“An outcast angel.” Petru had a thick black beard, black plastic-framed eyeglasses, and a thick Russian accent. He was the second angel Bree had hired on behalf of the celestial law firm Beaufort & Company. Lavinia Mather, her landlady, was the first. Ron Parchese, the third, fussed around the French press coffeepot at the other end of their small conference table. He was her secretary.

Three other members of the Company weren’t there: Professor Cianquino almost never left his mansion flat on the outskirts of Savannah; Bree’s dog, Sasha, was at home with Antonia; and Gabriel, who Bree privately thought of as the firm’s muscle, never showed up unless he was needed to whack a few heads.

Bree propped her elbow on the table and sank her chin in her hand. Increasingly, the Angelus office was the only place where she felt completely at home. There weren’t any secrets here, for one thing, and nobody commented on how thin or tough-looking she was getting. There was a price to pay for the work she did, and as long as she didn’t completely lose her humanity, Bree didn’t really mind. But she did mind when other people noticed how thin she was getting. How—hard.

Bree sat up, shook herself, and glanced around the table. “Dent says he’s in rehab.”

“Angels Anonymous,” Petru said. “That would be correct. It’s a traditional twelve-step program.”

“But what’s he in recovery for?”

Ron depressed the plunger on the coffee carafe. “Sounds like a bad case of incivility, if you ask me.”

Bree made a face. “You can get kicked out for not being polite?”

“Ronald is kidding around. The poor soul’s in treatment, and it’ll be up to him to tell you why.” Lavinia had a slight reproof in her soft voice. “Although it does sound to me like that ol’ boy’s handing out insults right and left.”

“He doesn’t seem to mean it,” Bree said doubtfully.

“He’ll find out if he means it or not,” Ron said confidently. “Step Four is to make a searching and fearless moral inventory of yourself.”

“What if he doesn’t make it through all the steps?”

“What’s he doing now?” Ron poured the coffee, dividing evenly into four cups, and handed them around.

“Right now he’s a hire car driver for Savannah Drives. But he kicks around a lot. He’s been a nurse’s aide, washed dishes at a restaurant, that sort of thing.” Bree looked at the coffee, picked up the cup and sipped at it, then set it down. “He’s managing. It’s a sort of life, I guess.”

“There you are, then.”

“He’ll kick around here forever?”

“He can always opt out for a lower place in the Sphere, I guess.” Ron shrugged his shoulders. “Up to him.”

Petru took off his spectacles, polished them vigorously, and put them back on again. “I do not see that Mr. Dent has anything but a peripheral role in this case. Shall we address the needs of our new client? It’s after four o’clock, and my sister Rose has promised borscht for dinner. Homemade. I will bring the remnants for you all tomorrow.”

Bree had a sudden impulse to invite herself over for dinner. She wasn’t wild about borscht, but she did wonder how her employees spent their nonworking hours. She’d never met Rose, for example, or Ron’s partner, or seen Ron’s apartment, although he’d insisted on her help choosing the paint for the walls. (He chose a color called Crystal Pink.) But they didn’t ask, and she made it a practice not to pry. Instead, she moved on to their current case.

“As usual, the initial client meeting left a lot to be desired.” She glanced at Ron. “I don’t suppose we’ve heard anything about my petition to the courts to get better client access.”

“That would be no,” Ron said. “I play poker with Goldstein on Thursday nights, you know . . .”

“I didn’t know.”

“I nudged him about it last week. Fell about laughing at the thought of it, Goldstein did. Just before he laid down a full house, jacks high.”

“We’ll do the best with what we’ve got, then. First things first. I need to be sure we’re representing the right client.”

“You were embarrassed by the last case,” Ron said. “No need. All of us were led down the garden path on that one.”

“I wasn’t embarrassed,” Bree said testily. “I was taken aback.”

“It would be as well not to be confused again,” Petru agreed. Bree looked closely at him. He didn’t look as if he were chuckling, but Petru’s beard hid a lot. “What leads you to think Consuelo Bulloch may be the wrong client?”

“I half expected we’d be representing Haydee Quinn. Perhaps even William Norris. There’s some evidence, anecdotal, to be sure, that Haydee’s returned looking for some kind of justice. I made arrangements to interview Tyra Steele at her hotel tonight, just so we cover all the bases. As far as Norris is concerned, if Florida Smith is right, and he was executed for a murder he didn’t commit, I would think he’d want reparations made.”

