Angel's Verdict (14 page)

Lucifer v. the Celestial Courts.

She grabbed the only Bulloch file that was going to be of use to her. “Till the next time, Goldstein.”

He twiddled his fingers. “Bye-bye.”

“We should feel good about this, in a way,” Ron said as they rode down the elevator to the first floor. “Look how important the caseload’s getting. If we tie this one up, we’re going to affect the disposition of at least three souls. Maybe even more than that.”

Bree stamped her foot. “Damn. I should have asked for the file on Bagger Bill Norris, too. If he’s in the eighth circle, we’ll have a pretty good idea that he’s involved somehow. It’ll help the temporal investigation a lot to know who actually did it.”

“Shall I go back up and get it?”

“Yeah. But look at it before you check it out. If it says ‘Pending,’ too, give it back to Goldstein and tell him to ...” Bree stamped her other foot. “Oh, tell him I’m sorry I lost my temper. I suppose just knowing Norris is in Limbo along with everyone else helps a bit. But I
am
going to write out a petition, and I
am
going to see a little decent reform if it’s the last thing I do. Jeez.” Then she muttered, “Limbo.”

Ron very rarely touched her, but he did so now. He put his hand on her cheek and smiled at her. “It’s not just a flip saying, ‘What is time to an angel?’ It’s a very profound truth. Time is meaningless. There is no past. No future. Just the now. If you’re imagining Haydee in Limbo crying out for a justice that’s been delayed, it just isn’t so.”

“I get the metaphysical part just fine,” Bree said. There was something about Ron’s smile that was better than any antidepressant devised by man, and that, Bree thought, included a nice slug of gin. She smiled back at him. “It’s the people here in this time and this place that are waiting unfairly.”

“Who, for example?”

“Dent, for one.”

“Dent’s problems are well within his control.”

She was still arguing with Ron when the elevator doors opened on the first floor and she very nearly cannoned into Cordelia Eastburn.

“Hey, Bree! Back from your holidays, I see.” The district attorney looked past Bree into the elevator. “It’s Ron Parchese, isn’t it?”

“Par-chay-see,” Ron said. “Not like the game. How are you, Ms. Eastburn?”

“Finer than a frog hair, as my daddy used to say. Can I borrow your boss for a minute, Ron?”

“She’s all yours. I’ve got to dash upstairs for a second anyway.”

Cordy pulled Bree out of the current of people swirling around the room. She was in her midforties and had held the post of district attorney for just a few years. If Bree were a betting woman, she’d put a large sum on Cordy’s stated goal: to become the first female black governor of Georgia.

“You’re looking a little ruffled, girl. Everything okay?

“I’m pretty well, thanks, Cordy. How are you doing?” Bree cocked her head. “Love the new earrings.”

Cordelia’s one concession to fashion was an indulgence in handmade earrings; this pair was a handsome swirl of blown glass. Cordy touched them and gave her a cool smile. “Christmas present.”

“Nice,” Bree approved. “Is it a serious kind of present?”

Cordy wriggled her left hand. The third finger was ringless. “Might be. Might be at that. Speaking of might-be’s, have you seen much of Sam Hunter lately?”

Bree gave a guilty start. “Lord. I was supposed to give him a call. Have
you
seen him?”

“More than I’d like. Not that I don’t appreciate the man. I surely do, and,” she added, her tone a little more stern, “he’s one of the best cops we’ve got on the force. But what with these movie people in town, we’ve been . . . what’s a good way to put it . . . interfacing more than usual between the police and populace, which means Sam’s been up to see me on a pretty frequent basis. Which brings me to the question I have for you, actually.” Her tone was crisp, and slightly disapproving.

“Okay,” Bree said. “What’s up?”

Cordy’s gaze was flinty. “You involved in dragging up a cold case?”

“The Haydee Quinn murder?”

“The very one. Are you involved with it?”

Bree hesitated. “Not officially.”

“I don’t think I heard you, Bree. Officially? Are you an employee of the State of Georgia? A member of my staff? Or, God forbid, of the police department?”

