Angel's Advocate

by Stanton, Mary

  “Probert Chandler?”

  “Probert Chand . . .” Bree could almost see the data retrieval going on behind Cordy’s eyes. “Okay. Got it. The kid’s daddy. DOA on Skidaway Road about four months ago. What about him?”

  “Have you heard anything about the resolution of the investigation into the car crash?”

  Cordy raised one eyebrow. She had an open, very readable face. “And what should I be hearing?”

  “I don’t know. That the case is still open, maybe?”

  “I can find out, I suppose. Any reason why I should?”

  “Just lookin’ for every possible exculpatory road.”

  Cordy shrugged. “Guy was rich. Got himself drunk and misjudged the turn in the road on a wet and stormy night. Just have to praise be he didn’t take any of our innocent citizens with him. Now, if you don’t mind, Bree, I’ve got to get along.”

  “I owe you one, Cordy. Thanks.”

  “You owe me a lot more than one.” She smiled widely—not an angelic smile, by any stretch of the imagination—and stepped aside to let Bree through her office door. “One last thing. If the kid doesn’t agree to my terms, she’s looking at some jail time for sure. You got that? This is the deal. I’m not open to any further negotiations.”

  Bree nodded. “You’ll be hearing from me. One way or the other.”

  “So if there is an ongoing investigation into Chandler’s death, the DA’s office doesn’t know a thing about it.” Bree sat at the desk in her tiny office. She’d gone straight from the DA back to Angelus Street, flushed with the minor victory. Petru sat in the only other chair the space allowed. Ron perched on the edge of her desk. Lavinia hummed away in the corner, brushing the feather duster over the bookcase under the room’s sole window. She looked at her team with affection. “If we can prove it’s murder, it mitigates the other charges, don’t you think? At least it can help. And poor Mr. Chandler gets to move out of the ninth circle to a far sunnier place, just like that.” She snapped her fingers.

  “There are the other charges to consider,” Petru said gravely. “Simony. Profiteering. I do not believe we can guarantee sunshine. At least not yet.”

  Bree smiled confidently. “We’re going to give it our best shot. Which means all the usual info, guys. Autopsy report, accident report. Interviews with any witnesses. Just for a start. We don’t have a ton of info from our client, to be sure. Just ‘Marlowe’s. Lindsey. Blood. Blood. Blood.’ And, of course, ‘I didn’t die in the car.’ But I think it’s safe to assume that this is one case with three connections, not two cases that are unrelated.”

  Ron nodded. “Got it.”

  Petru shook his head. “Perhaps.”

  “Petru, please get me all the background data on Chandler and his company that you can find. Who was he? Where did he come from? Who did he associate with? Anything you can turn up on the Internet. We haven’t got a lot to go on. Just his ghost’s reference to his business. But any lead’s better than no lead.”

  “I have already started a file,” Petru said with a rather smug air. “I assumed we would be following the procedures established by our last successful case.”

  “Well, whoop-dee-do,” Ron muttered.

  The two angels glared at each other.

  Bree paused a moment. This antagonism was new. Finally, she said, “Is there something the two of you need to discuss? With me? With each other?” Neither of her angels looked her in the eye. “No? If not, can we get on with this case?” She locked her hands behind her head and leaned back in her chair. “I think procedures are a good thing, myself,” she said. “But we’ve got to be flexible. Each of us has to be able to take on all kinds of things. Circumstances are going to be different with each new case. I don’t need to remind you both that we’re a team here, and a pretty specialized team at that. We’ve got a live client here who’s going to need a pretty aggressive defense right here in Savannah, if I can’t get her to plead out. And I’m no expert in juvenile cases.”

  “You sayin’ you might need to bring somebody else in to help with this chile’s defense?” Lavinia said.

  “I hope not. So Petru, I’d like you to start researching similar cases involving minors, so I can get a better sense of the pitfalls ahead. If you can get the names of the two or three top juvenile specialists here in town, I’d be grateful. And Ron—could you set up meetings with Madison Bellamy, Hartley Williams, and the Girl Scout and her mom? What’s her name? Sophie Chavez, that was it. And I’d like a copy of that surveillance tape from the mall.” She got to her feet and slung the strap of her briefcase over her shoulder. “I’ve got to go. I’m going to get Lindsey to agree to allocute, apologize, and get the outward and visible signs of this case out of the way.”

