Angel's Verdict Part 8

For we are sinners all.

-Henry VI, Part 2, William Shakespeare By the time Bree got back to the office, Lavinia had gone up to her apartment. Petru and Ron had drifted off to their own homes. She sat down in her small office to think and make notes.

It was close to eight o'clock by the time she was satisfied with her preliminary action plan. She closed down her computer, rinsed her coffee cup in the kitchen sink, and turned off the overhead light in the parlor she had converted into a waiting room.

Not that anyone ever actually waited there. She'd been incredibly naive in those early days, imagining a raft of clients, all responsible about paying their bills, all with interesting tax problems, which had been her specialty in law school.

Instead . . . dead people. Who didn't seem concerned about her own need to pay the bills. And a career that seemed to be turning her into some sort of . . . what?

Ron's desk stood in the far corner. She'd purchased an old leather couch and chair from the thrift store down the block, and set them at right angles to the fine old brick fireplace. An old wooden chest acted as a coffee table.

Above the fireplace, over the Adams-style mantel, hung the painting of the Rise of the Cormorant.

Bree had to steel herself to look at it. A three-masted schooner rode flame-tipped waves. The sea was filled with the hands and arms of drowning men. The shadowed face of a dark-haired, silver-eyed woman hovered at the stern of the s.h.i.+p. Above it all was the slim, wicked figure of a seabird, beak open, and eyes glittering with hate, its hungry gaze on the dead and dying that thrashed desperately in the water. The cormorant, an avatar for Lucifer.

Who was the woman in the s.h.i.+p?

Who would try to help save the drowning souls?

Who was she, for that matter?

She knew the answer to the second question: it was the Company's job. Her job.

She suspected she knew the answer to the first. It was her birth mother, Leah, whom she longed to know. Leah had been an advocate for the d.a.m.ned, just as she was now.

As for the last question: Who was she?

She didn't want to think about it.

They had a small bathroom off the kitchen. It dated from the '50s, with a pedestal sink, toilet, and a tiny tiled shower. There was a mirror over the sink. The silver nitrate was wearing off the back, so it was speckled with black. Bree walked in, pulled the chain for the lightbulb, and stared at herself: A nice face. A face that had its share of admirers.

She thought of Vincent Victor White settling into Tyra's chair with that despicable smirk.

Her lips thinned. Her eyes grew hard and bright. And her face . . .

She reached upward, wildly, and wrenched the chain so hard it came away in her hand. The lightbulb flared and went out.

Not me. Not me. No way.

She was. .h.i.t, suddenly, with a tidal wave of fatigue. She couldn't remember the last time she'd eaten. She wanted to go home, see her sister, and maybe give Sam Hunter a call. She hadn't seen him over the holidays, and they'd exchanged vague promises of getting together for a drink as soon as she was back in Savannah.

Time to go home. She walked into the small front foyer, with a glance at the frieze Lavinia had painted on the stair wall. Brightly colored Renaissance angels followed one after the other in a gorgeously hued procession. Their robes were scarlet, trimmed with gold, edged with celestial blue. The halos gleamed gold fire, and their wings were a silver prayer. The angel at the end of the procession had white-blonde hair piled in intricate braids underneath her halo. Lavinia was convinced the angel looked just like Bree.

She snapped off the foyer light, stepped outside, and locked the front door behind her.

The temperature had dropped into the thirties as soon as the sun was down, and the chill was welcome after the musty warmth of the old house. The night was clear. The moon was up, half-grown, the threat of rain gone. It threw a pale light that half illuminated the inscriptions on the gravestones nearest the little house. Beyond the waist-high wrought iron fence that encircled the property were the normal sounds of a Savannah night. Inside the fence . . . Bree gave herself a mental shake. It'd been a long day and she didn't want to deal with whatever lurked in the cemetery after dark on nights like this one. She looked hesitantly under the live oak that grew at the Pendergast grave; the ground was quiet. Then she heard the familiar tick-tick-tick of Sasha's paws on the brick path.

"There you are, Sasha. I was hoping somebody would show up to walk me home."

He bounced up the steps and nudged her knee with his head. She was grateful at how happy he was to see her. She scratched behind his ears and dropped down to kiss the top of his golden head. "I'm glad to see you, too."

Somebody coughed in the darkness. Bree's hand tightened on the fur at Sasha's neck. The dog's angelic powers only went so far. If she faced real trouble, she was pretty certain Gabriel would be around sooner or later, but there wasn't a hint of his presence. "Who is it?" she asked sharply.

"Didn't mean to scare you, young lady." There was a smell of cigarettes. A shoe sc.r.a.ped on the pavement, the cigarette b.u.t.t flared out, and a big, dark figure shuffled on the other side of the gate.

