Angel's Verdict Part 9

"You aren't thinking of maybe switching your regular restaurant?"

"Of course not," Bree said earnestly. "I love Huey's, t.i.tus."

"All I can say is goody, Miss Beaufort. As long as we keep things nice and quiet."

"Absolutely," Bree promised. "Sorry, again."

"Yeah. Right. Enjoy the food."

Dent sat back down as soon as t.i.tus went back to the kitchen, and grinned at her. "You know, I don't think he was all that concerned about losing a loyal customer. I think you just got a heavy hint to move on."

Bree stared at him, dismayed. "Oh my. You're right. He was hoping I'd go somewhere else, wasn't he?" She craned her neck around. Maureen ignored her. Chelsea ignored her. Two middle-aged women splitting a pizza glowered at Dent. One of them said loudly, "Huh!"

"Lord," Bree said. "I can't believe I almost got banned from Huey's. My mother would just die. Antonia would kill me. EB would never let me hear the end of it." She sank a little lower in the booth. If she wasn't in sight, maybe everyone would forget about her.

"About the case," Dent prompted. "Where are we at?"

"The preliminary stages. I'll know more about the direction the case is going in a few days. But Dent." Bree hesitated and then said gently, "I'm not sure there's anything you can add to the investigation. I appreciate the offer, but we seem to have most of the bases covered pretty well. Why this case in particular?"

"If you haven't figured it out, you're not much of an investigator." He placed his hands flat on the table. "Do you know who William Dent was?"

"You mean, when you were . . ." Bree didn't know quite how to phrase this, so she said, "When you were a temporal, you mean?"

"William Dent was my favorite pulp writer. Bar none. Better even than Zane Grey. He wrote pretty d.a.m.n good detective stories in magazines like the Black Mask and Astounding Tales. Back in the '50s. I can't believe they aren't publishing those magazines anymore.

"I'm not William Dent, Miss Beaufort.

"I'm Eddie O'Malley. The cop who sent an innocent man to the chair back in 1952."

He put one hand over his eyes. It took Bree a moment to realize he was weeping.

Six.

Justice delayed is justice denied.

-The Hon. Justice Learned Hand "La, la, la," Petru said. He tsked again in dismay. "The poor fellow. The poor fellow."

"Dent said he was drunk most of the time he was on duty," Bree said. "He doesn't remember much about the case at all. He started drinking when he was fifteen, never really stopped, and died drunk, he said, in a car crash six years after Bagger Bill Norris was executed."

The conference room was bright with sun this morning, although there had been a light frost the night before. Savannah in January was a place of muted greens, soft browns, and silvery gray; rainy days and sunny days each had their own wintery kind of beauty. That beauty never came to the cemetery outside the windows. No matter how often Ron and Lavinia swept up the dead leaves around the gravestones, planted new sod over the graves, and weeded the flagstones, the place reverted to ugliness and decay within days.

Worst of all, it smelled. Of old grief, old sins, decayed bodies.

"Dent's sure Norris was innocent?" Ron asked. He poked at the slim file of information Petru had pulled off the Internet. "According to these old newspaper stories, they found Norris pa.s.sed out in the back of the Tropicana Tide nightclub with a b.l.o.o.d.y knife in his hand and blood all over his clothes. They didn't have much in the way of forensics in those days, but they did match the blood type to Haydee's. And the two of them had been arguing for days. Norris had her signed to an iron-clad contract. She wanted out-possibly to marry Alexander Bulloch. She was a dancer, mostly, although the articles were coy about just what kind of dancing. Cootchie-cootchie, apparently."

Petru cleared his throat, which was usually the preface to a lecture. "The media was much less open then than it is nowadays. If a rape occurred, the reporters would write that the victim was 'interfered with.' This comes perhaps from a culture that was closed in upon it-"

"Really, Petru," Ron said crossly. "Enough's enough. It's perfectly clear what the newspapers meant."

