Defending Angels (27 page)

Something bit her upper arm. Puzzled, she ran her hand over her sleeve—

Bree staggered up the ramp out into the open air, fighting to stay on her feet. The possession left her as suddenly as it had come. She turned, shakily, and looked down the ramp to the shadows below.

Go back to the place where he died, they’d said.

And she had.

Bree ran up the ramp and stood in the lee of the parking garage at Island Dream with the rain dripping from her nose and her back to the parking space with Benjamin Skinner’s name on it. He’d been murdered in there. She was sure of it, although the how and the why remained a mystery. She took a deep breath, turned around, and went back into the shadowy garage.

The sign didn’t look any different from the others. It was about twenty-four inches square, of white PVC plastic, with letters etched in dark green. It was attached to the concrete block wall with Phillips head screws.

She walked up and down the sidewalk between the asphalt and the wall, turning over the piles of Sheetrock, discarded insulation, metal boxes, and wastepaper with her toe. She peered intently at the concrete walkway, and then walked carefully around the parking spot itself. She wasn’t sure what she was looking for, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

She stopped in front of the sign and hesitated. Then with a mental “what the hell,” she lightly tapped Skinner’s name.

She wasn’t sure what to expect; moans, a pale and ghostly apparition, a sudden wave of cold, or eerie lights. What did happen was weird enough. A few minutes passed and then a barely recognizable Benjamin Skinner took shape in front of her. His shade was exactly that: shades of transparent gray and white. The image rippled and fragmented.

Except for the eyes. The eyes were ice blue, piercing, and horribly human.

It was as if she saw him on an ancient piece of movie film. His voice came through a strange-echoed static, in fits and starts so that she only caught a repeated phrase or two.

Bree took a moment to catch her breath. She was afraid to blink, afraid to move, in case the fragile image shattered and disappeared. “Do you know ...” she began in a croaky whisper. She cleared her throat several times, and said in a dismayingly small voice, “Do you know who killed you, Mr. Skinner?”

A hideous shriek echoed around the parking garage. Bree clapped her hands to her ears, and stepped back into the heap of construction debris piled next to the elevator. A short piece of white plastic pipe rolled free and came to rest on her shoe.

The image winked out, as if a door had slammed shut.

Bree stared as hard as she could at the spot on the wall where Skinner had begged her to save him, but the image didn’t return. She shoved aside the piece of pipe, tapped the sign, and then placed the flat of her hand against it.

Nothing.

Did she only get one interview with her client? And why hadn’t he saved her a pile of time and trouble and told her who the murderer was? How could he drown when the ocean was almost a half a mile away? How come the finger-tapping trick didn’t work anymore? This business of communicating with ghosts was quite frustrating.

The pipe rolled against her shoe again as if someone had kicked it. It was about an inch wide and perhaps two feet long. It was scrap, probably from a plumbing installation. Bree picked it up. That bright white light flashed through her like a sudden yell. She shuddered. Someone had used this on Benjamin Skinner.

Trembling a little, she put it into the pocket of her raincoat, and knelt by the pile of trash: bits and pieces of Sheetrock, insulation, more pieces of pipe. Gently, she moved the stuff aside.

She uncovered an air compressor.

Bree sat back on her heels, her mind racing. It looked undamaged, and perfectly operable. The flexible rubber hose that shot air into whatever air needed shooting into was neatly coiled and looped over the top.

With a sense of dread, she reached out and touched the hose.

She jerked back, as if stung.

Seawater? Had the killer forced seawater down Skinner’s throat?

She had a small tool kit in her car with a Phillips head screwdriver. Maybe she should remove the sign, pack up the coiled hose and the half-inch pipe, and take it all home with her. On the other hand, maybe she shouldn’t touch any of it. An unbroken chain of evidence was vitally important in any criminal case; she knew that as well she knew her own name. But she didn’t have to guess what Hunter’s reaction would be if she told him why she wanted the sign and the pipe and the rubber hose tested for fingerprints and maybe even blood. And how definitive would the evidence be, anyway?

