Angel's Verdict Part 17

Rough hew them how we will.

-Hamlet, William Shakespeare "I do not see how Beaufort & Company can be concerned with the missing jewel," Petru said. "This is a temporal issue. The Beaufort & Company charter is for celestial matters only. The missing witness? Absolutely."

Bree's right leg was propped on a chair. She, Ron, and Petru sat around the conference table at the Angelus Street office. Lavinia was upstairs, and Sasha was outside in the cemetery, poking around the gravestones. Her parents had finally gone home.

Ron and Petru both agreed that the Company couldn't support the search for the missing peac.o.c.k pin. Bree thought they should.

The cast was itchy. Her knee hurt like the devil. She was glad to be back at work, but her temper was short. "The jewel is the contact point for our client, Petru. How else can I get hold of her?"

Petru shook his head no. "Whoever took it committed a theft. This thievery will weigh in the balance at the end of the thief's days, of course, but there has been no miscarriage of celestial justice."

"True." Bree stuck her pen down the top of her cast and scratched at her leg. It didn't help. "Okay. So I'll handle the investigation of the theft from the Bay Street office."

"Did you tell Lieutenant Hunter the pin was gone?" Ron asked. "This is a case for the police, don't you think?"

"I didn't, no." Bree doodled circles on her yellow pad. "I'd like to avoid talking to the police for the moment. I think Justine clocked me over the head."

Petru's eyebrows shot up. "The old actress?"

"She was desperate to get the pin back. She's worried about losing her job. She didn't stop to think. She certainly didn't intend to push me into the path of Mercury's car."

"Hm." Petru tugged at his beard.

"I support our justice system, both temporal and celestial. You know that. But I don't want to feed Justine to the wolves, so to speak. The poor woman's suffered enough."

Ron said, "Maybe it wasn't Justine. Maybe it was Sammi-Rose Waterman. She was drunk enough to do something stupid, from what you've told me. Or that mean-looking sister of hers. Marian Lee."

"Payton was with Sammi-Rose when she left the restaurant," Bree pointed out. "I suppose Payton could have done it or even the three of them together, but it doesn't make much sense. Payton's a creep, but he's not violent. And he'd be in a heap of trouble with Smilin' John Stubblefield if he let one of their clients launch into an a.s.sault with grievous bodily harm. I'm not saying it isn't possible, but it's unlikely. Besides . . ." She paused. Parts of her memory were coming back. Justine wore a distinctive perfume. Gardenias. She was sure there had been an odor of gardenias in the air. "Either way, I'll look into it." She put a final flourish on the doodle and sat back. "Anyhow. Let's move on to the Haydee Quinn case. I had a long chat with my fa-with Royal before I finally got him to go on back to Plessey. I finally reviewed Florida's material. She did a sensational job on the background, and she made a time line of the events leading up to Haydee's death. I've made notes in places where I think we might pursue things further."

She moved to the whiteboard that hung between the windows facing the cemetery, balanced herself on her crutch, and picked up a red marker.

JUNE 30, 1952.

7:30 p.m. The Tropicana Tide: Haydee and Bagger Bill Norris quarrel about her affair with Alexander Bulloch.

"There were several witnesses," Bree said. "A young chorus girl, Charis Jefferson; a waitress, whose only name was Darcy, no last name; and the bartender Moses Busch. Busch states: 'Billy said he'd kill her and himself before he let her go.' "

She picked up the marker again and wrote: 8:00 p.m. Haydee performs Dance of the Seven Veils for a full house. Alex Bulloch is in the audience with three friends. He stays through all three performances.

"There were over forty witnesses to this," Bree said. "Plenty of verification. His three friends all went on to other bars. Their whereabouts after the a.s.sault on Haydee are all verified."

JULY 1.

12:45 a.m.: Haydee comes out from backstage with Alex Bulloch. Tells Norris she's quitting to marry Alex. Loud argument ensues. Haydee sends Alex home. Alex leaves in his 1952 Buick Roadster.

