Angel Condemned (29 page)

“Barlow and Caldecott,” Bree said.

Cordy didn’t say anything.

She thought a minute. That buff stationary was familiar. She came to a conclusion that was improbable, but not impossible. “Not Marbury, Stubblefield?”

Cordy blinked.

Marbury, Stubblefield made more sense. They loved trouble—the more public, the better. She doubted that Caldecott wanted any kind of visibility in the local bar association. She frowned. “You’re not on the Grievance Committee, Cordy. How did you get a copy of the letter?” Letters like this one were never revealed to sources outside the committee.

“It was in the afternoon mail.” She held the envelope up. “It’s addressed right—the mail room said it’d been ‘misdirected.’ Gavin didn’t pay attention to the addressee—just opened it up. Part of his job is to read and file mail.”

That went some way toward explaining Gavin’s cheeky behavior. He thought she was scum.

“I should send the letter on to the committee, Bree. But somebody wanted me to see it before the donkey poop hit the fan. I’m making a couple of guesses as to why.”

“You could have sent it on without talking to me, first. I’m glad you didn’t.”

“That’s the point, isn’t it? John Stubblefield’s a sneaky son of a gun. My guess is he wants me to suggest you send Jillian Chambers to somebody else. What do you want to bet that if you drop her, Stubblefield’s going to withdraw the letter?”

“He can send a boatload of letters,” Bree said crossly. “There’s nothing improper about my representing Jillian Chambers.”

“No conflict of interest?”

“If you’re talking about the lawsuit against Prosper White’s estate, Allard Chambers fired the lawyers handling it, then dropped the suit altogether.”

“You’ve got a paper trail documenting that, of course.”

“Not exactly. An e-mail from Caldecott acknowledging Chambers’s request for the file. And Allard Chambers’s verbal promise to drop the claim for damages against White’s estate. That’s about it.”

Cordy didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to.

“I’m not dropping Jillian Chambers, Cordy.”

“You’re new at litigation, Bree. This is a high-profile case. You sure you have the chops to take it on?”

“Lewis McCallen’s on the farm team, if I need him.”

“Is that a fact.” Cordy drummed her fingers on the desktop. “Maybe you ought to move him on to the majors. Like, right now.”

“She’s innocent of premeditated murder. I’m sure I can prove it.”

“On what grounds?” Cordy said, with a lack of curiosity Bree didn’t believe for a minute. “That she didn’t do it and somebody else did? Maybe Charles Martin? That she did it, but there are mitigating circumstances? That she’s nuttier than my grandma’s Christmas fruitcake?”

Bree grinned at her. “Nice try. But I’ll save my plea for the arraignment.”

“The murder’s been playing on the six o’clock news for two days straight. You know what I notice most about those film clips? That you’re right in the middle of the action. You planning on calling yourself as a witness?”

“I assume that’s another rhetorical question.”

“I asked you here so I could go over your statement to the cops. I asked you here as a witness for the Prosecution.” Cordy’s full lips thinned. “I take it you’re claiming privilege?”

“The suspect’s my client. You know you can’t compel me to testify.”

“Fine. Go ahead. Jump off that cliff.” Cordy picked up the letter to the Grievance Committee, tore it in half, and let it fall into the wastebasket. “Be interesting to see if Stubblefield calls wondering what happened to his misdirected letter. The man’s got the balls of a buffalo.” She frowned. “It’s not going to keep him from sending it again and dropping it off at the right address this time. Expect a lot of sympathy from me when the papers start smearing your name from here to Topeka. You’re going to need it. Now. We’re coming to the third reason I’m sitting here with you when I should be home eating my dinner. Charles Martin.”

“Dinner,” Bree said guiltily. “Let me call out for something.”

“I already did,” Gavin said as he came into the room. He held a large paper sack in one hand and a large bottle of Coca-Cola in the other. “Not pizza. Shrimp po’boys from Savannah Seafood.” He set the bag on the credenza, unwrapped the sandwiches, and set them on paper plates. “I got extra coleslaw and some of that cheesecake brownie that you like, Boss.”

He set Cordy’s plate down in front of her. He held the second plate out of Bree’s reach. “That’ll be forty-five dollars, please.”

