Defending Angels (11 page)

Antonia made a noise like a fork in a food grinder. “You are such a
tacky
fathead, Payton.”

“I hope you’re very happy,” Bree said politely. You certainly won’t have to worry about your Am-Ex bill.”

“... and our client list, as I was about to tell you, has some of the best people in Savannah.”

Bree frowned. This was leading up to something.

“Among them,” Payton said easily, “Dr. and Mrs. Grainger Skinner.”

“And they are?” Bree said. Then the penny dropped. “Benjamin Skinner’s son and his wife.”

“His son,” Antonia said doubtfully. “Oh! The guy who answered the phone when you called Mr. Skinner back.”

Payton shrugged in a deprecating way. “Grainger Skinner himself isn’t that big a deal—it’s not money that counts in Savannah. But his wife is a Pendergast, and that does count for something.”

Antonia paid no attention to this. “Huh. That was such a weird thing to have happened, Bree. I mean, I had no idea cell phone calls were stored like e-mail.” She forgot, temporarily, that she hated Payton the Rat and said to him. “Some glitch in the cell phone tower made Bree get a phone call from Skinner
after
he died. Isn’t that bizarre?”

“That’s bullshit, is what it is,” Payton said. “You know, Bree, there’s ways of soliciting clients, and then there’s ways of soliciting clients. You kind of stepped over the line, there, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“Oh, I mind,” Bree said. The small, regretful ache in her heart was rapidly turning into a large urge toward violence. She hadn’t dumped beer over anyone’s head in years. Maybe it was time she took it up again.

“I’m glad I ran into you here, instead of having to look you up in that place on ...” he stopped, dug into his suit coat pocket, and pulled out his BlackBerry. He tapped it, then said, “Angelus, you said? I can’t find it.”

“Very edgy,” Antonia said loyally. “That location is the start of a new trend.”

“Not if your clients don’t know where the hell it is.”

Antonia glared at him. “She’s going to be the hottest lawyer in town in no time.”

“That’s good to hear,” Payton said smoothly, “because I certainly wouldn’t want anything to stand in the way of that rush of new clients.”

“Anything like what?” Bree asked.

“Like a totally futile investigation into the death of Benjamin Skinner.” He hunched forward, his hands folded on the table, his brow furrowed in earnest concern. “Trust me on this one, Bree. Liz Overshaw is a well-known crank. Sort of the epitome, if you don’t mind my being frank, of the postmenopausal, hysterical female.”

“Oh, I mind,” Bree said politely. She smiled.

Antonia looked at the smile and said nervously, “Uh, Bree?”

Payton’s tone became even more confiding. “I mean, what possible good can it do you to begin your career in this town by antagonizing the biggest player in the city?”

“I don’t know,” Bree said, with dangerous calm. “What good do you think it can do me?”

“Well, that’s just it. No good at all. Look here, Bree. We’re in a position to send a lot of good cases your way. You did pretty well in corporate tax law, as I recall. And that can be a gold mine for you if”—he tapped her wrist with an admonitory forefinger—“you decide to play ball.”

Later, Bree figured it was the tap on the wrist that did it. She didn’t really remember anything too clearly. She was furious, that she recalled. She jumped up with some idea of grabbing both Payton’s ears and banging his head sharply against the table. The next thing she knew, she was on her feet in the middle of the room, and Payton was on his back against the bar ten feet away, looking dazed.

A tall, powerfully built man with colorless eyes had his hand on her shoulder. Antonia sat huddled at the back of the booth, her face pale.

“You
really
shouldn’t have done that,” the man said.

Bree wanted to say, “Done what?” but she didn’t. The glass doors to the restaurant swung wide open. Most of the customers huddled under the tables. Dishes, glasses, bits of pizza, salad, and napkins littered the floor. It looked like the aftermath of a hurricane. Instead, she said, “What happened?”

Two policemen walked in the door; the one in the lead, a surly-looking guy with a potbelly and a shock of greasy blond hair, shouted, “Everybody freeze!”

“This way.” The man with the colorless eyes, which were not, Bree realized, colorless at all, but silvery, put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her without effort into the hall to the kitchen.