  Ron rolled his eyes. “Apologize? That kid? When pigs fly, Bree, sweetie. When pigs fly.”

  Bree frowned. “Why do you say that?”

  “You have not seen it yet.” Petru sighed heavily and shifted his cane across his knees. “I thought perhaps you had not.”

  “Seen what? What are you guys talking about?”

  “That chile went on Bonnie-Jean Morrissey’s talk show and said how’d she do it again, that’s what,” Lavinia said repressively.

  “What?” Bree said. She sat down, slowly. “Bonnie-Jean Morrissey? That’s the Bonny Good Morning show, right? Lindsey went on the talk show and said she’d do it again? Do what again? Mug a Girl Scout?”

  “Yes, indeedy,” Ron said. “Said it was a real gas. A hoot. A scream.”

  “At least it’s just a local show,” Bree said feebly. Bonnie Morrissey was one of those round, pink-cheeked, silver-haired, extremely pretty women the South seemed to breed like hamsters. She looked like Paula Deen’s little sister. Her seven A.M. talk show was gossipy, verging on the scurrilous. “Nobody watches it, though,” Bree said confidently. “Cordy hasn’t seen it, for instance. She would have said something. She would have said a lot.”

  “Our little princess looked right into the camera and told all the folks at home that she couldn’t see what half of the fuss was about. And”—Ron leaned forward, his face solemn—“she’s got some modeling contract, she says. Out of L.A. She’s headed out west sometime this week to do interviews.”

  “She’s out on remand,” Bree said crossly. “What in the name of all that’s holy is that idiot child thinking?”

  The office phone rang. Lavinia picked it up and said, “Beaufort & Company. If you need he’p, you come to us.” She listened a moment. “Uh-huh. Is that right?” Then, softly dismayed, “Isn’t that too bad, honey. The courthouse or the jail?”

  Bree gritted her teeth.

  “Sheriff’s office, then. You don’t worry, now. Ms. Beaufort’ll be along directly.” She rested the handset on her thin chest and smiled sunnily at Bree. “Well, I can tell you who does watch that morning show, and that’s the po-lice. Lindsey’s down there right now.”

  “She’s in jail?” Bree clutched her head with both hands. “Damn it all.”

  Lavinia waved the phone. “You want to talk to Mrs. Chandler?”

  “Sure.” Bree stretched her hand out, then spoke into the receiver. “Carrie-Alice?”

  Carrie-Alice’s voice was detached and tired, all at once. “They say she’s violated the conditions of her release with that escapade this morning. Did you see it?”

  “Did I see it? Not yet. We’ll ask the station for a copy.” She looked across the desk at Ron and wriggled her eyebrows. He nodded competently and bustled out of the office. “Where are they keeping her?”

  Bree had two phone lines into the office—the rep from Southern Bell had managed to convince her that nothing irritated callers more than a busy signal—and the button for the second one lit up. Ron wasn’t wasting any time.

  “In a holding area with a couple of other juveniles.” Carrie-Alice paused, and added doubtfully, “She seems to be safe enough.”

  Ron glided into her office, a pink While You Were Out phone message slip in one hand. Except
that she wasn’t out; she was right here. She looked at the scrawled message with some irritation.

  Hartley Williams on line 2.

  Lindsey’s other friend from the mall. Now that was interesting. Bree held her forefinger up in a wait-a-minute gesture and said into the phone, “Do you want me to come down right away, Carrie-Alice?”

  “I called George,” Carrie-Alice said.

  It took Bree a moment to process this. “You mean your son?”

  “Yes. He’s in Ames. Both my older children are. He works out of the head office. Katherine’s in graduate school at Iowa State.” She caught herself up. “I’m rambling, sorry. In any event, George will be flying in later today, depending on his schedule. To be frank, I’m not in any hurry to have Lindsey back home until he gets here. If we just let her sit for a bit, would that be a bad thing?”

  “It’s up to you,” Bree said noncommittally. “I wouldn’t want her to spend the night there. I’ll set the process for the new arraignment in motion. When they give me a date and time I’ll make sure and be there. I suppose she’s safe enough in the holding pen at the sheriff’s office. Where are you now?”