Bree took her emergency cash out of her suit-coat pocket and handed him fifty dollars.

“Do you need change?”

Cordy rapped her knuckles on the desk. “What are you doing, Gavin, training for the wait staff at 700? It’s late. Go on home. I’ll see you in the morning.” She shook her head as the door closed behind her assistant. “How mad would you be if I made Mrs. Billingsley an offer she couldn’t refuse?”

“Pretty mad.”

“Guess I won’t risk it, then.” She took a large bite out of her sandwich. “How hard should I be trying to get Charles Martin back here? You think he had something to do with White’s death?”

“Do you have the forensics back on the blood spatter pattern on his coat?”

“Heck, no. It’ll be weeks.” She glanced at Bree sidelong. “Your daddy paid to have a private lab do the tests on Ms. Carmichael’s coat. They verified the fingerprints on the knife, too. Liberty and justice for all. The Winston-Beaufort motto. We poor folks who labor for the state have to wait while the underfunded state lab takes its own sweet time.”

“Don’t needle me, Cordy.”

“Why not?”

“No special reason, I guess. Maybe because we mean well?”

Her expression softened. “Yes, you mean well. Tell me about Charles Martin.”

“You know what I know to be fact; he owns shares in a ship that was the scene of a murder thirty-odd years ago in Istanbul. The victim was his younger brother, Schofield.”

“No statute of limitations on murder. But what kind of treaties do we have with Turkey? Do I care? And even if I do, do I want to spend Gavin’s valuable time chasing down a thirty-year-old murder case? Unless Martin killed his brother.”

“No. He didn’t.”

“Do you know who did?”

Bree didn’t say anything.

“So give me another reason to chase Martin.”

“I may be able to prove that he’s involved in the illegal shipment of antiquities.”

“Not my jurisdiction.”

“I’m almost certain he contributed to White’s death.”

“How?” Cordy demanded. “I need how, why, and when.”

Bree rolled up the leftovers of her sandwich in her paper plate and tossed the remains on top of the letter to the Grievance Committee. “I’m doing my best to find out.” She picked up her coat. “And when I do, you’ll be among the first to know.”

It was late. She didn’t realize how long the meeting with Cordy must have lasted until she walked outside the Municipal Building and headed toward her car. The sky overhead was pallid with veiled stars and a washed-out moon. The lights from the Municipal Building were dimmer than usual. She wondered briefly if the city was in the middle of one of its periodic cost-cutting measures.

She looked at her watch; it couldn’t be six o’clock. The sun set at half-past six, and it was as dark as a tomb beyond the car. The second hand was fixed at twelve. She shook the watch. The hand didn’t move.

She flipped her cell phone open. No bars in the little window. “Murphy’s law, Sasha. Both batteries out,” and of course Sasha wasn’t there. He was at home, with Antonia, and she would be, too, very soon.

She’d parked under a streetlight at the foot of an alley off Court Street. The streetlight was dimmed to a low, ugly orange. Her car was barely visible.

And there was something—someone—slouched against the hood.

Bree slowed down, and called warily, “Who’s there?”

“Ms. Winston-Beaufort.”

“Is that you, Caldecott?”

He stepped forward into the insufficient glow. “A word, if you please, Ms. Winston-Beaufort.”

“I’ve got more than a few words to exchange with you, Mr. Caldecott.” She opened the driver’s door and tossed her tote inside. She was very aware of the pine box in her suit-coat pocket.

He smirked. “How was your meeting with Ms. Blackburn?”

“Very informative.”

“Stealing clients, Ms. Winston-Beaufort, is an ugly practice.”

“But not illegal,” Bree said pleasantly.

He hissed, like a snake. “So you admit to stealing my cases.”

“I admit nothing of the kind.” She tapped his chest with her forefinger. He was spongy, like fungus. “Let’s be direct about this, Caldecott. Allard Chambers fired you, hired me, and isn’t interested in pursuing any action against the estate of Prosper White, which, I might add, is an estate no longer of interest to you, either, or it won’t be as soon as we get you dismissed at coexecutor. You win some, you lose some, Mr. Caldecott. My advice to you is to man up.”

