Angel Condemned (22 page)

Ron looked doubtful. He stood aside to let Bree go into the big concrete building ahead of him. Bree wasn’t sure if he was visible to the throngs of people in the lobby or not, so she fell silent. She passed through the metal detector, waved to a couple of on-duty cops who were friends of Hunter’s, and wedged herself into the elevator. When the car reached the sixth floor, she hung back, smiling at the blonde attorney who held the door open so that she could exit first. “Forgot something. I’ll have to go down again.”

“You said the same thing the last time I rode up to the sixth floor with you.”

Bree, who had been trying to decide if she could risk tackling the Chambers interview without a definitive response from Caldecott, came to attention. “Hey! It’s Karen Rasmussen, isn’t it?”

“And the time before that.” The door bumped rudely into Karen’s hip. Bree knew her from the monthly meetings of the Georgia State Bar Association. She was a new member of Cordy Blackburn’s staff. “What is it you keep forgetting, Bree?”

“Coffee, this time. I bought some from the machine and left it there. On the top. Of the machine.”

A quiet chuckle drifted past her ear. So Ron was still with her.

“I’ve got a pot in my office. It’ll be a lot fresher than the junk from the machine. Why don’t you come by? It’ll save you a trip. I . . . Ooof.” She stumbled outside the car. The doors closed. The elevator continued on its quiet way up.

“That wasn’t very nice, Ron.”

“It was a very gentle shove.”

“Yeah. But she couldn’t see you, right? So I’m the only one in the car. She’s going to think I pushed her out. Thanks a ton.”

The car swayed to a halt. They stepped into the hallway. A large emblem on the wall had a bronze image of the scales of justice surrounded by angel’s wings. The letters that circled the seal read:

The directory beneath listed the rooms for Justice Court, Circuit Court, the Court of Appeals, the Appellate Division, the Hall of Records, and the Detention Center.

The seventh floor looked exactly like the other six floors of the Municipal Building. The walls were off-white. The doors were made of steel and painted bridle-brown. The floor was laid with sixteen-by-sixteen tiles in a terrazzo pattern that didn’t show dirt. But the air was different, in the way that club soda was different from water. And the ambient light seemed brighter. It glowed with colors better than sunlight.

Ron opened the door to the Hall of Records and stepped back. A part of Bree always worried that Goldstein would bow to the pressures of his celestial governors and computerize the Hall of Records and that the Hall of Records itself would change. But he hadn’t, not this time at least. The place still looked like a monastery from the Middle Ages. The walls were made of huge blocks of cut stone. The vaulted ceilings soared to a soft darkness. The stained-glass windows let multicolored sunlight in. The recording angels stood at their oak daises, wings folded neatly under their rough monk’s cassocks, quill pens busily scratching at parchment.

Ron clicked his tongue in annoyance. “I see Goldstein still hasn’t got the IT guys in.”

“Efficiency isn’t everything,” Bree said a little primly.

“True.”

She followed him to the huge back wall, which was filled with small wooden cubicles containing rolls of parchment. Goldstein stood behind the chest-high oak counter. It looked like he was eating yogurt. Ron sauntered up and folded his arms on the counter. “What
is
that stuff, Goldstein?”

“What does it look like?”

“Yogurt.”

“It is yogurt.” He patted his belly, which was round and occupied a larger portion of his monk’s robe than it had when Bree had seen him last. “Thought this body ought to lose a few pounds.” He smiled. “Hello, Bree. It’s good to see you here. We heard you were thinking of passing on this client.”

Bree glanced at Ron, who blushed a little.

“But I see you’ve changed your mind.” He bent down and pulled a roll of parchment from beneath the counter. “Here it is. Schofield Martin versus Celestial Courts. Sentenced to eternity in the seventh circle for the theft of a sacred relic, conversion of a sacred relic for malign purposes, consorting with nephiliam, suicide, theft of intellectual property, and I don’t know what all. You ask me, it’s going to be hard to find grounds for appeal here.”

“He claims he was murdered.” Bree unrolled the parchment. “And he says he was tricked.”

“You think you’re going to find evidence of—what’s the mortal term—‘entrapment’?” Goldstein’s eyebrows, which were as thick as caterpillars and bushy black, rose almost to his tonsure.