  “Home,” Carrie-Alice said briefly. “The police picked her up a few minutes ago.”

  The lighted button on the second line went dark. “Then I’ll call you when I have a time set to see the juvenile court judge. I’ll meet you there, and we can see how successful we are at getting her back home.” Bree hung up with a brief good-bye and looked at Ron in dismay. “Hartley Williams was on line two? She just hung up.”

  The phone beeped discreetly, and Bree picked up and identified herself. The voice on the other end of the line was high-pitched and childish. “This is Hartley Williams,” she said rather breathlessly. “I need to speak to Lindsey’s lawyer.”

  “You are,” Bree said. “I’m very glad you called me, Miss Williams.”

  “Oh. Good. I was thinking maybe I should talk to you about what happened out at the mall.”

  “I think that’s a great idea. Would you like to set up a meeting?”

  “I tried to find your office,” she said petulantly, “but the GPS in my car’s all screwed up. Well, it’s my stepfather’s car, which just goes to show. I mean, everything about him’s screwed up, including his car. So. Anyways. I’m at Savannah Sweets. You know where that is? It’s right down on the river.”

  “Sure,” Bree said. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  “And is there, like, anything I have to sign?”

  Bree frowned, puzzled. “Sign? Are you looking for representation, Miss Williams? Have you been charged with anything?”

  “You mean, like, a crime? No! I haven’t done a thing. But you said, like, you could represent me? That’d be very cool. I want to get on the talk shows, like Lin did this morning.”

  Bree stretched out in her office chair and stared at the ceiling. “I don’t do that kind of work, Miss Williams. But I would like a little insight into Lindsey, and I was hoping you could provide some. Are you willing to talk to me under those conditions?”

  “Will there be any reporters with you?”

  “I’m afraid not. I’ll tell you what, I’ll spring for a cup of coffee and maybe a praline. How’s that sound?”

  “Okay, I guess. Could you maybe bring some reporters?”

  “No. Sorry. I’ll see you in ten minutes, then.”

  “Better make it twenty. I’ve got to, like, get my face on and stuff. I just bombed out of the house this morning after watching Bonnie-Jean Morrissey, and I look like, God, I don’t know. A total mess.”

  Bree put the receiver gently into the cradle. “Oh, Lordy,” she said to Petru. “Has the younger generation gone completely nuts?”

  “ ‘The young of this city have no respect for tradition.’ ” Petru’s thick black eyebrows drew together. “Cicero, perhaps. But Cicero found the younger Romans to be just as flighty as this Miss Hartley Williams. Things do not change, dear Bree.”

  Bree looked at her watch. It was less than a five-minute walk to Savannah Sweets. “Did you get your hands on a copy of the surveillance tape? I want to go over it again, just to see how much Miss Hartley Williams contributed to this caper. I’m not sure the television station ran the whole tape.”

  “I did obtain it. It is stored on my computer.”

  “Let’s take a quick look.”

  Petru limped out and returned with his laptop. He settled it carefully on her desk, then brought the file up.

  The snatch-and-grab didn’t take long: two and a half minutes from start to finish. An adorable little girl in the familiar Girl Scout uniform stood just outside Bloom ingdale’s. She had long, curly dark hair.

  “Sophie Chavez,” Bree said aloud.

  “A charming child,” Petru said. “The jury would love this little girl, I think.”

  The cookies were stacked on a rickety card table. A middle-aged woman in jeans and a light jacket stopped, examined the cookies, and picked up a box of the peanut butter (Bree’s own favorite). The Hummer came down the parking lot. Lindsey leaned out of the driver-side window. A very pretty, athletic-looking girl, whom Bree knew was Madison Bellamy, leaned out of the passenger side. The middle-aged lady gave Sophie Chavez a few bills, received change, and walked on. Sophie put the money in a Skechers shoebox. The Hummer rocked to a halt. Lindsey jumped out. Madison got out the other side, frowning. Lindsey, giggling so hard she couldn’t stand up straight, dashed forward, grabbed the shoebox, and danced backwards. Sophie Chavez started to cry. A thin, anxious-looking woman who had been hovering a few yards away dashed up and grabbed Sophie protectively.