It took her only a few moments to run to the car and come back with the tool kit. She started with the sign. She knelt down to get a better angle on the bottom screws.

Then everything went black.

“How many fingers do you see?”

Calvin Tiptree’s voice was naturally high-pitched; anxiety raised it to a squeak. Bree blinked at him. She sat in a comfortable armchair in an unfamiliar office. Sasha whined at her feet. Calvin hovered on the outer range of her vision. He clutched a damp towel in his left hand. He held his right up in the air and wiggled two fingers.

Bree put her hand to the back of her head and winced. “Ouch.”

“I
told
Mr. Fairchild that we needed gutters on the outside of that parking garage,” Calvin fussed. “Now look what’s happened. You slipped in all that water and banged yourself on the noggin.” He bent closer and peered into her eyes. “It’s one heck of a lump. Do you I think I should call the EMTs?”

Bree looked down at her knees. Her jeans were dry. Her feet were dry, too. A dusting of concrete covered both knees. “The sign?” she said.

“What sign?”

“Mr. Skinner’s parking sign. Is it still on the wall?”

Calvin threw his hands in the air. “For heaven’s sake. I have no idea.”

“My raincoat?”

“You’re wearing it,” Calvin said worriedly. “Can’t you tell?”

She patted her pockets. The pipe was still there. She took a long breath. Then she eased herself to her feet. Her head hurt like billy-be-damned. But the rest of her seemed to be in working order. “I don’t need an ambulance. But I do want the police.”

“The police!” Calvin turned pale. “Oh, my God. You’re a lawyer, aren’t you? We’re going to be sued. Oh, my God. Look, forget what I said about the gutters, will you?”

“I didn’t fall down,” Bree said patiently, “and I’m not a litigious person, Calvin. Somebody hit me over the head.”

“Nonsense,” Calvin said briskly.

Sasha pawed gently at her knee.

She patted him. “I’m just fine, boy. But I’d sure like to know what happened to me.”

“Well, it was your dog that raised the alarm.” Calvin folded the towel and draped it over the back of his desk chair. “I was waiting in the foyer to see if any buyers might be showing up and he started to howl. And I mean
howl
. I ran out to your car and he was pawing at the window so I opened the door and let him out. I thought maybe he had to wee, you know? I have two dogs of my own, and they’d rather die than mess where they aren’t supposed to. As soon as I let him out, he took off across the parking lot like a banshee was after him, broken leg and all.”

Bree took Sasha’s head in her hands and looked deep into his golden eyes. “Did you see who hit me, Sash?”

“Two men,” she said aloud.

“I just don’t believe it,” Calvin said. “Oh! Of course, I believe you. I mean I just don’t believe it could happen here! I mean, this is an island, for goodness sake. Where would they go? Did you actually see them? Do you think you can identify them?”

“No,” Bree said. “I haven’t a clue about what they look like.” She remembered the Montifiore Construction vans in the back of the building. “You had workmen here today?”

“Yes, we did. Do you think that they . . . ? No. I can’t believe it. They were here to redo some of the Sheetrock in the condos just under the penthouse. A bit of a leak. Nothing serious. They skedaddled out of here way before I heard the elevator come down from the penthouse.”

“Are you sure?”

“Very sure,” Calvin nodded. He tugged nervously at his earlobe. “So do you want me to call the Tybee sheriff’s office? The state troopers?”

Bree thought a minute, then went through her purse. Everything seemed to be there.

“Has anything been taken?” Calvin asked. “This is just terrible. An assault and robbery right in our parking garage. If word of this gets out, it’s not going to be good for business.” He groped for his cell phone. “Do you think I should give Mr. Fairchild a call? I’m sure we can handle this without calling the police.”