“If by entrapment, you mean that someone on our side set him up, of course not,” Ron said. “But the Opposition could have tricked Martin into doing what he did—whatever it was. And the Opposition can be pretty sneaky about testimony. Throw in a defending attorney who’s maybe new at the job, and I wouldn’t be at all surprised if the right questions didn’t come up on Judgment Day. Perfection is only found at the highest levels of the Sphere.”

There was a murmur of agreement from the monks behind them, as if this was a mantra often repeated.

Bree, absorbed in the case notes, made an exclamation of disgust.

“True,” Goldstein said. “What is it, Bree? You look balked.”

“There’s no description of the sacred relic in here. Just a citation from the
Corpus Juris Ultima.
Ron, if you can send the citation on to Petru, it might help him on the hunt for what it looks like.” She bit her lip. Balked? She was more than just balked. She was frustrated. This case was all about the key. The sooner she got a handle on the key, the sooner she could begin to clear this up. What if the key wasn’t in the form of the Cross of Justinian? How would she know? If it was, who or what would turn it back into a key? If it wasn’t . . . what then? Bree made her hands into fists so she wouldn’t clutch at her hair. “Balked, frustrated, annoyed, and in the dark. Let’s get moving, here.”

Ron took out his Blackberry, cast a glance at the case number, and tapped at his keyboard.

“May I see?” Goldstein asked.

Bree spread the roll of parchment on the countertop. Goldstein read for a few minutes, tugging thoughtfully at his lower lip. “The relic is the key to the eighth circle of Hell. It says so right here.”

“But it doesn’t say what it
looks
like,” Bree said impatiently.

“What it looks like?” Goldstein rubbed the bald spot on his head. “You mean does it have a form that temporals can identify?”

“Of course that’s what I mean. What else would I mean?”

“That’s an impossible question. It has no meaning. The key is . . . well . . . the key. It can ‘look’”—at this point, he wiggled his forefingers on either side of his head, which infuriated Bree—“like a can of tuna. It all depends. What’s important is what it’s made of. The sacred keys are made of concentrated,
con
secrated energy.”

Bree rolled the parchment up, knotted the ribbon twice around the scroll, and tied it in a double knot. “Damn it all.” She ignored the rustle of disapproval from the angels behind her. “Well. At least we have grounds for appeal, right there. My client may not have known that he had a sacred relic.”

“These things are hard to mistake, Bree,” Goldstein said a little stiffly.

“Schofield Martin is—was—is—a mortal. A human being. We human beings live in a concrete universe, Goldstein. We name things. We have shapes for things. We are not equipped to understand or identify formless objects of—what did you call it?—concentrated, consecrated matter. I’ll bet my client didn’t have a clue that the Cross could be holding energy that made it a sacred key.” She tucked the scroll into her tote. “Ron? Why don’t you go back to the office? Take this background report on Prosper White while you’re at it. It’ll save Petru some time.”

“You know better than that, Bree,” Goldstein said. “After all, what is time to an angel?” He smiled benignly at her. Bree resisted the impulse to whack him over the head with the parchment. “I’m going down to see Cordy Blackburn.” She scowled. “Just for the moment, I’ve had it up to here with angels.”

“Ms. Blackburn’s not here,” Karen Rasmussen said coldly.

“She had to leave for a deposition.”

“I’d better set up an appointment, then. I know how busy she is.” Bree set her tote on Karen Rasmussen’s desk and pulled out her iPad.

Karen cleared her throat in what could only be described as a marked manner.

“Oh! Sorry.” Bree blushed, removed her tote to the floor and tapped the iPad screen. “Does she have any time tomorrow?”

“I have no idea. I am not her secretary.” Karen swiveled in her chair to her desktop computer and began to type.

Bree smacked her forehead with her palm. “Of course you’re not. I’ll just go along and find her.”

“You do that. And when you do that, you’d better check with
your
secretary. You forgot more than your coffee downstairs. There are some people here to see you. They’ve been poking their noses into the offices up and down the corridor for the past ten minutes. Why you can’t set up your own meetings in your own office is beyond me. Have you forgotten where that is, too?”

“Karen, I didn’t shove you out of the elevator.”