Petru's thick eyebrows contracted. "What is this 'cootchie-cootchie,' then?"

"Hubba-hubba?" Ron said. "Don't ask me."

"Strippin'," Lavinia said. "Poor girl took her clothes off for men. Or most of 'em, anyway. Seems to me they had those little pasties things here and here." She gestured in the appropriate places.

"In Russia, I believe, they had these dances also." Petru stroked his beard. "So, does Mr. Dent know who is guilty if it was not Bagger Norris?"

Bree, who had been waiting patiently for her employees to sort themselves out, shook her head. "He says he hasn't a clue."

"He is sure Norris is innocent because why?"

"He was a little vague on that. He's, um . . . Out, as he refers to his condition, until he makes amends on his performance in the Haydee Quinn case. That's all they told him at his intervention."

"Goldstein might be able to help us there," Ron said. "I'll ask him." He tapped at his Blackberry to make a note and then clicked his tongue in annoyance. "Look at the time. It's almost ten o'clock. I'd better get over to the Munic.i.p.al Building."

"I'll go with you," Bree said. "I want to talk to Goldstein myself. Petru? Is there a way for you to get the microfiche files on Alexander Bulloch's sanity hearing from Mrs. Billingsley while I'm gone?"

"There is indeed."

"There are a couple of more things. Would you set up a time for me to see Mrs. Waterman? It'll have to be with Stubblefield, Marwick's permission, worse luck. They represent her. I've got to get that brooch back so they drop the theft case against Justine. I need to see Florida Smith, too. Schedule dinner with her if you can, as soon as possible. I'm a.s.suming that Mercury gives her time to eat. I'll take her to B. Matthew's if you can get us a reservation. She'll like that. You can ask Dent to pick her up from the set and bring her here."

Petru's beard bristled with indignation. "This is a secretary's duty, I think. To schedule appointments and make dinner reservations is Ronald's task. I am a paralegal. I have been studying. I am almost ready to take the Georgia Bar examination."

"Um," Bree said unsympathetically. This was all about a long-running rivalry between the two. Petru and Ron had frequent spats. Petru was angelic enough to avoid falling into pride or arrogance, but he wasn't above a little petty nit-picking. Neither was Ron. "Ron's going to be busy recovering records with me this morning. I'd like those appointments set up as soon as possible."

"I will attempt to do so."

"What I've got to attempt is to clean," Lavinia said. "Y'all finished in here?" She wore two sweaters this morning instead of one. A brightly knitted cap perched on her halo of white hair. It was clear she felt the cold. "This conference room wants sweeping out."

Bree gathered up her winter coat. "Ron and I are off to the Munic.i.p.al Building."

Lavinia tucked the collar of her sweater closer to her throat. "Y'all wrap up, now. It's bitter out there."

It was cold. Bree was feeling the lack of exercise over the past few days, and she'd walked to the office from the town house, but she wasn't sure she wanted to walk the eight blocks to the Munic.i.p.al Building. "I left my car at the town house," she said as they went through the gate to the street. "Do you want to brave the cold? Or shall I walk back and get my car?"

"I think our transportation problem's solved." Ron pointed down the road. The black Lincoln Continental was parked just past the intersection of Angelus and Mulberry. "That must be Mr. Dent. Or do we call him Lieutenant O'Malley now?"

"We call him Dent. He doesn't want anyone to start asking questions about him."

"Good grief. There can't be many temporals alive who would recognize him after all this time. It's been sixty years."

"There's Florida Smith. She's been looking at old newspaper stories about the case. Justine's still around and she remembers the coverage. And Dent says his old sergeant is still alive. His name is Robert E. Lee Kowalski. He's in a nursing home. Dent wants to see him, but he wants a witness present when he does, just in case Kowalski says something that breaks the case."

The Lincoln drew up to the curb. Dent got out and opened the back door. Bree let Ron precede her as she made the introductions. "Dent, this is Ron Parchese. Ron, this is William Dent."

Ron ducked his chin in acknowledgment and got in the car.