Bree’s cheeks were warm. “No, of course not. But some concerns about that case have been raised, and I got interested. Are you upset with me, Cordy? If so, I’d like to know why.”

“Who raised what concerns?”

Bree didn’t say anything.

Cordy waited her out and then said, “We’ve been through this drill before. With the Skinner case and the Chandler case and the Lord knows what else you’re getting into that I don’t know about. So I’m saying again what you’ve heard before. You find anything out that should be brought to the attention of the State of Georgia you’re going to let me know. Correct?”

“Correct.”

“I don’t have a problem with putting myself in the public eye, Bree. You’ve got to, if you’re going to get anywhere with the kind of reform I want to have happen. But there’s setting forward in the right way and then there’s sheer opportunism. I’m not so fond of opportunism, and I don’t think your daddy is, either. Am I correct in this?”

Bree was completely mystified, but she said, “Of course you’re correct. Do you think I’m behaving un-professionally in any way?”

“Not now. But I’d sure hate to see it in the future.”

“I’m starting to feel a lot of sympathy for Alfred Dreyfus,” Bree said a bit tartly. “Are you accusing me of something specific?”

“Just that you’re the last person I’d accuse of being tacky. Ambulance chasing, so to speak.”

“I should hope so,” Bree said indignantly. “Who says I’m chasing ambulances? What ambulances?”

Cordy’s fierce stance relaxed a bit. “Mind if I say something off-the-record?”

“I wish you would,” Bree said fervently. Cordy off-the-record was much easier to deal with than Cordy the Crusader.

“Those Bullochs are not nice people. As for John Stubblefield . . .” She chewed on her lower lip for a moment. “One of these days that boy is going to regret his attitude. And it won’t come soon enough for me. Anyway.” She gave Bree’s shoulder a friendly buffet. “Give Hunter a call one of these days if you feel like it. And it’s been too long since the two of us got together for a girl’s night out. Call me, soon, okay?”

“Soon,” Bree promised.

Cordy walked away. On her way out the front door, she stopped and spoke to the security guards (leaving appreciative chuckles in her wake), greeted two attorneys with a nicely judged chilliness that didn’t bode well for whatever pending cases they had, and patted three babies.

“You’ve cheered up,” Ron said in her ear.

“Cordy always cheers me up, even when she’s hollering at me.” Bree thought about why, before she spoke again. “She’s so decent, I guess. I’d sure like to know what set her off, though.”

“An ally in the good fight,” Ron agreed. “I always like to see her myself. Well, I took a look at the Norris file.” He spread his hands to show they were empty. “Pending.”

Bree sighed. “Great. Now we don’t know if he murdered Haydee or not.”

“Your day’s about to get even better.” He waved his Blackberry at her. “Petru sent me an e-mail. Last things first. Florida Smith will be glad to go to dinner. She’ll meet you at today’s shoot around seven, and you can walk on over to B. Matthew’s from there. Right now, you’ve got a meeting at Stubblefield, Marwick in thirty minutes. They want you to bring the brooch.”

“How is that going to make my day better? I’ve come back from every meeting I’ve ever had with John Stubblefield wanting to take a nice hot shower.”

“You might feel better about meeting them if you read Petru’s e-mail. Consuelo’s will was probated ages ago.”

“And?”

“Petru’s read it, summarized it, scanned it, and sent it to you. You can bring the whole thing up on your iPod, if you want. But all you really need to do is read Petru’s summary.”

Bree took out her phone and pulled up Petru’s message. She read it and then snapped the phone shut. “Well, well, well. This is going to make things interesting.”

“Isn’t it just,” Ron said.

False face must hide,
What false heart does know.

—Macbeth
, William Shakespeare

 

 

 

 

Bree thought of Stubblefield, Marwick the way she thought about designer shoes. A lot of glitz for little substance, and not worth paying full price. A cheat. The satellite office in the Bay Street building occupied the whole of the second floor. Bree pushed open the heavy glass door to the reception area and announced herself to the blonde receptionist at the front desk. Her name tag read TIFFANY.