“No? An act of God, perhaps?”

“Maybe you just sort of lost your balance?”

“You. Put. Your. Hand. On. My. Butt. And pushed. I felt it distinctly.”

Bree stuck her hands in her suit-coat pockets. “I’m sorry we had this misunderstanding.”

“Yeah, well. Forget it.”

Yes. Forget it.
Bree concentrated hard. She’d been able to pull Dumphey over his desk; maybe she had the angelic ability to erase memory, too.

“If you’re going to be sick,” Karen said, with spurious sympathy, “the bathroom’s down the hall. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got a brief to write.” She bared her teeth in an insincere smile. “Unless you want to push me out of my chair, too?”

“Of course not. Honestly. I’m not sure what I’m apologizing for, but I am well and truly sorry.”

“Fine.”

Bree waited. Karen’s fingers flew over her computer. “Um, Karen?”

“What!”

“These people you said were here to see me?”

“In the waiting room. Out front.”

The district attorney’s office occupied the whole of one floor in the Municipal Building, and the waiting room was large. Bree walked down the hall and pushed open the double glass doors to reception. The place was crowded with potential witnesses, defense attorneys, messengers, cops, and perpetrators. Jillian and Allard Chambers were tucked in a corner, almost concealed by a potted plant.

Bree’s cell phone vibrated in her pocket. She pulled it out; the text message was from EB:

The “sorry,” Bree assumed, was because she hadn’t texted Bree sooner.

Chambers caught sight of her, jumped to his feet, and waved. “Athena! Over here!”

Bree wound her way through the crowds.

“This is my wife, Dr. Jillian Chambers.”

Jillian had the bones of a beautiful woman: high cheekbones, an elegant aquiline nose, and slender, well-shaped hands. She was thin to emaciation. She wore her thick gray hair in a braid down her back. It was in need of a good shampoo. Her eyes were black and bright, with an almost avian quality. She moved in a series of awkward jerks, elbows out, knees splayed. She seemed almost feral, like an ibis or a crane. Bree felt she’d fly away if startled.

“I’ve been meaning to meet you, Dr. Chambers.”

She extended her hand with a slight air of bewilderment. Bree shook it, carefully. Her voice was hoarse and not unattractive. “Allard says you can help us.”

“I’m not sure about that,” Bree said. “I would like to talk to you both though.” She turned to Allard, who was gazing at Bree with something like despair. “You’ve both decided to fire your current lawyers?”

“You’re talking about Caldecott?” he said impatiently. “Yes. We have. I copied your assistant on the e-mail.”

“That’s not quite enough, I’m afraid. Have you received the case file?”

“I’m sure it’s on its way.”

“And have you settled your bill with them?”

He rolled his shoulders uncomfortably. “I’ll work it out with them.”

“Then we can’t discuss the suit you’re bringing against White’s estate. Not yet. I can tell you that my aunt is executor of the estate, and amenable to a fair offer to settle. But I would like to talk with you and Dr. Chambers about your past relationship with White. Right now, if you have the time.”

“Allard says you can help us,” Jillian repeated. “We need money. Your aunt’s rich. She’s going to marry White. She owes us.”

“Prosper’s dead, Jillian,” Chambers said gently. “He was killed yesterday, in front of the Frazier. You saw it on the news.”

Jillian’s eyes widened. “We were there.”

“Yes, dear, we were there.”

Bree looked down at her feet. She was overwhelmed with a sudden, fierce pity. Chambers touched her arm. “The doctor gave her something for the shock. You know. White getting stabbed right in front of us like that. I think it might have been too much of whatever it was.”

Jillian’s behavior didn’t look like a drug overdose to Bree—but who knew?

“Jillian, dear. Would you mind sitting down again for a moment? I have something to ask Ms. Winston-Beaufort, here.”

Jillian’s eyes narrowed. She drew her teeth back. “Is she another one of your sluts, Allard?”

“Jillian. Please.” He took her arm and guided her back to the chair. She sat down, feet together, hands in her lap, and glared fiercely at Bree. Chambers ignored the curious glances from the people around them. He drew Bree apart from the crowd, all the while keeping an eye on his wife. He blurted, “I think the police are going to arrest her.”