“But it was Mrs. Consuelo Bulloch who asked for our help,” Petru said. “You are sure it was she who approached you?”

“I asked her directly.”

“The courts don’t make that kind of mistake, anyway,” Ron said. “She’s who she says she is. You don’t want to take the case?”

“Of course we’ll take the case.”

“Then we should proceed in our usual fashion,” Petru said.

“That’s fine. But I am going to check out Tyra Steele’s claim to be possessed, if only to pursue this apparent vendetta against Mrs. Coville.”

“It sounds like a temporal case to me,” Ron offered. “Not a Company matter.”

Bree looked at him thoughtfully. “You’re probably right. It’s time I paid some attention to the temporal cases, too. They’re the ones that pay the bills. Anyhow, Consuelo wants to file an appeal—I’m assuming to get out of Hell altogether. Since I’m not sure what circle she occupies, or for that matter, how guilty she is, I don’t know if we can accomplish that. Worst case, we’ll fight to get her moved closer to the Outer Gates. Best case, she gets moved upstairs.”

“It is not upstairs,” Petru said fussily.

“I know. Sorry. It’s a figure of speech.”

“The Sphere is everywhere and nowhere.”

“Got it.”

“It is all things.”

Bree rapped the table with her knuckles. She wished there was a twelve-step program for pedants. She’d shove Petru in it so fast his beard would fall off. “Let’s move on.”

“Did she kill somebody?” Lavinia asked. “Mrs. Consuelo Bulloch, that is?”

“It’s possible,” Bree said cautiously. “The director and the scriptwriter on Bitter Tide seem to think so. The state of Georgia executed Bagger Bill Norris for the crime.”

“Mr. Norris is not our client, however,” Petru said. “We are certain of this.”

“As sure as I can be.”

Lavinia set her coffee cup down with a clatter. “My goodness. I remember a bit about the Bulloch case. Consuelo was that boy’s mamma, the one that got himself all tied up with that Haydee Quinn you mentioned?”

Bree had guessed that Lavinia’s temporal body was at least eighty years old, but she hadn’t considered that her landlady might be an original source of information about the Haydee murder. “My goodness, Lavinia. You bought this house in the late ’50s, didn’t you? So of course you were around Savannah then.”

Lavinia nodded. “Happened before I started work for your Uncle Franklin, though. He was a good man, Mr. Franklin. Weren’t that many folks in Savannah at the time that would have hired a colored secretary.”

Dent’s voice, unbidden, popped into Bree’s head. Lavinia says colored.

“Did anyone make an issue of it?” Ron asked sympathetically. “Your race?”

Lavinia gave him a look. “Folks’ll make an issue of just about anything, but back then they especially took on about the coloreds.”

Bree smacked the palm of her hand against her forehead a couple of times.

“You got a headache, honey?” Lavinia asked. “You want some tea?”

“It’s Dent,” Bree said. “Or rather Dent’s voice. He wants to know why . . .” She smacked her head again.

“Quit that,” Lavinia ordered. “Wants to know what?”

Bree looked at them all in dismay. “I don’t have a good feeling about this. What’s Dent’s voice doing in my head?”

“Depends on what he’s saying, doesn’t it?” Ron said with an infuriatingly reasonable air.

“But . . .” Bree gave it up. “He wants to know why referring to African-Americans as ‘coloreds’ is inappropriate when he does it but not when Lavinia does it.”

Lavinia leaned over and shouted into Bree’s ear: “Because I am colored! And you aren’t.” She thought a minute and shouted again, “Nobody cares when you insult yourself. It’s a bit humorous, even.”

Bree put her hands to her ears in protest.

Dent’s voice went away, as completely as if it’d been switched off.

“It’s gone,” Bree said, mildly disoriented.

“He’ll be back,” Ron prophesied.

“What do you mean he’ll be back? I don’t want him back!”

“You sponsoring him?” Lavinia asked.

