Avenging Angels (12 page)

“The Pendergasts,” Bree said. Her deadly enemies. One of these days she was going to figure out what had pissed them off.

Cianquino passed his hand under the sphere.

“Each of us makes this trip alone,” he said. “The very nature of enlightenment is that one person’s journey is unique. Each is like none other’s. We can answer you, Bree, but our replies can only be the truth: that you will know truth when
you
come upon it.”

The light winked out.

The sphere disappeared.

Bree felt the loss of its beauty like a little death.

“The journey is life. The struggle is life. You only truly understand at the end,” Ron said helpfully. “When you have all the answers, there isn’t any more to it.”

“We’re all walking up the Path as fast as we can,” Lavinia said. “We angels move a bit more quickly, but not all that much. There’s a lot we don’t know, either. Not yet. Not until we get there. One thing at a time. That’s the only way.”

Bree felt the beginnings of a monster headache. “Okay,” she said, although it wasn’t, really. “You know what, though? I hate ambiguity. I hate mushy answers. I always have. I want yes or no. I want right or wrong. I want black or white, win or lose, on or off.”

“You don’t want to choose without some kind of guarantee,” Petru said. “Very understandable.”

“But not possible,” Cianquino said with an air of finality. “And now, Bree. Your next question, if you please.”

Bree had a small bottle of ibuprofen in her briefcase. She took it out and dry-swallowed three tablets. “Russell O’Rourke,” she said. “My newest case. You wanted to see me about it.”

“We did,” Striker said. “It’s a little early for you to be soliciting cases.”

“I didn’t,” Bree said. “He solicited me.”

“True,” Ron said. “He showed up where he died. At his desk. That’s what Bree said.”

“But no Request for Appeal has been filed?” Professor Cianquino asked.

Ron shook his head. “Nope. Not according to Goldstein.”

“Hm.” Cianquino didn’t say anything for a moment. “Well. It’s within our jurisdiction. To file on his behalf. I suppose I could check with another firm and we could pass it along to them, but there’s very little precedent to do so. And we are obligated to take on pro bono cases, so to speak. So perhaps you will agree to take it on, Bree.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Bree said. “There’s more people like me? More companies like this one?”

“There’s only one in each temporal’s lifetime,” Striker said.

So she was alone.

Striker’s eyes flickered and Bree felt a second wave of rather detached sympathy from him. “So the case would be passed to a firm in another place and time.”

“Would it be soon?” Bree asked. “I mean, he’s not my client yet, not officially. But you know the saying: ‘Justice delayed is justice denied.’ ”

There was an amused, although kindly, silence, then Lavinia said. “Time makes no never mind to him, Bree, honey. He’s dead.”

“I see,” Bree said. She felt rather dismal. Only one in each temporal’s lifetime. And she was it. “Okay. So I’ll take the case on. You know, by the way, that I had a visit from Beazley and Caldecott.”

“
Did
you,” Ron said. “I must say I’m not surprised. Those two are going to get hauled in front of the ethics committee one of these days. We’re not even officially on the case. Were they looking for some kind of deal? Trying to warn you off?”

“No. There’s been some kind of death threat. Opposing counsel’s obligated to let the other guys know if there’s been a death threat. At least in the State of Georgia.” Bree thought a minute. “And it’s part of the federal process, too. I hope the celestial system’s the same.”

“Indeed it is.” Cianquino frowned. “Did they give you specifics?”

“I assumed it was the Pendergasts up to their tricks,” Bree said. “So I guess I’m glad Miles and Belli are back for a bit.” She paused. Something had been bothering her about Beazley and Caldecott, and she brought it up now. “Beaufort & Company is basically defense oriented, right? I mean, I’m sort of a heavenly public defender.”

“Heavenly,” Ron mused. There was a pile of books in front of him, and he patted the topmost volume. It was a copy of the Torah. Underneath was a King James version of the Christian Bible, and underneath that, a copy of the Koran.

“I understand that Beaufort & Company is ecumenical,” Bree said. “I guess I’m wondering how come the Prosecution doesn’t have a temporal advocate, too.”

“Oh, my goodness,” Ron said. “Of course they do. Beazley and Caldecott are human, Bree.”

Petru grinned at her, his teeth very white in his black beard. “Or, at least, they started out that way.”