He bared his pointed teeth, and for a moment, Bree was tempted to step back. His breath was fetid, and the texture of his skin repellant. Instead, she stepped forward, forcing him against the front bumper. He slid away and stood in the half darkness of the alley. Only his eyes were visible, the poisonous yellow with black, vertical pupils increasing his resemblance to a snake.

“Mr. Barlow is not happy.”

“Too bad for Barlow.”

Caldecott shot a nervous glance over his shoulder. Bree forced herself to stand, relaxed, one hip propped against her car.

“Mr. Barlow was not happy with my partner, either.”

A brief vision of Beazley’s gutted body flashed across her mind.

“Mr. Barlow is willing to let bygones be bygones. He is”—Caldecott slid a little nearer—“a merciful one, in his way.” He held out his hand. “The Cross. Which does not belong to you. All he asks is the Cross.”

“No dice.”

Caldecott hunched over, as if he’d been kicked. “You will regret this, Ms. Winston-Beaufort.”

“Perhaps, Mr. Caldecott.” She reopened the car door, then stopped, halfway in. “I know you’re not going to tell, me, but I have to ask. What kind of hold do you have over Stubblefield, anyway?”

“The Cross!” Caldecott howled. “You must give me the Cross!” He seemed, suddenly, to shrink. Or the space in the alley behind him had grown. Bree’s breath caught in her chest, and she slid into the driver’s seat, locked the door, and fired the engine.

She pulled away from the curb, and didn’t look back.

She turned left onto Montgomery to make the short drive home, only half aware of the rising noise behind her.

It was big. Vast. A low, rumbling noise that swallowed the sounds of her breathing and rose around her like a tide of water. It carried the dark. It was the dark. And it
breathed
with the slow, steady pulse of a muffled drum.

The dark light cupped the car, crawled over the hood, washed against the windshield, covered the side doors.

She braked.

She couldn’t see where she was going.

She stopped.

The sudden silence was absolute.

Wherever she was, she wasn’t on Montgomery.

Something tapped at the driver’s window. Light taps. Polite, but inexorable.

Was that a hand pressed flat against the window?

Tap. Tap. Tap.

There was a shape behind the hand. So large that it blotted out what remained of the shattered moon. A smear of fiery orange red slashed across the head. The place where the eyes would be. The door rattled, as if battered by a huge wind. Bree grabbed the door handle and felt a force, immense, implacable, pulling from the other side.

She held on, her palms slick with fear, and felt the handle slip. She braced her feet against the floorboards and held on, with a grip so strong the metal bent, twisted, and began to rip away.

The door bulged out with a shriek of metal rending.

A crash of silver light split the darkness outside, and for a moment, the door steadied in her hands. Behind her, around her, in front of her, three columns of familiar color danced, spun and coalesced:

“I, Matriel.”

“I, Rashiel.”

“I, Dara.”

Violet.

Green.

Blue.

The car door wrenched open, and they spilled out onto a plain of fire.

Petru and Ron stood at her right and left. Lavinia stood in front of her, blocking the terror that grappled with Gabriel. This wasn’t her universe. This was a place she had never been before. The strikes of silver reminded her of lightning, but of a kind never seen by mortals. And the terror . . .

“The nephiliam,” Ron said.

The terror had fire and worse at its command.

“He is lost,” Petru said. “Our Gabriel.”

“It will come for it,” Ron said.

And to her, it seemed that this was an evil, terrible truth. The brilliant silver dimmed to metal gray. The tidal waves of burning burst mountain-high and began rolling toward them, swallowing the distance, eating it.

Lavinia turned and faced her. “The key, child. Give me the key.”

“No,” Ron said. “Not you. I’ll go.”

“Perhaps it will take all of us. If so . . .” Petru said. He touched Bree’s shoulder, and laid his cheek briefly against hers.

“It’s for me.” Lavinia held out her fragile arm, her hand out, palm up. “Come, child. There isn’t much time.”

Bree fumbled the Cross from her pocket, her hands still slick with fear.

“Not that.” The lightest of touches at her throat. “The key.”

She slipped the scales of justice free and held them. It was all she had of Leah, and for a moment, she hesitated, unwilling to let go.

The angels stood there, waiting.