There couldn't have been a wider difference between the two men. Ron was dressed with his usual stylish elegance. He wore light gray trousers, a rep tie, and a pale yellow b.u.t.ton-down cotton shirt. Dent looked like he'd slept in his uniform. It was more than that, Bree decided. Ron showed himself to temporals occasionally-he was good friends with Antonia and he seemed to like Cordelia Eastburn, the local district attorney. To them, he appeared as he'd first appeared to Bree: a blond, well-dressed professional with a long-term partner and an easy charm.

But Ron had a subdued, shimmery aura. All Bree's angels did. She had gotten so accustomed to it that she barely registered it nowadays. It was the color of sunlight in a forest. It was very noticeable when he was next to Dent. "Well, for heaven's sake," Bree said aloud. Thoughtfully, she folded herself into the back seat.

Ron smiled at her, a little sadly, she thought. He put his lips to her ear. "If he makes it through the program, he'll get his light back."

"Do you think he will?" Bree whispered back.

"Depends on him."

"Where to?" Dent said loudly. The back of his neck was a self-conscious red.

Bree was embarra.s.sed but didn't have a clue how to deal with it. So she said, "We're headed to the Munic.i.p.al Building. Thank you for picking us up. You aren't needed out at the Rattigan plantation?"

"They're shooting on Front Street this morning. They brought the vans with the equipment about six, and they're setting up now. I'll be back and forth all day. But you need me, just call. I'll come and get you." He glanced at Ron through the rearview mirror. Ron gazed out the pa.s.senger window, ignoring Dent as thoroughly as Sasha had done. There didn't appear to be any malice in it. Dent simply wasn't there, in the same way that temporals didn't notice Ron or Petru were there, unless the angels wanted them to.

Out, Bree thought. The poor guy is Out.

"We're going to have to loop around Bull and go down Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard," Dent said. "The cops have closed off the west end of Bay."

"Okay. You can drop us off on the corner. We'll walk from there."

He let them out a half block down from the Munic.i.p.al Building.

Bree loved Old Savannah for a number of reasons, but high among them was the eclectic mix of architectural styles. James E. Oglethorpe had designed the original village as a series of twenty-four squares. Each square was to function as a mini-village, with a village office, a church, or a school among the houses, and a green park filled with trees and flowers in the middle of each square.

In the three-hundred-plus years since her founding, the city had been attacked and ravaged by pirates, damaged in several citywide fires, and occupied by General Sherman's troops in the Civil War. Each time a part of the city was destroyed, she grew back again. So Georgian homes sat next to Greek Revival churches. French Provincial vied with Carpenter Gothic. Queen Anne held pride of place next to Victorian. Bree's own favorite style, Southern Colonial, recalled her family's home in North Carolina.

The Munic.i.p.al Building was an exception to this charm. A six-story concrete block that just barely escaped being taken for a prison, the building sat uncompromisingly between Montgomery and Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard. At least the color blended in with the soft Savannah tones of the old city. The block was a yellow gray, which mellowed in the sunlight to the color of milky scrambled eggs.

"You got an appointment? You want me to wait?" Dent asked.

"No thank you. I'm not sure how long we'll be. And it's warming up. The walk back will do us good."

Dent fidgeted with the steering wheel. "You want to set up a time to go out and see Kowalski? Maybe tonight? I'm off duty at four. I checked. Visiting hours are until eight."

Bree paused halfway out of the car. "Do you think we can risk it? Will he recognize you?"

Dent shrugged. "He's over ninety. I don't know if it matters whether he recognizes me or not." His face set. "I need to talk to him, though."

"Let me see how the rest of my day shakes out. We'll go soon, I promise you. I'll call you." Bree ducked her head back inside the car to look him in the eye. "Make sure your cell phone's on."

Dent muttered something she couldn't hear.

"What?"

"I said, right. Okay." He held his phone up. "It's on."

She caught up with Ron, and both of them entered the Munic.i.p.al Building together.