“Started out that way?” Bree said. The room had grown chilly, she thought. She rubbed her arms. “What does that mean? They started out human. I’m human. Is something going to happen to me?”

Archie shrieked,
“Bibamus, moriendum est.”

“You hush up,” Lavinia scolded.

“Biba-what?” Bree said. She’d scraped through Latin with gentleman’s C’s, and promptly forgot everything but how to decline
erro
, “I err.”

“ ‘Death’s unavoidable, let’s have a drink,’ ” Professor Cianquino said. He smiled. “A little early in the day for that, I suppose.”

Bree’s cell phone buzzed with a text message. She flipped it open:

Bree shut the cell phone. “Too early for a drink? I don’t know about that.” The professor always kept a bottle of wine handy in a little bar at the bottom of his bookshelves. “I think I’d like a small glass of wine before I go.” Started out human? What the hell? “Maybe a big glass of wine before I go.”

What is the good of the strongest heart
In a body that’s falling apart?
A serious flaw—I hope you know that.

—Tim Rice, “Waltz for Eva and Che,”
Evita

 

 

 

“You’re down about five pounds from your former weight,” Dr. Lowry said. It was early Tuesday morning. It was good of Antonia to wangle an appointment so fast, but it was freakishly early. Not even seven thirty yet. “But everything else looks just fine.”

“I feel really stupid,” Bree said. “About coming in like this, I mean. I feel perfectly fine.”

Dr. Lowry didn’t say anything. She just tapped away at the keyboard in front of her and gazed intently at the screen, which held a document labeled NEW PATIENT QUESTIONNAIRE.

“The thing is, my little sister got on my case about the weight loss and my not sleeping so well, and she and my aunt Cissy basically strong-armed me.”

“Any anxiety?” Dr. Lowry interrupted in an absent way. She was a little older than Bree herself and very thin. She wore large horn-rimmed glasses that gave her a slightly owlish look. “Any depression?”

“No,” Bree said rather crossly.

Dr. Lowry tapped the “no” response into the computer and sat back. “You are in excellent shape. What’s your workout schedule?”

“My workout schedule?” Bree made a guilty face. “I run along the river a couple of times a week. Jog, really. But that’s about it.”

“Amazing.” Dr. Lowry shook her head. “Your blood pressure is ninety over eighty. Your resting heart rate’s sixty-five, and your exercise heart rate’s eighty after twenty minutes on the treadmill.” She peered at Bree with considerable interest. “I know professional basketball players who don’t have stats like that.”

“Well,” Bree said. “Well.”

“You’ve always been this fit?”

“I never paid much attention before,” Bree said frankly.

“We got your records in from your family doctor in Raleigh.” Dr. Lowry tapped the computer with affection. “Your last physical was three years ago and your stats weren’t nearly this good. So whatever you’re doing, keep it up.” There was a plastic replica of an eyeball on Dr. Lowry’s desk. She picked it up, then suddenly pitched it straight at Bree. Bree picked it out of the air before she had time to think about reacting.

“Wonderful reflexes, too.” Dr. Lowry extended her hand. Bewildered, Bree dropped the eyeball into it.

Dr. Lowry reached over and shook Bree’s hand. “Congratulations on being so fit.”

“My sister will be delighted to hear it. And again, sorry to take up your time.”

“Makes a change, treating live people,” Dr. Lowry said. “I kind of enjoyed it.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’m assisting at the coroner’s office. Hoping to be full-time there as soon as a position opens up. It should happen soon. Dr. Falwell’s sixty-five and a smoker. He’ll either retire or,” she added cheerfully, “drop dead. In the meantime . . .” She waved her hand around her little examining room. “This keeps the bills paid. My older brother heads the practice here,” she confided. “This is just until Dr. Falwell . . .”

“. . . retires or drops dead,” Bree said. “Right.”

Dr. Lowry swung back to the computer. “I don’t really anticipate any anomalies in your blood work. But the office will mail out the results in a couple of days. If there’s any kind of a problem, my nurse will call and ask you to come back in.” She rotated in her swivel chair and faced Bree with a smile. “Any other concerns?”

“No,” Bree said. “Nothing. As I said, I’m just fulfilling a promise I made to my little sister. And I appreciate getting in to see you so fast.”