“Mr. Stubblefield is in conference at the moment, Miss Winston-Beaufort,” Tiffany said. “Would you care for a latte while you’re waiting? Some Evian water?”

“Actually,” Bree said, “what I would care for is not to wait.”

Tiffany smiled glossily. Her hair was an improbable champagne pink. “I completely understand how busy you are, Miss Winston-Beaufort. Mr. Stubblefield will be just a few moments.”

“I’m not particularly busy,” Bree said. “What I am is averse to hanging around waiting for John Stubblefield.” She looked at her watch. “Mr. Stubblefield has exactly five minutes. If we’re not in a meeting by then, he can reschedule for a time better suited to his busy schedule.” She held up her tote. “Just so you know, I have Mrs. Waterman’s brooch with me.”

Tiffany blinked. “I’ll be happy to give him the message.”

She picked up the phone. Bree sat down in a satin-striped fake Regency armchair and tried to avoid looking at her surroundings. The wall-to wall carpeting was thick, unnaturally clean, and the color of Tiffany’s hair. The furniture consisted of ornate, stylized versions of antiques. Masses of silk flowers spilled from fake Tuscan urns. The drapes were Dupioni silk. The air thrummed faintly with the action of a white-noise machine, and somebody had gotten overexcited with a bottle of air freshener.

Within three minutes, the heavy mahogany door to the back rooms swung open. Payton came out first. Bree was mildly sorry to see that he favored his right knee when he walked, but not very. John Stubblefield stood behind him. Stubblefield wore a pale blue Oxford button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled to the elbow. Red suspenders held up beige cashmere trousers. His wing-tips were polished to a spit shine. He looked as ersatz as the antiques in his foyer.

Stubblefield, with his crown of pure white hair and bright blue eyes, was the star of the firm’s late-night infomercials. He came across as folksy, concerned, and not overly smart. In reality, he was self-interested to a pathological degree and greedy to a degree beyond that. He was also one of the smartest lawyers Bree had encountered in her short career. Bree hoped that one of these decades, the federal government would take a long, hard look at tort reform; until then, Stubblefield would continue to make a fortune bringing class-action suits against the manufacturers of floor wax and dentures.

“Miss Winston-Beaufort.” Stubblefield’s grin was wide, white, and about as trustworthy as a fox in a hen-house. “Please! Come in. Come in.”

Bree avoided his hand on her arm and walked ahead of him down the thickly carpeted hallway to the conference room. Stubblefield, Marwick negotiated a lot of their class-action suits here, and it was set up with a grandiosity that always put Bree in mind of the United Nations, as interpreted by the descendants of Walt Disney. At least three former office suites had been knocked together to make one large room. Sixty feet long and thirty feet wide, it was dominated by a vast, highly polished round table surrounded by executive-style leather chairs. In front of each chair was a computer port, a water carafe, and old-fashioned yellow pads. Stubblefield, Marwick pens and pencils were placed neatly at the top of each pad. One end of the room was a stainless steel kitchen, complete with granite countertops, that could be closed off with plantation-style pocket doors. On top of the sleek kitchen island was a plate of cantaloupe, watermelon, grapes, and cheese.

Stubblefield indicated Bree should sit with a wave of his hand. “Can Tiffany make you a cappuccino? Or a ’Co-Cola?” He pronounced “cola” the Southern way, although Bree knew for a fact he was originally from Providence, Rhode Island. “We’ll have to wait a few minutes for Mrs. Waterman, I’m afraid. Her driver called. Traffic’s pretty heavy around the market. Apparently, Sundowner Productions is shooting some background footage. But you know all about that.”

“Do I?” Bree pulled out a chair nearest the kitchen and sat down. Payton, who hadn’t said a word and didn’t seem about to, stationed himself behind the island and took out his Blackberry. She fought the impulse to holler, “Yo, steno boy,” and turned to Stubblefield instead. “You’re in a better position to know what’s happening at Sundowner Productions, surely, John? Phillip Mercury thinks the place is full of your spies.”