"This is what Moses Busch says." Bree read aloud, "All three of 'em had been drinking up a storm. Haydee kicked the kid out to keep Billy from pounding him to a pulp." She looked up at them. "Alexander's 1952 Buick automobile was seen at the Bulloch home within thirty minutes. This was verified by a routine patrol car."

1:00 a.m.: Norris closes bar. Sends all employees home.

1:15 a.m.: Presence of 1952 Buick Roadster (red) verified at Bulloch mansion, 742 Washington Square, by police car on routine patrol.

1:20 a.m.: Norris and Haydee argue violently. He grabs a butcher knife from the bar, stabs her repeatedly in the chest. Haydee runs out the front door.

2:00 a.m.: 742 Washington Square: Alex Bulloch and his mother, Consuelo Bulloch, argue violently over his affair with Haydee Quinn.

"There was a witness to this," Bree said. "The house-keeper, Marie Toussaint. Here's her statement from the murder book: 'They was at it something fierce. Woke me up. They was a-throwing ashtrays at each other, I guess. There sure was a mess in the morning.'"

4:30 a.m.: Haydee's body discovered in the river.

"Alvin Carpenter was fishing off the banks at 230 Front Street when his line became entangled in Haydee's hair. He called the foot patrolman to the scene. Haydee's body was pulled from the river. She was barely alive." Bree turned to the whiteboard and wrote down the rest of the time line.

5:15 a.m.: Haydee arrives at Savannah General.

6:20 a.m.: Alex Bulloch, Consuelo Bulloch, and the family doctor, Pythias Warren, arrive at Savannah General.

8:20 a.m.: Lt. Eddie O'Malley and Sgt. Robert E. Lee Kowalski arrive at Tropicana Tide. Discover William Norris pa.s.sed out on barroom floor. Discover knife, later a.s.sumed to be murder weapon. Norris covered in blood later determined to be same blood type (A pos) as victim's.

11:20 a.m.: Haydee p.r.o.nounced dead.

JULY 3.

12:15 p.m.: Body removed to private mortuary, Ernest Cavanaugh Funeral Home.

3:00 p.m.: Norris confesses to murder.

JULY 4.

5:00 a.m.: Funeral home attendant Cecil Brewster discovers Haydee's body is missing.

7:05 p.m.: Alexander Bulloch arrested for desecration of a body. Remains of corpse brought to Chatham County Morgue.

JULY 5.

Official autopsy of Haydee Quinn.

Bree tossed the marker on the conference table. "So the question is: where was Haydee between the hours of one thirty and four thirty the morning of July 3?"

"The police did a canva.s.s of the city?" Petru asked. "Finding out where she was seen?"

"They made a stab at it. The Tropicana was about three-quarters of a mile downriver from where the body was found. The tide was coming in. She could have stumbled around in the dark, fallen down the banks of the river, and been unable to get out. But I find it hard to believe she could have kept herself afloat for very long. Flurry did a great job mapping out the way the city was laid out at the time." Bree smiled. "In many ways, Savannah's an eternal city; everything changes, and yet nothing changes. But the area to the west of us was dedicated to a pretty vital shipping industry then. A lot of warehouses, a lot of heavy equipment to move containers, cranes, and such. O'Malley and Kowalski interviewed three or four night watchmen, a security guard or two, and several of the patrons Norris kicked out of the bar at one thirty. But!" Bree held up a finger. "This is really cool, gentlemen. And I hope that when her book is published, Flurry has a huge best seller. Because she worked her rear end off tracking down the witnesses. Listen to this." Bree had made notes on the case on her Blackberry. She tapped on the keyboard and read aloud: "Lucille Baxter, bar cleaner. Says she didn't see n.o.body, nowhere. Lucille's wages at the time were thirty-five cents an hour. She was returning from her nighttime job cleaning at around two thirty in the morning. Six months after the murder, Lucille bought and paid for a house on Flatiron Road. She paid four thousand six hundred and fifty dollars, cash. And here's this one. Lionel Woods, garbage collector. He was out on his usual run at three in the morning, didn't see a thing, according to O'Malley and Kowalski. He earned forty-five cents an hour."