"Dent," Bree said. She went down the three short steps to the pathway. "Good. I've been meaning to talk to you."

"Need to talk to you, too. Thought you might want to get a bite to eat or something."

"We need to get a couple of things straight first." She turned back to unlock the front door. "Why don't you come in for a minute?"

"Can't," he said shortly.

"You have another run to do for Sundowner?"

"No. My s.h.i.+ft's over. Which is why I thought you'd want to grab a bowl of chili. Maybe a hamburger."

"It'd be nice if we talked in private," Bree said. "Everyone's gone home, except Lavinia. But once she's upstairs, she doesn't come down again until morning."

"I can't."

"You can't?"

"I'm Out, remember?"

"Out," Bree repeated. "Oh! You mean Outca . . . I mean, yes. Of course." Poor guy. Was it okay to refer to his status, or not? She didn't really have the right to ask, did she? "You're Out. And I'm In. Inside the fence I mean. Sorry to babble. You startled me. I'll be right there."

Sasha trotted ahead of her and waited while she unlatched the gate. He stepped into the road with her, gave Dent a brief once-over, and then ignored him.

"Nice dog," Dent said, looking down.

"He's part golden retriever, part Russian mastiff. The mastiff part is why he's so big."

"He works for you."

"Yes, he does."

Dent bent to pat him. Politely but firmly, Sasha moved away.

"Oh dear," Bree said. "He's usually very friendly."

"Yeah, well. It's part of the program."

"Part of being . . . Out." Bree bit her lip. "Well," she said brightly, "I'm so glad you dropped by. I was hoping we could have a frank discussion about my role as sponsor."

Dent had exchanged his black jacket for a tweed sports coat that was much the worse for wear. He wore the same baggy twill trousers. A grimy blue cotton fisherman's hat was shoved back on his balding head. He stood with one hip c.o.c.ked and his arms folded. He had on a pair of scuffed leather oxford shoes whose worn laces had been knotted and reknotted. He'd shaved recently, though, and he smelled faintly of strong yellow soap.

"So, how's about that hamburger?"

"I think we can get a hamburger at B. Matthew's," Bree said. "It's right across from the town house."

"That place? Too fancy. I want somewhere I can get a decent piece of meat. Not something ritzy."

"Pizza?" Bree said. "With meatb.a.l.l.s? We can go to Huey's."

"Huey's is a little too sn.o.bby for me. Isn't there a White Castle around here somewhere?"

"Not for years," Bree said. "If it's junk food you're after, there isn't much."

"Huey's, then."

Bree and Antonia lived less than three blocks from Angelus Street at the end of a row of town houses overlooking the Savannah River. In the old days, when the city had been a busy port s.h.i.+pping cotton all over the world, ma.s.sive brick warehouses lined the banks. The old Cotton Exchange still dominated Front Street, although most of the other warehouses had been converted to shops, offices, restaurants, and comfortable old apartments.

They walked the short distance down Angelus to Mulberry and turned right onto Bay. There was a b.u.t.ton on the light standard for the Walk signal, and Bree punched it. When the little white figure flashed on, Dent took her arm with a Boy Scout determination that both amused and exasperated her. Sasha trotted along behind them. As they pa.s.sed Bree's town house, Sasha veered off and disappeared around the back.

"He lets himself in," Bree said. "Antonia won't even know he's been out. Huey's is down this way." She shook free of Dent's proprietary arm and went down the wrought iron steps that led from Factor's Walk down to Front Street.

In the spring and summer, Front Street was usually packed with tourists. Now, in January, the old cobblestone road was quiet, and the wooden market stalls that held the seasonal businesses were closed. The people that were there were locals, bundled up against the cold weather. As they pa.s.sed the storefront for Savannah Sweets, Bree stopped.

Dent narrowed his eyes and scanned the quiet street. "What's up?"

"In 1952, Alexander Bulloch rolled a handcart down this street with Haydee's body in it." Bree wondered if she stood there long enough, if Haydee's shade would rise up from the cobbled stones.

"Nah, not here," Dent shook his head. "That'd have been the far end of the street. Just in front of that sign for the tourist bureau. Mercury got permission to shoot the scene there, but he hasn't done it yet. They were down here a couple of weeks ago, getting background footage. Your place is up there, right?" He turned and squinted up. "You should have seen the crew when they were set up. Those French doors of yours look right out on the river."

"Tonia and I went home to Plessey for the holidays."

"The old family plantation. That right?"

"As your sponsor, is it okay for me to point out that it's rude to sneer?"

He scratched his head. "Sneer, huh."

"Yes. You managed to shovel a world of contempt into your tone. About what you think you know about my family, and what you think about me. Not what you know. If you have a legitimate reason to sneer, let's talk about it. Otherwise, it's just att.i.tude. There's Huey's. Let's get you something to eat. Maybe you'll cheer up."

