Avenging Angels

by Mary Stanton

Bree and Ron passed through the metal detector and got into the middle elevator. They rode to the sixth floor and then, after the last fellow passenger, a tired-looking cleaning lady, got off, headed up to the seventh. The doors swooshed open, and Bree faced the familiar gold medallion on the opposite wall that read:

  CELESTIAL COURT OF APPEALS

  The Scales of Justice, cupped by a pair of feathery wings, were embossed in the center.

  She led the way down to the door marked RECORDS and pushed her way inside.

  The Hall of Records was an exact replica of an old monastery—although for all Bree knew it was a section of a monastery—with flagstone floors, torch sconces, and stained-glass windows topped by Gothic arches. Massive oak beams buttressed the soaring ceilings. Angels robed like monks stood in front of waist-high oak podiums, scratching on vellum with quill pens. There was a faint, winged rustling as Bree and Ron walked down the aisle to the big oak counter at the back. Hundreds of cubbyholes filled with rolls of parchment lined the far wall. Goldstein, his bald head glinting in the torchlight, twiddled his fingers in greeting as they approached.

  “Still resisting the computer age, I see,” Ron said. He leaned on the waist-high counter and shook his head.

  “I like it,” Goldstein said. “And you think I’d get any kind of productivity out of these guys under fluorescent lights? Phooey.” He rubbed the back of his neck, and a silvery feather floated upward. “So, what can I do for the two of you this fine morning?”

  “Russell O’Rourke,” Bree said. “I’d like a copy of the Request for Appeal.”

  “O’Rourke.” Goldstein frowned and then tugged at his ear. “O’Rourke. Doesn’t ring a bell, I’m afraid, but let me check.” He bent down, rummaged under the counter, and emerged with a leather-bound book. He flipped the pages over with a thoughtful air. “Russell O’Rourke,” he said, with a slight emphasis on the cognomen. “I don’t see a Russell O’Rourke. Nope.” He slammed the book shut.

  “But he contacted me yesterday,” Bree said.

  Goldstein raised one eyebrow. What was time, to an angel?

  “He did get in touch,” Bree said firmly. “He killed himself several months ago at his desk, at his place in New York. The desk ended up in a job lot at an auction house here in Savannah. I ended up at the auction. I put my hands on the desk and bingo, there he was, or part of him, asking for help. Just like all the others.”

  Goldstein reopened the ledger and paged through it again. “Benjamin Skinner. Check. Probert Chandler, check. Both cases pleaded and disposed, quite professionally, I might add, dear Bree. But no Request for Appeal has been filed for Russell O’Rourke.”

  “There must have been an initial disposition of his soul,” Ron said. “You’ve got that cross-reference somewhere in this mass of paper, I hope.”

  Goldstein scowled, moved to the farthest point of the wall, and plucked a roll from one of the cubbyholes. He trundled back—he really was a chubby little angel—and slapped the document in front of Ron. “Russell O’Rourke. Consigned to Purgatory. Eternal Life sentence.”

  “Purgatory? Not a higher circle of Hell?” Bree said. “Good grief. The man’s list of crimes is as long as your arm.”

  “Divine Justice has little in common with the temporal,” Goldstein said with an air of reproof. “And it is not for us to question.”

  “It most certainly is,” Bree said, in some indignation. “Purgatory. My word. Do you have any idea how many widows and orphans the man left behind after the crash of his company? On the other hand,” she added hastily, suddenly reminded that she was close to violating the canon of ethics by speaking ill of her client, “as Mr. O’Rourke’s attorney, I should point out that a sentence of Eternal Life in Purgatory is undoubtedly a miscarriage of justice and should be looked into as soon as possible.” She brought herself to a halt and then said, “But how?”

  “You can file a Request for Appeal on his behalf,” Goldstein said. “Your mother, bless her soul, was prone to do that later in her career.”

  “Shut up, Goldstein,” Ron said.

  Bree stared at him. Ron covered Bree’s hands with his own. “It’s the start of a very slippery slope, this kind of advocacy,” he said. “We’re not ready.”

  Bree backed away from the two of them. The recent discovery that Francesca was not her biological mother had been painful. The mystery surrounding the death of her birth mother, Leah, was the stuff of her nightmares. “Tell me what you know, please,” she said as courteously as she could. “I deserve to know about this, I think.”