"And what luxury was he able to purchase, in cash?" Petru asked.

"A brand-new Cadillac Eldorado."

Ron ran his hand through his blond curls. "Wow."

"Wow, indeed. Now . . . oof. I've got to sit down." She landed rather heavily onto her chair and positioned her crutch awkwardly across her lap. "Florida Smith has dug up a witness statement."

Ron's eyes lit up. "Someone who saw Haydee before she went into the river?"

"I think so."

"And this statement will indict Consuelo Bulloch?" Petru asked.

"She claims it will."

Petru pointed out the obvious. "You do not have this statement."

"She's saving it for the book."

"Oh dear," Ron said. "Whatever for? I mean, if she could bring a murderer to justice, she's morally bound to bring the statement to the authorities."

Bree was exasperated, and let it show. "But to what authorities, Ron? Consuelo's long dead. Let's a.s.sume it wasn't Consuelo, and that our client is innocent. Well, whoever killed Haydee is long dead, too. Flurry's not tracking down a murderer to bring him to justice. She's solving a historical mystery. From her standpoint, she has every right to keep this to herself until the book comes out."

"Sergeant Kowalski's still alive," Petru said. "Perhaps he is the one who dispatched the dancer?"

"Flurry thought of that. Police cover-up? Savannah shields one of its own? It'd make a heck of a true-crime book. But Sergeant Kowalski was headed back into Savannah that Sat.u.r.day night. With a school bus full of Boy Scouts, no less. He got into town just in time to join O'Malley for his shift. Besides, you haven't seen the murder book. Poor Dent may have been out of it as a cop, but Kowalski was dedicated. You can see it from the notes he took. Very complete. Very neat. And he saved everything that could possibly be connected to the case. If Dent ever wonders why he wasn't kicked off the force, the answer lies in his partner's competence." Bree scratched at her cast. "This is going to drive me crazy."

"Get a knitting needle," Ron said. "Lavinia must have one."

This was perhaps the only thing that could divert Bree's attention from the job at hand. "Is she all right? I was so thankful to see you two, Ron, when you came to the town house on Sat.u.r.day. But she looked . . ." Bree searched for the right word. "Frail. And she isn't at the meeting this morning."

Ron and Petru looked at each other. Petru made a slight gesture with his hands, as if to say "Go ahead."

"Our time in the temporal universe isn't infinite," Ron said.

"What do you mean?" Bree asked sharply. "Lavinia's fading. Fading into what?"

Petru pursed his lips. "For lack of a term more comprehensible to you, we could say she is travelling up. All existence is a journey. The journey ends in peace and stillness for those on the celestial path. In fire and stillness on the other."

Sudden tears sprang to Bree's eyes. "What are you saying?"

"A joyful thing." Petru leaned forward and patted her hands. "Lavinia will not pa.s.s by for some time yet. But the energy she used to meet your parents pushed her a little further along. It pushes all of us a little further along. Now, I think, we will not talk about this anymore, but you are having an unsuitable reaction of sadness."

"Unsuitable!" Bree dug a tissue from her skirt pocket and blew her nose.

"We have a client to represent," Petru reminded her. "I would suggest we turn to the case. If you have more questions about these other issues, I would suggest that you bring them up at the next meeting of the Company. You should address them to Professor Cianquino."

"For all the good that will do me," Bree muttered. Cianquino was p.r.o.ne to the self-discovery school of knowledge. He liked you to figure things out for yourself. She blew her nose one more time, tossed the tissue into the wastepaper basket, and said, "Okay. Back to work. There's a good possibility that Kowalski might remember something. From what Dent says-and from the background Flurry got on him-I can't imagine a less likely candidate for corrupt cop. So we're going to see him, Dent and I, late this afternoon."