Bree and Antonia were regulars at Huey's, and Antonia, at least, was always welcome. Bree had had another rather too physical encounter with Payton the Rat at Huey's several months ago, and the staff tended to deliver her meals and her bill in record time and encourage her not to linger.

Bree greeted Maureen the bartender with a wave, and headed for her usual booth. Dent took off his hat, settled himself on the side that faced the front doors, and looked the place over. When the waitress came up-even before Bree had sat down-he said abruptly, "Got a burger?"

"Sure do." The waitress, whose name tag identified her as Chelsea, handed Bree a menu but said, "Maureen wants to know if you want the regular?"

"Greek salad. And a cup of the black bean soup."

"Burger for you, sir?"

"With raw onions and fries. Make it a double."

Chelsea glanced from Bree to Maureen and back again. "That'll take a bit of time. Maybe ten minutes."

"So what if it does, sweetheart? You can bring us a couple of cups of coffee while we're waiting."

It was too late for coffee. Bree had enough trouble sleeping as it was. "Make mine a chardonnay, please. If you would bring my salad at the same time you bring him his sandwich, and not right away, I'd appreciate it. Please tell Maureen I'm in no hurry. None. I'd prefer not to be rushed."

"Okay, I guess." Chelsea hesitated for a minute and then walked rapidly away.

Dent leaned back with a sigh. "You come here a lot?"

"At least once too often, I guess, as far as they're concerned," Bree said. "But I'm trying to make up for it."

He nodded seriously. "Making amends. Step Nine in most programs. It's number two in mine. The first is to make a list of all the persons I've harmed and become willing to make amends to them all." He gestured at his suit-coat pocket. "I've got the list right there. It starts with Bobby Lee Kowalski."

Bree frowned. "He was one of the cops on the Haydee Quinn case."

"That's right. I've got to get to Bobby Lee. It's important." Dent's big hands fiddled with the packets of Equal in the little ceramic jar. "How come they won't let you smoke anywhere anymore?"

"You know the answer to that. Same reason they give you the calorie and fat count on your food. It's better to be alive than . . ." Bree bit her lip. "Yes. Well. So. Mr. Dent. I agreed rather hastily to becoming your sponsor." At his look of dismay, she said, "No! No! I'm happy to help. I just didn't fully understand . . ." She stopped herself in midcourse. "You know, I'll ask you straight out what I want to know, shall I? What do you need from me?"

"I have to find out who killed Haydee Quinn. And I've got to get to Bobby Lee."

"So do we. The Company and I, that is. As the only surviving temporal involved in the Haydee Quinn case, Sergeant Kowalski's high on the list. Although I'm not sure what solving this old case has to do with your rehabilitation." She waited a moment while Chelsea set the wine and a coffee cup down. She filled Dent's cup from the Bunn carafe and slapped creamer on the table. Dent frowned at the creamer and barked, "Where's the sugar bowl, sweetheart?"

Chelsea blinked at him, then pointed at the packets of Equal. "Right there, sir. And please don't call me sweetheart."

"Maybe you could check in the back? Bring me some real sugar?" Dent reached up and patted her on the behind.

"Dent!" Bree said. "Stop that!"

"Stop what?" He looked genuinely puzzled.

Chelsea stepped away from the table, signaled to Maureen, and walked off.

Dent scowled after her. "What the h.e.l.l was that all about?"

"For one thing, I think we're going to have a change in waitstaff. Probably EB's cousin t.i.tus, if Maureen has anything to say about it. He's six-foot-six and played tackle for Georgia State when he was in school." Bree leaned across the table. "Dent, you cannot, cannot hara.s.s women in that way. No inappropriate touching. Got it? All that macho guy stuff went out in the '60s. Or it should have, anyway." She looked over her shoulder. Chelsea leaned over the bar, talking vehemently to Maureen. Maureen looked at Bree, her glance skidding away when she saw Bree looking at them. She disappeared into the back kitchen. Chelsea went around to the back of the bar, poured two gla.s.ses of red wine, and then served a couple at the far end of the bar. Moments later, a very tall guy in a chef's toque splattered with tomato sauce pushed through the swinging doors. He carried two plates, one in each hand.

He set the plate with the two hamburgers in front of Dent, the soup and salad in front of Bree, then leaned over and hissed in Dent's ear, "Cool it with the waitress, Jack."

Dent got to his feet. "Please tell the young lady I apologize."

"Yeah? Any more of this kind of ha.s.sle, you can apologize yourself right out of here." He turned and nodded to Bree. "Miss Beaufort."

"t.i.tus," Bree said. "I'm sorry. My client here didn't stop to think."