  Behind her, the soft rustlings in the cavernous room stilled to an absolute quiet.

  Goldstein, avoiding Ron’s furious gaze, folded his hands on the counter and said, “Leah felt she could save more souls if she went out looking for them.” He cocked his head to one side, as if listening, then patted the sides of his habit. “I may even have an old card of hers around somewhere. Yes! I do! Here it is.” He pulled a small piece of pasteboard out from the swathe of brown wool and handed it to Bree.

  LEAH WINSTON-BEAUFORT, ESQUIRE ACLU

  “ACLU?” Bree stared at the card in confusion. Other than the gold medallion she wore on a chain around her neck, this was the only artifact she had of Leah’s. She rubbed the heavy stock between her thumb and forefinger.

  “Angelus Celestial Liberties Union,” Ron said. “But truly, Bree, we want to wait on this a bit. You’ve only been in practice a few weeks, after all.”

  “Two months,” Bree said. “And if Leah could file appeals on behalf of clients, so can I.”

  “Perhaps we should discuss this with Armand,” Ron said. “I don’t think he’s going to be happy about this turn of events at all.”

  “Any reason in particular?” Bree kept her voice level and struggled to look polite and not furious enough to spit nails. She hated being balked more than anything. No, she hated being lied to more than that. But a dislike of being stymied was right up there with her pet peeves. She’d learned early on, in her days at the family law firm in Raleigh, that losing her temper was the quickest way to professional suicide, so she said, with deceptive calm, “Why should Professor Cianquino object to my carrying on the tradition of the family firm?”

  “Please don’t be mad,” Ron said.

  “I’m not angry,” Bree said sweetly. “Truly. I just can’t see why we shouldn’t proceed with a tactic that’s in the best interests of my client. And I see no reason why we need to drag Professor Cianquino into this.”

  “You’re furious enough to spit nails,” Ron said. She’d forgotten, for the moment, that she was dealing with angels. “And Armand is Company director, and ultimately Petru, Lavinia, Sasha, and I are answerable to him for your welfare.”

  This bit of information was new to Bree—the Company was notoriously stingy with information—and it diverted her irritated focus enough to ask, “What about Striker?”

  “Gabriel Striker? The private investigator?” Goldstein said. “Hoo. He answers to another set of obligations altogether.”

  Bree could believe that. Striker was the most militant of the Company, and he only showed up when there was a lot of physical trouble in the offing. She’d met with Striker in his office on Chippewa Square once, and the wall behind his desk was stacked with lethal-looking swords. She couldn’t imagine either Ron or Petru picking up a weapon, much less the fragile Lavinia. “Fine,” Bree said. “If it makes you feel better, Ron, we’ll call on Professor Cianquino this afternoon.” She smiled and turned to Goldstein. “But right now, I’d like to go ahead and file a Request for Appeal on behalf of Russell O’Rourke. Unfairly and prejudicially sentenced, or maybe make that: Erroneously sentenced to a punitive term in Purgatory. How’s that?”

  Goldstein nodded. “I’ve heard better, but it’ll do. You need the transcript of the trial?”

  “Oh, dear, yes,” Bree said, flustered. “Sorry. Of course you’ll need a brief. I’ll get right on it.”

  “The transcript,” Goldstein said, dropping a
thick roll of parchment on the counter in front of Ron. “And a list of Facts Stipulated in Evidence.” He dropped another. “And a Motion for Dismissal.” He dropped a third.

  “A Motion for Dismissal?” Bree said. “The guy gets sentenced to Purgatory and he has the nerve to ask for a dismissal?”

  “That’s pretty standard with people like O’Rourke. Can’t live without their lawyers and can’t die without them, either. The motion was tossed out, as you might imagine.” He gathered the rolls together and tied them into a neat pile with a piece of twine. “Here you go, my dear. And good luck.”