“Wait a minute.” Bree tried to duck out from under his grip and get back into the restaurant. Somehow, she kept on moving, down the back hall, out the back door, and into the alley that led to the parking lot. It wasn’t that she couldn’t resist. It was that her resistance didn’t make any difference. He was very strong, not at all rough, and smelled pleasantly of the outdoors. Once in the alley, he closed the door to the kitchen behind them, and let her go.

“You live up there.” It wasn’t a question. He looked up at Front Street, which was one level above the shops and restaurants on the wharf. This part of the River Walk was constructed entirely of brick walls that rose twenty feet to the street above.

“Well, yes, but I should real—”

“Go home.”

“I can’t leave my sis—”

“I’ll let her know you’ve gone.”

“Who
are
you?” Bree asked indignantly. “And what do you think you’re doing pushing me around like this?”

“Am I pushing you around?” He stepped back and looked at her, amused. “Sorry.” His eyes were very silvery in the half light from the streetlamps. And he didn’t look sorry at all. “My name’s Striker. Gabe Striker.”

Bree’s mind went blank for a minute, then, suddenly furious, she said, “The PI.”

“Yes. Armand Cianquino thought I could give you a hand with the Skinner case. I just happened to be in the area when this little fracas with Payton the Rat blew up.”

“Is there anyone in Savannah who
doesn’t
know Payton dumped me?” Bree demanded through gritted teeth.

He backed up, his hands held up in mock surrender. She barely could make out his face in the gloom. “Hey. Sorry. I seem to have stepped out of line.”

“No kidding.”

“I do apologize.” His voice drifted toward her. She had the oddest sensation that he was suddenly bodiless, a mist in the air, liable to disappear with a breath. “Go home. I’m going to do what I can to make this go away.”

Then she was alone in the alley.

And on the Tree of Life,
The middle tree and highest that there grew,
Sat like a cormorant ... devising death.

—
Paradise Lost
, John Milton

Bree squashed the impulse to make a rude gesture after Gabriel Striker, PI. Instead, she walked past the Dumpster to the edge of the sidewalk and peered around the corner of the building. A police cruiser headed the wrong way down the one-way street sat in front of the restaurant, red lights flashing. Either the crowd gathered outside had come from the restaurant or from the street, probably both. A pair of teenage boys held their cell phones up, taking pictures of the scene. Bree recognized the bartender, a cheerful woman in her midforties who didn’t look very cheerful at the moment. The shorter of the teenagers recognized the bartender, too. Huey’s was a popular place. “Hey, Maureen! What the heck happened in there?”

Maureen shrugged, her face bewildered. “What started it is some woman dove over a table to get at this guy.”

Bree cringed.

“And then this freak wind came upriver and blew the place apart. Well,” Maureen amended, “not apart, as such. But it burst right through the doors and made one hell of a mess in there.” She looked up at the sky in a confused way. “And then it sort of sucked itself out.”

“Anybody hurt?” The kid shouldered his way through the crowd to Maureen, his cell phone aimed at her. “Can you give me a quote?” Maureen held her hand in front of her face. “Will you cut that out? The two of you get on out of here.”

“Anybody dead?” the other kid asked. He had a gold ring in his nose.

“Not so’s you’d notice.” Maureen dropped her hand and made a hideous face at the cell phone. “Go on, you two. Get out of here. What are you hanging around making trouble for?”

“Huh,” the shorter kid said self-importantly. “You know how much the TV stations pay for pictures of this kind of stuff?”

“It’d be a lot better if there was a couple of bodies, Pauly,” said the kid with the nose ring. “Who wants to see pizza all over the floor? I can see that at home.”

“You getting the message, Pauly?” Maureen said rudely. “You two, beat it. I already called the insurance company and the fewer people hanging around when they get here, the better.” She scowled at them. “Maybe they’ll figure
you
two had something to do with it.” She watched the two boys disappear into the thinning crowd, then shook her head and went back into the restaurant.

A small breeze stirred in the street. Bree looked up at the sky. A thumbnail moon hung low on the horizon. A few clouds scudded past the stars overhead.

It was as quiet as the grave.