Bree reran the conversation with Dent in her head. “He saw our new client. Temporals can’t see the clients. Except for me. So I asked him who he was and where he was from. He said he was on rehab leave from the Sphere and wanted to go back. He asked me to help him, too. I said I’d see what I could do but I wasn’t familiar with beings in his situation and I’d do some research and get back to him. Then,” Bree added in dismay, “he asked if I’d be his sponsor. I said, ‘Sure, why not, be glad to.’ I mean, we don’t turn anybody away from here, right? It’s part of our job to help the dead, isn’t it? Not just the condemned dead, but any dead.”

“You’re sponsoring him,” Ron said. “No question about it.”

“So he just gets to show up in my head like that?” Bree frowned. “I don’t care for it. I don’t care for it one little bit.”

Lavinia patted her hand. “He didn’t stay long, did he?”

“Well, no, but . . .”

“You can always tell him to leave,” Petru said, “but under the circumstances, if the poor soul is attempting to achieve rehabilitation, it would be a kind thing to welcome him.”

“Yes,” Lavinia said, “you can tell him to hang up, like. Anytime.”

“Perhaps in a softer way,” Petru said. “I would advise Bree to have a candid conversation with Mr. Dent about the responsibilities of a sponsor, Lavinia. They are significant. Bree should be aware of this before she takes this on. Dent might be in a fragile state.”

“Nobody seems to care about my fragile state,” Bree snapped, a little unfairly. “I’ll bring it up the next time I see him. I’ll be sure to set some ground rules.”

“If we are finished with Mr. Dent, I would like to say that my borscht is waiting.” Petru laced his fingers across his substantial belly and peered at them over his spectacles. “May I ask that the new cases meeting proceed apace? We must first establish if there are grounds for an appeal.”

“Of course, sorry. Hang on a sec. I made a list of action items while Dent drove us back in the car. I made him drop off Tonia and EB before he brought me to the office. Both of them wanted to see it . . . again.” Bree sighed. Too many people in her life wanted to know why she never took them to the Angelus Street office. She dug into her briefcase and took out her Blackberry. “Ron, I’ll need you to get the Bulloch case file from Goldstein. Early tomorrow morning is fine. Petru, if you can do the usual Internet search about the Haydee Quinn case, that’ll be useful, but don’t spend a ton of time on it. The scriptwriter’s done a year’s worth of original research, and I’m hoping she can help us. Thing is . . .” She paused. “She wants to interview me about Franklin.”

“Hm,” Ron said. “How smart is she?”

“Florida Smith? Very. Ambitious, too. She’s writing a book about the murder. And she wants to interview me about Franklin’s role in Alexander Bulloch’s sanity hearing.”

“I remember that, too,” Lavinia said. “He grabbed her body right out of the funeral home and burned it up on the banks of the Savannah River. Right about where your town house is, Bree dear. There was a lot of hollering about that. Folks wanted to see him do some time.”

“He ended up in a private hospital for a bit,” Bree said.

Lavinia shook her head. “Not just because he burned the body up. There was talk he murdered that poor girl. That there was a cover-up.”

“Yes,” Bree said drily. “It’s possible, isn’t it? Can you see why I’m not wild about being grilled by Florida Smith about Franklin’s part in all this?”

Lavinia looked stern. “You thinking that Mr. Franklin would have been involved in something like that? Setting up the boy Alexander as a lunatic so he’d escape justice?”

“I don’t know what to think at this point.” Bree’s muscles were complaining. She felt like she’d been sitting all day. She got up, walked restlessly around the small room, then stopped and looked out the west window at the gloomy scene outside.

She’d rented the first floor of the house at 666 Angelus Street four months ago. It was beginning to feel like four years. She’d turned the dining room of the small house into this conference room, which was just big enough to hold a long oak table and six chairs. The window on the west wall, where she stood now, faced Angelus Street itself. Angelus was a tiny asphalt road set between Liberty and Mulberry. It was not to be found on any city map.

She rarely looked out the north window. That window overlooked Georgia’s only all-murderers cemetery. When she’d first responded to Lavinia’s ad for a tenant, she thought the rent was cheap because of the disordered graves surrounding the house. It didn’t take her long to discover that the cemetery was there to accommodate the murderers she and the Company tracked down.

“You are concerned, perhaps, that a proper investigation of this case might reflect poorly on Great-uncle Franklin?” Petru asked.

“He’s not my great-uncle. He’s my father. Or was. And yes, I’m concerned.” Bree turned back to them. “Lavinia, do you remember anything at all about the time Franklin represented Alexander at the sanity hearing?”