The munic.i.p.al courts had been in session for an hour or more, and the huge open foyer was jammed with people. A few young mothers pushed baby carriages. Middle-aged couples in jeans, sweatshirts, and flip-flops wandered around in a bemused way. A couple of lawyers in suits acknowledged Bree with a wave. Guards in the dark blue uniforms of the combined Chatham County and Savannah police forces stood against the walls, wary, their hands near their gun belts. Bree tossed her briefcase onto the moving belt at the security gate. Ron drifted past the gate and stood waiting at the elevators. So he wasn't making his presence known this morning. She'd have to remember that if she ran into anyone she knew.

The elevator was full, and she edged herself to the back. A couple of secretaries got out on the sixth floor. One of them held the door for Bree, who shook her head, smiled, and said, "Forgot something downstairs. Thanks anyhow." She waited while the doors closed and the car proceeded up to the seventh floor.

The doors whooshed open. Bree was greeted by the familiar sign, with the winged scales of justice in the middle of the great gold seal.

CELESTIAL COURT OF APPEALS.

She followed Ron down to the heavy oak doors labeled RECORDS and into the cavernous s.p.a.ce beyond.

Bree had developed a decided fondness for the Hall of Records. The huge room looked like a monastery (although for all Bree knew, it was a monastery). The walls were of cut stone, cemented together with thick mortar. The vaulted ceiling soared high overhead, b.u.t.tressed by thick, enormously wide oak beams. The Gothic-style stained gla.s.s windows let in little light. The angel scribes, each dressed in the coa.r.s.e brown robes Bree thought of as typical monk garb, stood with quill pens at waist-high oak desks. Flaming torches were fastened to the stone pillars with fat bands of wrought iron. The whole huge room was illuminated by an evenly distributed mellow glow, like the light around Ron. Bree couldn't identify the source, but it generated a very restful feeling.

"If it isn't Parchese himself." Goldstein bustled out from between two desks. "And Bree. It's good to see you, my dear. It's been a while."

"Antonia and I went home for the holidays."

"Glad to hear it." Goldstein was short, round, and a little untidy looking. A fringe of black hair surrounded his otherwise perfectly bald head. "Got a new case on?"

"I think we do."

They followed him down the flagstone aisle to the very back of the room. The back wall was covered with thousands of wood cubbyholes, each containing rolls of parchment. A chest-high counter of a burled wood divided the wall from the rest of the room. Goldstein flipped up the hinged flap set into the counter and let himself inside. "I've been away myself, you know."

"Really?" Bree said with interest. Did he go home for the holidays, too?

"I'm at home here," Goldstein said in response to her unvoiced thought. "No, I was away on a task that should bring joy to the heart of your colleague here."

"You're not computerizing!" Ron exclaimed. "Will wonders never cease?"

Goldstein's lower lip jutted out. He looked like a balked baby. "How did you guess?"

"Because this operation is so behind the times, Goldstein, it isn't funny. At some point you've got to give up and slog on in to the twenty-first century."

"Don't give me that, Parchese. You didn't guess about the computers. You knew."

"Okay. I give. It was an agenda item for Vatican IV. I got an e-mail."

"Hm. There is considerable pressure to modernize, as you call it." He cast his eyes upward in a pious way and remained respectfully silent for a long moment. "However."

"I knew there'd be a however," Ron muttered.

Goldstein folded his hands over his considerable belly and gazed benevolently at them. "I am resisting. I will resist until I am rea.s.signed. I like it this way. How may I help you?"

Bree jerked to attention. The whole records room was very peaceful, almost lulling. It'd be easy to go off in a doze here. "Yes, of course. We have a client who'd like to file a Request for Appeal. Consuelo Bulloch."

"Bulloch," Goldstein mused. He turned and ambled down the row of cubbyholes. "Bulloch, Alexander . . . Bulloch, Alexander II . . . Ah. Here we are. Bulloch, Consuelo."