She trudged up the stairs to the town house, shaken, bewildered, and longing for sleep

The phone sounded inside as she fumbled with the keys to the town house door. Sasha barked. Somewhere in the distance, sirens sounded, and Bree had a sudden, irrational conviction that the police were after her. Her mental equilibrium tipped further toward a genuine fit of the willies as she got past the front door and nearly fell over Sasha. She saved herself—and the poor dog’s leg—with a hugely athletic leap over his body and dived toward the phone.

“Bree, darlin’!”

“Mamma,” Bree gasped.

“You all right, honey?” Waves of concern flowed over the phone line.

“I’m just fine. I was rushing through the front door to get to the phone and tripped over the dog.”

“Dog? You still have that dog?” Francesca asked.

“Ah,” Bree said. “Things have been so hectic here, I forgot to tell you about the dog.” Holding the receiver to her ear, she put her back against the wall and sank to the floor. This pleased Sasha, who promptly tried to settle in her lap.

“I think you should tell us about the dog,” her father’s voice said.

“Well. He’s a rescue.” This was a guaranteed path to her mother’s soft heart. “And he’s a wonderful animal. Just wonderful. Antonia just loves ...” Bree bit her lip so hard she almost yelped. “I mean, if Antonia could meet him, she’d just love him, too. Here, he wants to say hello.” She put the receiver near Sasha’s muzzle and without much hope of a response said, “Speak!”

Sasha barked.

Bree put the phone to her ear again. “There! What do you think of that?”

“I think he sounds big,” her mother’s voice said dubiously. “You remember the town house covenants. If he’s too big, Bree, you need to bring him on home to Plessey. As a matter of fact, when your father and I come in next week, we can take him back with us if we have to. Poor thing.”

Bree looked at Sasha, who was getting healthier-looking by the hour, it seemed. “I don’t know. I really like having him around.” Suddenly, the rest of her mother’s message sank in. “You’re what?! Coming here?”

“For your open house, Bree, for heaven’s sake. I knew you had too much on your mind getting your office set up. But now that you’ve found this darling little place, it’s time to let the professional community know you’re up and running.”

“Now’s really not a good time, Mamma,” Bree said. “I mean, I appreciate the thought, but I’d really rather—”

“We knew you’d say that. So your father and I have already sent out the invitations. He still has a lot of good contacts in the law community, don’t you, darlin’, and they’ll all turn out for him. It’ll be a wonderful send-off, Bree honey. You’ll see.”

“You sent the invitations out?” Bree said.

“We did,” her mother said firmly. “Next Thursday afternoon from five to seven at the Mansion.”

“The Forsyth Mansion?” Bree said weakly. The hotel on Forsyth Park was rated five stars, and the restaurant, 700 Drayton, was fabulously expensive.

“That gives you a week to get the caterer and the florist set up. The bills are to be sent to us, aren’t they, Royal?”

“Mamma,” Bree said, “I really wish ...”

Her mother’s voice rolled over her protests like Sherman through Atlanta. “Now, you know how proud we are of you! You’ll let us host this little reception, won’t you?”

“You bet,” Bree said, suddenly exhausted. She couldn’t handle one more thing. Not one. All she wanted to do was take a long, hot shower and go to bed. “I appreciate the thought. Thank you, Mamma. Thanks, Daddy. You let me know before you begin the drive down, won’t you?”

“Of course we will.” There was a long pause. “You sure you’re all right, dear? Royal, you think she’s all right?”

From her position on the floor next to the phone, Bree could see into the darkened living room, but not around the corner to the fireplace. Suddenly, Sasha scrambled to his feet. His ears went forward and he stared intently into the living room.

As she watched him, part of her mind still struggling with the incident at the restaurant, the other part listening to her mother’s light, pretty voice, still another longing for the total oblivion of sleep, a thin river of water seeped around the corner wall and headed toward her. Sasha barked once, and then fell silent.

“I’ve got to run, Mamma. I think I left the water running.” She dropped the phone into the cradle and stumbled to her feet, her heart thumping. The water glowed with a yellow phosphorescence. It inched forward, changing direction every few feet as if encountering unseen obstacles.

Sasha turned and looked at her, his eyes glowing with reflected light.

Bree fought the impulse to run. Sasha looked up at her; then, tail set low, ears flattened against his skull, he moved cautiously forward.