“I do remember that Mr. Franklin said that the Bullochs’ a-hiring of him gave his business a boost.”

“Great.” Bree rubbed her forehead. “The Bullochs got his foot in the door of what turned out to be a very successful practice.”

“It was hard for him, just starting out. You didn’t have any of this lawyer advertising then, you know. With their faces on every bus in town. T’uh! ABA didn’t allow it. Mr. Franklin didn’t have money early on. Even if he was a Winston-Beaufort. That came later.”

“The real money in the family came from Mamma,” Bree said absently. “Francesca, I mean. The Carmichaels are loaded. Lavinia, is there any way we can get our hands on the client file from back then? I know we lost the dead souls’ files in the fire that killed Franklin, but the temporals’ files are in excellent shape. But they only go back for the last ten years.”

“No need to keep the paper ones longer than that, unless it’s an estate,” Lavinia said. “I do recall putting a lot of stuff on microfiche, and the secretaries that came after me must have done it, too.”

“I haven’t looked at the microfiche tapes. I’ll bet EB has. I’ll ask her to do a search.”

“A curious case,” Petru Lucheta said. “We do not have to take on every client who comes our way. Perhaps this is one to refuse.”

An expectant silence fell.

Bree drummed her fingers on the tabletop impatiently. “Of course we do.”

Nobody moved, but she felt the relief like a breeze in the room.

“You didn’t really think I’d back off because I might find out something I don’t want to know about my father?” She didn’t wait for an answer—her angels were painfully honest, but she held up her hand and ticked off the points one by one. “So far we’ve got three theories of this case: Consuelo did it; Bagger Bill Norris did it; Alexander Bulloch did it. We’ve got one client who may or may not be guilty of murder. If she is, we try our best to find mitigating circumstances and get her sentence reduced. If she isn’t, we find out who did kill Haydee Quinn and present it in evidence. That sound about right?”

They nodded.

“Good.” She shoved her chair against the table and picked up her briefcase. “I need some time to think about how we’re going to approach this. I told Tyra Steele’s representative I’d meet her at the Mulberry Inn right about now. It’s just going on five o’clock. They agreed to give me half an hour. I’ll be back in a bit.”

The Mulberry Inn wasn’t the grandest hotel in Old Savannah, but it was extremely comfortable, and situated so that the cast and crew of Bitter Tide were steps away from the river. It was also right around the corner from Angelus Street. The sun was down when Bree put on her coat and let herself outside, but the twilight that lingered meant she’d have little to fear from the Pendergasts. She glanced at the grave site as she passed by; Ron had closed it with a pile of rocks and good clay soil, and the mound looked undisturbed. Bree didn’t know why Josiah was giving her a respite, but she was grateful for it.

The air was soft and chilly, heavy with threat of rain. Bree rounded the corner onto Mulberry. The entrance to the hotel was surrounded by clipped hedges and potted ferns. The foyer was small, carpeted in a pattern of dark navy squares with a floral design in the middle. Bree went through the double glass doors to a large atrium. A pleasant piano lounge with overstuffed sofas and chairs sat between the hotel restaurant and the long mahogany-faced reception desk. On her left, the lounge emptied into a proper bar. Bree had encountered Tyra Steele only once, but her voice wasn’t easily forgotten. She heard it now, soaring over the rumble of conversation from the bar.

Bree checked her watch: five o’clock exactly. The meeting had been scheduled for the relative quiet of the lounge. She wasn’t used to interviews with movie people, but she was willing to bet Tyra Steele would be late.

She was wrong.

The actress came out of the bar with her cell phone in one ear. She waved at Bree. Startled, Bree waved back. Tyra trotted across the expanse of celery-colored carpet and thrust the cell in Bree’s face.

“Give a big hello to Team Tyra!”

“Team Tyra?” Bree said.

“You’re that Justine’s attorney aren’t you? Winston something?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Then say hello to my Facebook fans!” She settled into a comfortable chintz-covered chair and crossed her legs. She wore very brief denim shorts, a tight T-shirt that exposed her beautiful, astonishingly upright breasts, and flip-flop sandals.

Up close, she was exquisite, if overwhelming. Her skin was flawless, her teeth blinding white and perfectly shaped. She made Bree think of very high-quality polyester.