  Bree tucked the files into her briefcase. She and Ron left the records room for the elevator. She was silent all the way down to the first floor. For one thing, she was never sure when Ron was visible to temporals like herself, and she didn’t want to chance anyone seeing her talking to an invisible friend. The professional community in Savannah was small, and word got around fast. For another, she was still steamed, and she made it a rule not to lose her temper with employees. As they lined up to file out of the building through the security kiosk, her irritation got the better of her. She turned to Ron. “Would it just kill you guys to let a little light into things now and then? I mean, why do I always have to find out things about Leah and Uncle Franklin in the wrong place, at the wrong time, and with the wrong people? I mean, finding out just now that my own mother was a prominent legal aid lawyer? And I’m supposed to be running the law firm she and Franklin left to me? You realize I looked seven kinds of a fool in front of Goldstein.”

  Ron patted her sympathetically. “You’re working yourself up into a snit.”

  “I am not working myself up into a snit,” Bree began furiously.

  “Hey! Bree! Working yourself up into another snit, I see.”

  Bree turned to see Cordelia Eastburn, briefcase in hand. Cordelia was the DA and made no bones about the fact that she was bound and determined to become the first black female governor of Georgia. Everyone in the legal community in Savannah was sure she was going to make it.

  “Hey, Cordy,” she said.

  “Hey, yourself.” Cordy looked at Ron with an inquiring lift of her eyebrow.

  “Oh, good, you’ve seen Ron,” Bree said, “Cordy? This is Ron Parchese, who works for me, and Ron, this is Ms. Eastburn.”

  The two shook hands. “I’ve been wondering if I was ever going to meet some of your staff,” Cordy said. “I hope she’s treating you well, Mr. Parchese.”

  “Ron,” said Bree, “is a perfect angel to work with. As a matter of fact, my office staff is stuffed full of angels.”

  Cordy made a noise that sounded like “Ah-hum.” Then: “You bet. Say, Bree, I was hoping to have a word. You got a minute to come on up to my office?”

  “Sure.”

  Ron eased her briefcase from her hand. “I’ll just get this back to the office. Would you like me to read over the transcript and check out some case citations?”

  “Yes,” Bree said, “fine,” and then apologetically: “You might give Professor Cianquino a call and set up an appointment for this afternoon. You’re right. We should check that, um . . . precedent out with him.”

  Ron smiled. “Will do.”

  “My,” Cordy said, as they watched him swing out the glass doors to the street, “that man’s got the sunniest smile. Must be good to have him around the office.” She walked over to the elevator and punched the Up button. “Nice job on that Chandler case, by the way.”

  “Thanks, Cordy.”

  The conversation remained desultory until they settled themselves in Cordy’s office. A picture of her with the current governor of Georgia held pride of place over the credenza, next to her diploma from Stanford Law School, and to the right of a series of photos of Cordy with street kids from her best-known charity. She was a small woman with a large presence, not as tall as Bree, but much more full-figured. Like most professional women in Savannah, including Bree herself, she favored dark suits with silk tops. Her one concession to a little glamour was her earrings. The pair she had on today was made of turquoise beads that hung almost to her shoulders. Bree leaned closer for a good look. “Haven’t I seen those before?”

  “Picked them up at the auction yesterday.”

  “The O’Rourke auction? I didn’t see you there.”

  “Came late and didn’t stay too long. Had a big to-do at the Help Center. But I did stay long enough to have a chat with Bert Finnegan. You know Bert? Decent sort of fellow for a red-necked, money-grubbing white boy.”

  Bree pursed her lips so she wouldn’t laugh.

  “He’s got some kind of beef with this Mrs. O’Rourke.”

  “Over his commission, I expect,” Bree said cautiously.

  “Says she rigged the bidding. Seems to think he was robbed. Next thing I hear is you’ve signed on as this woman’s local counsel.”

  “This sure is a small town. And word sure gets around fast.”

  “That it does. And thank the good Lord that the first person people think to talk to is me.” Cordy leaned across her desk. “Now, my office isn’t about to get involved in some pissant little wrestling match over a salesman’s commission. But Bert’s claiming bribery—of the poor souls at the printer’s office who changed the dates on the invitations; conspiracy to defraud—on account of all the bidders on this O’Rourke’s estate were buddies; and I don’t know what all.” Cordy leaned back in her chair and abruptly dropped her good-old-girl persona. “You sure you want to take this woman as a client, Bree? I’m asking this as a friend of yours, you understand, not in my capacity as head of this office.” She waved a hand in the direction of the law books in her bookcase.