  “Mrs. Shirley Chavez,” Petru said.

  Madison turned and began to argue with Lindsey. A third girl, plump, with a thick lower lip, leaned out of the open passenger door, her eyes round with dismay.

  “Hartley,” Bree murmured.

  Sophie, mouth open in what must have been a resounding shriek, ran toward Lindsey. Lindsey whirled, pushed the kid over, and jumped into the Hummer. Hartley withdrew into the depths of the vehicle. Madison ran forward, helped Sophie to her feet, and jumped out of the way as Lindsey gunned the car past her.

  “Not menacing,” Bree said. “But even so . . .”

  The Hummer came to a second, jolting halt—the brakes on the thing must need relining every other week, if Lindsey drove it that way all the time—and Madison climbed back into it.

  The image went blank.

  “T’cha,” Petru said. “KGB potential, that one.”

  “Lindsey, you mean.” Bree leaned back with a sigh. Petru picked up his laptop. “Did you notice the T-shirts? All three of them were wearing the same T-shirt.”

  “I did not,” Petru admitted.

  “Looked like ‘Social Club’ from what I could make out.” Bree shook her head. “Argh. Do you suppose there’s a teenage club for muggers?”

  “Savannah Sweethearts Social Club,” Hartley said, some twenty minutes later. Then, with an air of reproof: “It’s our band.”

  “Oh,” Bree said.

  Hartley sucked on her Black Cow milk shake. They sat outside Savannah Sweets at a small table. The Savannah River rolled placidly by. Even in late October, the riverfront here was clogged with tourists.

  “Madison even wrote us a song,” Hartley said. She was dark-haired and plump, with a pudgy, marshmallow-like prettiness. She sang, in a thin, true soprano: “Sweethearts send a sentimental sound to the guys, to the chicks, to the people all around. If you’d like another version that’ll get you off the ground, it’s the singing Sweet Savannahs where the happy can be found.”

  The guy at the table next to them—in shorts, white socks, sandals, and a red plastic windbreaker—broke into enthusiastic applause.

  Hartley preened. “Isn’t that, like, totally cool?”

  “Um,” Bree said.

  “My stepfather manages us.” Hartley swished her straw vigorously up and down in her milk shake. “And he is like, so into getting us out there and o
n camera. We’ve had, like, three or four gigs at other high schools so far this year. I was thinking maybe Bonnie-Jean Morrissey would be, like, over the moon to have us on her show, but I suppose now that Lindsey’s gone and hogged all the air-time, we haven’t got a chance.”

  “You never know,” Bree said diplomatically.

  “ ’Course, now that Lin’s going to jail, we might get even, like, the networks interested.”

  For a brief, insane moment, Bree wondered if the Girl Scout cookie heist was a publicity ploy on the part of the Savannah Sweethearts Social Club.

  “ ’Course, Madison doesn’t think so. Madison thinks all this publicity is bad for the band.”

  “Madison sounds pretty sensible,” Bree ventured.

  Hartley rolled her eyes in scorn. “Huh. Any publicity is good publicity.”

  Bree took a sip of coffee. “Hartley, I talked to Lindsey for the first time yesterday. She seems bent on self-destruction.”

  Hartley’s eyes grew vague. “Well, you know, she’s always been kind of like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like you said. I mean, she’s got enough money to buy Switzerland and she’s, like, got to grab money from this little kid?”

  “Exactly.” Bree leaned forward. “Can you think of any reason why she might be this way?”

  “Genes,” Hartley said wisely.

  “Genes?”

  “Yeah, you know, it’s like she’s been programmed from birth.” Hartley heaved a huge sigh. “We’ve got genes in science this year.” She made it sound like an unwelcome rash.

  “Hartley, I’m Lindsey’s attorney, which means I’m a pretty safe person to tell things to.”

  Hartley blinked, as if this actually made sense.

  “You guys into any drugs?”

  Her lower lip stuck out. “No way! My father’s a judge, for God’s sake.”

  “What about any other—episodes like this one?”

  “You mean stealing stuff?” Hartley scratched her arm-pit unself-consciously. “Well, not me. And not Madison. But Lindsey . . .” She wiggled her hand in a “maybe so” gesture. “But she’s nutso, you know. Like, psychotic.”