Dr. Lowry nodded. “I owe your aunt Cissy a few favors. And I’m always glad to sit down with a new patient, especially the live ones. Ha ha!”

“Ha ha,” Bree said.

“Call me if you have any concerns.”

Bree dropped fifteen dollars for the co-pay at checkout and stamped out into a damp, rainy morning in a mood as glum as the gray skies overhead.

She’d spent the night before drawing up the steps for an investigation into Russell O’Rourke’s murder/suicide/ whatever. Part of the evening, at any rate. She’d lost a fair amount of time in fruitless speculation about her future. At the very best, it appeared she was doomed to be abnormally fit and sleepless as long as she was part of Beaufort & Company. At worst? What?

She decided not to think about it. Not right now.

“One thing, though,” she said to Sasha as she folded herself into the driver’s seat of her car, “the next guy that asks me out on a date is going to be in for a surprise. Got that, Sash? I may be doomed to end up a messy victim of the Pendergasts, or blasted away by some grisly spirit from who-knows-where, or turn into some ceramic version of myself, if Antonia’s to be believed, but I’m not resigning from the human race just yet. What did Archie say? Bibawhatsis? Death’s unavoidable, let’s have a drink? Well, there you are. Maybe I’ll take up vodka.” She thrust the car into gear and drove the short distance back to Angelus Street, stifling the impulse to racket down through the streets at seventy miles an hour.

Once inside the office, it didn’t take angelic prescience on the part of her employees to sense she was in a dangerous mood. Ron deposited a carafe of French press coffee at her desk in tactful silence. Petru dropped a warm and sympathetic hand on her shoulder before he stumped off to collect the downloads Bree had requested on the background of her preliminary list of suspects. By the time she assembled everyone for a staff meeting in the little conference room at eleven, she felt less like a candidate for the booby hatch and more like a lawyer in charge of her own life. She faced her totally normal-looking employees with an air of professional competence honed by practice sessions in her bathroom mirror. The celestial questions could take care of themselves. She had a case to solve.

“As you all know by now, we’re facing some issues about Russell O’Rourke’s death. The NYPD lieutenant initially assigned to the suicide is convinced O’Rourke was murdered by his wife. And Tully is convinced her husband was murdered by either a disaffected employee or a disgruntled investor. Our client himself”—Bree took a deep breath—“is, as you know, somewhat hampered in his ability to communicate with us, but we are operating on the assumption that he believes he’s been wrongly sentenced ... .”

“A reasonable assumption,” Petru rumbled.

“I never thought Purgatory was all that awful,” Ron said. “I mean, considering the alternatives . . .”

“T’cha,” Petru said disapprovingly. “Compromise is not to be tolerated. We must consider the best interests of the client.”

“Are you inferring I don’t care about our clients?” Ron said frostily.

“I am not inferring a thing, except that you are, as usual, not well-informed.”

“Yes, well, first things first,” Bree said. She was in no mood for a swatting match between the two. “Petru, how did you do on the background checks?”

“Very interesting,” Petru said with a pleased air. “Perhaps the most interesting information I shall save for the last. First, you must know that Cullen Jameson is out on parole.”

“Already?” Bree said. She had a vague recollection that the chief financial officer of O’Rourke Investment Bank had been sentenced to at least five years and that he had begun to serve time just before O’Rourke’s death three months ago.

“Time off for time served while in custody,” Petru said. “And, of course, more germane is the fact that without Mr. O’Rourke to testify against him, the case is not so strong.”

“And O’Rourke was planning to do that?” Bree rubbed the back of her neck thoughtfully.

“Oh, yes. He made quite a business of it. His belief that Jameson was behind the fraudulent activity was unequivocal.” He laid the Jameson file in front of her. A neat summary of Jameson’s background in Petru’s elegant calligraphy was attached to the outside of the file. Jameson was fifty-three, divorced, and he had three children in their twenties; he was a bad to medium-poor golfer, if his handicap was any indication. He held an MBA from Wharton and an undergrad degree in economics from Brandeis. He’d been posted overseas for part of his career. He had a short rap sheet, to Bree’s mild surprise: two DUIs and a physical assault charge (dismissed), filed by his ex-wife thirteen years ago.