  Bree folded her hands, sat back in her chair, and didn’t say anything.

  “Fine,” Cordy said after a long moment. “Your client’s going to be hearing from this office. Just thought I’d give you a heads-up. There’s another thing. We’ve got us a visitor.”

  Since this didn’t seem to require a response, Bree didn’t give her one.

  “Name’s Eddie Chin. He’s on leave of absence from his home base, which just happens to be the New York PD. Says he hasn’t seen his good buddy Sam Hunter for ages and got to missing him something awful.”

  “He’s a friend of Hunter’s?” The Chatham County police lieutenant had been involved in both of Bree’s cases. And he’d been making some mild overtures to Bree herself.

  “And, oddly enough, Eddie’s from the Manhattan precinct, which, oddly enough, includes 380 Central Park West. Odder still, that’s the very place where Mr. Russell Clarence O’Rourke shot himself in the head with a twelve-gauge shotgun not more than three months ago.”

  “You’re kidding.” Bree was very interested now. “Why is he here, this Eddie Chin?”

  “Well, now, no one’s said a word to me, officially. But what’s your best guess?” Cordy waited a moment and then said, “They call him ‘Ninja.’ ”

  “Ninja?”

  “That’s what I hear.”

  Bree thought about this for a minute and then said, “Men. Good grief. Ninja, huh.”

  “Apparently they always get their man. Or woman, as the case might be. Yeah. Well.” Cordy got to her feet and opened her office door. “You hear anything about this Ninja, you call me, hear? Or Mrs. O’Rourke.”

  Bree nodded in a noncommittal way.

  “Just a word in my ear, privatelike.” Cordy could be a bulldog when she wanted.

  “I have absolutely no idea what Tully O’Rourke expects of me, Cordy. If something comes up that I should pass along to you, I’ll do the right thing.”

  “Uh-huh.” Cordy looked at her without expression for a long moment. Then she leaned across the desk. “Thanks for dropping by, Bree. My door’s always open.”

  “Yes. It’s been a very interesting little chat, Cordy.” Bree slung her purse over her shoulder and went out into the corridor. “Ninja?” she said over her shoulder.

  Cordy’s laugh followed her all the way to the elevator.r />
  Six

  Once more on my adventure brave and new.

  —Robert Browning, “Rabbi ben Ezra”

  “It’s such a pleasure seeing you for lunch, Lieutenant. We’ll have to do this more often.” Bree smiled at his companion. “And it’s a real pleasure to meet you, Sergeant Chin.”

  Eddie Chin was a little less than medium height, and solidly built. Sam Hunter sat at ease next to him, opposite her in the booth. Neither man needed a uniform to look like a cop; there was a skeptical alertness about the two of them that shouted “police” from yards away. But where Hunter had a watchful stillness, Eddie was jumpy with badly suppressed energy.

  Bree handed the menu back to the waitress. She liked having lunch at Huey’s; it was only a few steps away from her town house on Factor’s Walk, and the thin-crust pizza was terrific. A few hundred feet away, across the brick road and beyond the pier, the Savannah River rolled past, its waters a steely blue. “Y’all are going to love this pizza.”

  “Anchovy pizza’s not your traditional Southern food,” Eddie Chin said. “I like to eat local when I travel. But Sam told me to pass on the hominy grits and the fried pie.”

  “I’ll order us some pecan rolls for dessert,” Bree said. “They’re a Southern specialty. You try our pecan rolls, Mr. Chin, and you aren’t going to want to go back to New York for weeks.”

  “Call me Eddie.” He gave her a little salute with his left hand. His nails were bitten down to the quick.

  “And I’m Bree. Well, then, Eddie. Is this your first visit to Savannah?”

  He seemed startled. “Uh, yeah.”

  “I hope Hunter here’s been showing you the prettiest parts of our city.”

  Eddie looked at her earnestly. For a bare moment, he seemed to relax, and she caught a glimpse of a different man altogether—flirtatious and confident. A quick, cheeky grin flitted across his face. “So far, Bree, the prettiest part of this city is you.”

  “Why, thank you, sir.”