"Suppose he does recall the witness who has disappeared," Ron said. "And this witness fingers Consuelo?"

"Yeah, well, that's a risk we're going to have to take. I'm off to the Bay Street office. I have," she said with a pleased air, "a new client coming in to see me at eleven. Then Dent and I are on to see Sergeant Kowalski this afternoon. In the meantime, I'd like you and Petru to go over Consuelo's past life with a fine-tooth comb. We need to find every decent thing she ever did in life and hope like heck we can come up with enough to mitigate her sentence."

"Will do, chief." Ron put his hand beneath her elbow and helped her get to her feet. "Dent's outside. He's going to take you over to the Bay Street office."

"That's great." Bree had hopped the three blocks to the Angelus office on her crutches. She wasn't looking forward to hopping the six blocks more. "Did Mercury give him some time off?"

"Vincent White fired him."

"What a jerk." Bree swung through the reception room. The Rise of the Cormorant remained in place over the mantel. The sea seemed to have a redder glow than usual this morning. Good. She was in a fairly fiery mood herself.

"So Dent's driving your car. Hang on while I get the door for you."

"Hm."

Bree paused in the small foyer while Ron propped open the front door. She looked at the procession of angels on the staircase. The last one in line, the one with silver hair, had a bandaged foot and a plain wooden cane in her right hand. Bree gave her a tiny salute and swung out onto the small front porch. She waved at Dent, who was standing next to her car on the other side of the wrought iron fence, and turned to Ron. "I can take it from here."

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure."

"We'll see you when you get back, then."

Bree had discovered that of all the annoyances that came with being on crutches, going up and down steps was the worst. She didn't have the patience to keep one foot elevated while she hopped down each step with the unsteady support of two skinny aluminum poles. The fastest way was to sit down with her cast extended and descend-rather inelegantly-on her rear end. She was in a hurry, so that's what she did.

"Would you care for a hand up?"

The hand in front of her face was male, hairy, and had sharp yellow nails encrusted with a dark red substance Bree never allowed herself to think about.

"Mr. Beazley," she said. She accepted the hand, rose to one foot, and steadied herself on her crutches. "And Mr. Caldecott."

The two attorneys for the Prosecution hovered just above the brick path. Beazley was tall and thin, with those disgusting hands. Caldecott was short and bald. It took some determination to look Caldecott in the eye; his pupils were black vertical slits; the iris was yellow, like a cat's or a goat's.

"Delighted to see that you're doing so well," Beazley said. He offered to put his hand under her elbow. Bree stopped him with a look. She swung herself down the walk to the gate, where Dent was waiting for her, with a look of alarm on his face.

"There was some mention of burns, Caldecott," Beazley murmured. "Not so bad, really, now that I see her in the flesh. And her hair will grow back." He stopped and craned his head around to view the back of her head. "Good idea, that. The bun. Covers up the shaved bits. Write that down, Caldecott."

"Appearance . . . not . . . generally . . . affected . . ." Caldecott read aloud to himself as he scribbled in a small notebook. "Mobility. . . . excellent . . ."

Bree brought herself to a halt. She didn't have time for this. "What's up, gentlemen?"

Caldecott tucked the notebook into the breast pocket of his suit coat and then withdrew a small camera. "Photographs, do you think, Beazley?"

"Not as much use as they used to be," Beazley said. "Not since Photoshop. Juries are skeptical. Too easy to crop, trim, and otherwise fake it."

Bree stared at a spot behind Caldecott's head and said in fake surprise, "Why if it isn't Gabriel himself! Gabriel! Good to see you, and your nice sharp sword. It's been way too long."

Caldecott jerked in alarm and looked around nervously. "Gabriel? Where!"

"Just kidding," Bree said. "But it got your attention." She scowled at them. "What do you two want? If it's about the Bulloch case, I'm nowhere near ready to file an appeal, and I'm certainly not ready to talk a deal."

"The Bulloch case," Beazley murmured. "No, no. We aren't ready to talk about that yet."