with intelligence.

“Not yet, no. I thought about it overnight. I’ll try and raise him again.” She pulled the pine box out of her tote, where she had placed it before coming into the office. “I could try right now.”

“Your reasons?” Petru said.

“Conflict of interest,” Bree said promptly. “My temporal family is involved with this case.” She didn’t add her most compelling reason; once she’d made the decision to refuse Schofield Martin’s case, the sense of unease, of being somewhere else, some
one
else, had gone away.

“Any conflict is peripheral, at best,” Ron muttered. “Besides, your aunt Cissy was chairwoman of the Savannah Garden Club thirty years ago and nowhere near Constantinople.”

Bree didn’t ask Ron why he could place Aunt Cissy’s whereabouts thirty years before; he was an angel, and that was that. “So if there are no objections . . .”

“It isn’t
our
objections you have to worry about.” Ron stuck his spoon in his coffee and stirred it one way, then another, with an annoying clatter.

“I’m sure I can make Goldstein understand.”

“Goldstein’s in charge of records. Goldstein’s got nothing to do with it. Think logically about this, Bree. The CBA’s the entity you have to be concerned with here.”

“The CBA?” Bree pressed the palms of her hands against her forehead. “Wait. Let me guess. The Celestial Bar . . .”

“Association,” Ron finished for her. “Yes. Maybe even the ethics committee.”

“
Not
good,” Petru rumbled. “We should perhaps discuss this further before you call Martin up and throw him to the mercies of the enemy.”

Bree flipped open her cell phone and looked at the time. “Can’t at the moment. I’m meeting Cissy and White at the Frazier to discuss negotiating a settlement.” She smiled at them, feeling suddenly as light as air. “I’ll be back around two. If you have those documents ready, Petru, we can all go over to the seventh floor and get this particular case in happier hands than mine.” She dropped a kiss on Petru’s head. “Don’t worry. It’s going to be fine.”

The weather outside was buoyant. The sunshine was like clean glass. The air was as crisp as lavender. Bree had parked her little Fiat just outside the wrought iron fence surrounding the Angelus office. She dug into her tote for her keys as she let herself out of the gate and thought she might take time to stop at Huey’s for lunch after she’d talked with Cissy. She was ravenous.

“Ms. Winston-Beaufort?”

Bree jerked upright. Caldecott stood in front of her car, barring the way.

He looked awful. Although, to be fair, up close Caldecott always looked awful. From a distance, he looked like an accountant, with a neat, compact figure flattered by his inevitable pin-striped suit. It wasn’t until you were face-to-face with him that he became unsettling. His eyes were yellow. The pupils were vertical, like a goat’s. His skin was pale, paler than usual, and his fingernails had been bitten down to the quick. A spot of blood was smeared across one knuckle.

Bree wasn’t sure how to address his partner’s death. Nobody with any sense would be sorry that Beazley was dead. But the manner of his death had been horrible, and she had to address that.

“I was sorry to see that Beazley passed on in such a way, Caldecott.”

He shivered, like a snake exposed to a chilly wind. “Yes. It was . . . unexpected.”

“Are there any leads?”

“Leads?” Caldecott pulled his lips back in a rictus-like smile. His teeth were gray and pointed.

“The police have it listed as a homicide. Surely they must have interviewed you by now.”

He shivered again, in that peculiar way, and ignored her question. “Zebulon’s sense of humor was bound to get him in trouble one of these days.”

“His sense of humor?” She waited, and when Caldecott didn’t answer that, either, she stepped around him and unlocked the Fiat’s door. “Yes, well. If you’ll excuse me, I’m off to meet my client in the matter of Chambers versus White. You’ll be available later in the day if my client is open to discussion?”

“My client would much prefer that his case be heard in open court. His desire for vindication is strong.”

“Then he shouldn’t have called Ms. Carmichael and offered to settle out of court.” Caldecott’s eyes flared. “He didn’t tell you?” Bree’s conscience stirred. Beazley and Caldecott must have been friends. Of a sort. If nothing else, the death would affect the law firm’s day-to-day operations. “I imagine you’ll be pretty well occupied with, umm, arrangements in the next few days. A later time to discuss Mr. White, perhaps?”

“We’re available at any time to carry on our client’s business. I just wanted to alert you—Mr. Barlow will be taking over the professor’s case. And there is one other—small—matter.” His eyes darted to Bree’s tote. “I’m afraid Professor Chambers was somewhat precipitate in turning over the artifact to you.”

“The Cross of Justinian? It’s a fake.”

“Just that. And of no value to you. If you would return it, please.”

Bree tightened her grip on the tote. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a flash of silver-white. Gabriel? She hadn’t seen Gabriel for a month or more. Caldecott, too, must have felt his presence. He winced, and stepped away from the car.

“I don’t see what the artifact has to do with the matter at hand,” she said pleasantly. “But I’ll speak to Professor Chambers about returning the Cross to him.”

“You’d do better,” Caldecott hissed, “to return it directly to me.”

The silver-white light flared, making the sunshine small. Caldecott held his hand against his eyes and tittered uneasily. “Of course, if you require the professor’s permission, we’d be delighted to proffer a letter . . . We’ll stay in touch, shall we . . . Until later, Ms. Winston-Beaufort . . . Good-bye . . .”

He faded away, leaving nothing but a faint smell of sulfur in the air.

Bree waited a long moment, hoping to see Gabriel.

A breeze rattled the dry branches of the iron oak over the Pendergast grave. The bright blue of the sky dimmed with gray. But Gabriel’s light had faded, and the angel himself didn’t appear.

Disappointed, Bree waited until her heartbeat returned to normal and then checked her cell phone: nearly eleven o’clock. She was going to be late.

She drove the few miles to the Frazier Museum. The day darkened with clouds from the west. She turned over the best way to approach a settlement with White and firmly refused to think about Caldecott and, worse, his dead partner’s ravaged body.

The Frazier Museum was located on the west side of St. Bonaventure Cemetery. It had been created out of a French Provincial mansion abandoned to taxes. A large circular drive led up to the building itself; the drive led to a parking lot in the back. Bree left the Fiat next to Cissy’s Audi and walked around to the front door.

The three-story building was an elegant rectangle built of gray stone. The center of the roof was composed of a series of skylights bound in bronze and surrounded by green tile. Bree liked the symmetry of the facade. Each story had six large paned windows, three on each side of the center. The frames were picked out in white. The azaleas on each side of the front portico were trimmed to knee height. The double-wide front door was made of mahogany, waxed to a high gloss.