“I’d like to speak to Mr. Fairchild, yes.” She’d tucked Hunter’s card behind her Neiman-Marcus charge card. “And I’ll call the police.” She squinted at the number—her vision was a bit blurry—and tapped it into her cell phone. He picked up on the third ring. It didn’t take long to bring Sam into the picture. He suggested an ambulance; she turned it down in no uncertain terms.

“You’re sure?” The concern in his voice warmed her. “Concussion can be tricky.”

“Positive.” She blinked the room into focus. The walls and the hunter green carpeting were a little blurry around the edges, but the ache in her head ebbed a bit and she felt more clearheaded by the minute. “It’s just a bump. But whoever hit me on the head was after something specific. I want to show you where it was.”

“
Where
it was, and not
what
it was?”

“It was the place Benjamin Skinner died.”

There was a long pause. Then he said, “Give me twenty minutes.”

Bree clicked off and put her cell phone back into her purse.

“Mr. Fairchild’s on his way. He won’t be more than a few minutes. I caught him at the clubhouse marina.” Calvin walked up and down the carpeting, wringing his hands. “He has Sunday brunch there, most weekends, when he’s not out of town on business.”

Fairchild. She had more than a few questions for the man. “Good,” Bree said grimly. Calvin made a small whimpering sound. The last thing she needed right now was a hysterical male. She interrupted him briskly. “Could we have some coffee, do you think?”

Calvin looked around the office in a bewildered way. Bree pointed at the Mr. Coffee sitting on the credenza behind the desk. “Right,” Calvin said. “Right.”

“I’m sure Doug Fairchild would like a cup,” she added for encouragement.

“Water,” Calvin said. “I’ll just pop into the bathroom for it, shall I?” He picked up the carafe and wandered out the door. As soon as he disappeared into the lobby, Bree got up, went to the desk, and opened the drawers one by one. The upper drawer contained a lot of glossy brochures, a thick stack of sales contracts, and some bills from a waste management company for Dumpster rentals. The bills were marked “Past Due.” Bree noted the initial invoice date was almost eight months ago. Quite a long time to let a relatively small amount remain unpaid. She made a mental note to have either Ron or Petru check out the company’s credit-worthiness. She leafed through the brochures, and paused at the description of the swimming pool.
“Completely free of chlorine and other chemicals, the lodge’s Olympic-size saltwater swimming pool demonstrates our commitment to an eco-friendly environment.”

“Well, well,” she said. “The picture’s becoming a little clearer, Sash.”

Sasha lifted his head, stared at the office door, and growled a warning at the sound of voices in the hall. Bree slipped back into her chair and folded her hands in her lap.

“You let her call the cops?” somebody snapped. “You goddamn fool.”

Her parents knew the Fairchilds, but Bree herself had never met Douglas. He walked into the office with his hand held out in welcome, and a big smile on his face. Sasha got up, sniffed the cuffs of his trousers without interest, and lay down at Bree’s feet again. Bree frowned at the dog. She had a half-formed theory of the crime in her head, and Douglas Fairchild featured prominently in it. “Well, here’s the little lady,” he said heartily. “I hear you had a small accident in my parking garage.”

“Somebody hit me over the head,” Bree said bluntly. “It wasn’t an accident. It was an attack.”

He clasped her two hands between his own. He was a large man with scant brown hair and a soft, round belly that strained the cloth of his short-sleeved Izod shirt. He smelled like gin. “I’m truly sorry to hear that, Bree.” His smile widened. “You don’t mind if I presume on an old family acquaintance and call you Bree? Your daddy and I go way back. As a matter of fact, I’m looking forward to seeing him and your lovely mother at your open house tomorrow night. They were kind enough to send me an invitation. Now, little lady.” He released her hands, pulled a chair away from the wall, and sat down next to her. “Tell me what happened.”

Bree looked at her watch. Sam would be here in less than five minutes, if he was as good as his word. She didn’t trust Fairchild as far as she could throw him. “I’d like to show you where it happened, if I may. I think I may have discovered something relevant to Benjamin Skinner’s death.”