“Tyra, Ms. Beaufort didn’t agree to the Facebook thing. So it’d be cool if you said ‘bye-bye’ and checked in with them a little later.” Tyra’s publicist, Mila Canterbury, had followed Tyra out of the bar. A nice-looking woman with short dark hair and a pleasant smile, she winked at Bree, took the cell from her client’s hand, and said into it, “Check with the Big-T later, gang. This is Mila giving you all the big ‘bye-byeee.’ ” She folded the phone, tucked it into a slim aluminum briefcase, and then shook hands with Bree. “Nice to see you again, counselor. We’ve got about a half an hour before we need to split. How can we help you?”

“This is about that old bat, isn’t it?” Tyra said. “Mila said I had to talk to you, because otherwise we could get sued. The shoot’s got a lot of problems already, Mila says, and Phil’s not cool with any more lawsuits. So, like, ask me whatever.” Her eyes were a true, limpid turquoise, as clear as seawater.

“Okay.” Bree sat down across from Tyra and did her best to swing into prosecutorial mode. “Mrs. Coville is concerned about your attitude toward her. She fell this morning because you pushed her. She has bruises on her throat this afternoon because you put your hands around her neck and attempted to strangle her. I’d like to get to the cause of this behavior.”

“Jeez . . . us,” Tyra said. “Like, I don’t know, okay? I mean, Justine is what, a hundred and three or something. She’s older than my grandma. About as tough as my old grandma, too. But, like, you don’t hurt old people. It’s not something you do. It’s Haydee you have to ask. Not me. I honest-to-God don’t understand a thing about it.”

“Okay,” Bree said. “I’d like to talk to Haydee, if I may.” She looked around the lounge. Some of the hotel guests had started to gather for the late-afternoon piano performance of Johnny Mercer songs. Some elderly couples, a few young families, and a sprinkling of men and women in business suits. They had all left a respectful space between where they sat and Tyra. “Is this the best place?”

Tyra’s oak-colored hair hung to her waist. She flipped it back over her shoulders with a toss of her head. “I don’t, like, choose the place. She just shows up.”

“Any unusual circumstances surround her ‘just showing up’? Are you holding something of hers, perhaps? Or near the place where she . . . um . . . passed away?”

“It’s usually around Facebook time,” Mila said. She dropped another wink in Bree’s direction.

Tyra’s turquoise eyes opened wide. “Like, you’re right, Millie! Team Tyra is totally awed with Haydee. And that’s what she likes, you know? She had fans when she was alive, and she needs fans now that she’s dead.” She leaned forward and said earnestly, “Team Tyra can’t believe I’m so into the spiritual side of life. It’s very awesome.”

“You’re the awesome one, Tee.” The hearty voice was male, somehow middle-aged, and carried a hostile edge. Bree glanced up at a man in his midforties. He wore a tailored suit jacket and trousers in a slim European cut and a white shirt, open at the throat. He carried what looked to be a scotch on the rocks in his left hand. “This is the lawyer, Mila?”

“Mr. White.” Mila got to her feet. “This is Miss Beaufort, yes. Bree, this is Vincent Victor White, one of our producers.”

He didn’t offer his free hand, so Bree didn’t offer hers. He jerked his chin toward the chair Bree had been sitting in. “Sit down. I’ll get you a drink.”

“Now, why should I have a drink with you, Mr. White? As pleasant a prospect as that seems to be.”

“Millie,” Tyra said, “are we finished here? I gotta go.” She uncurled herself from the chair. Her hair swung forward over her face. Bree noticed that she kept the chair between herself and Vincent White. She also noticed that White kept his eyes on Tyra. He had a greedy look, like a fat bully after a cake.

“We’re finished here, Miss Steele. Thank you. I’d like to suggest that you have a little talk with Haydee, next time the two of you are in touch. Just remember that Mrs. Coville is a very old lady. She’s fragile. Physically and emotionally.”

“You mean she bruises real easy.” Tyra nodded wisely. “My grandma does, too. I have to watch it when I hug her. I’ll let Haydee know.”

“Thank you,” Bree said.

“You going to give me my cell back, Millie?”

“Only if you stop calling me Millie.” But she said it with a smile. She dug the cell out of her briefcase and flipped it in the air. Tyra caught it with an easy, deerlike grace and turned to go back into the bar.

“Catch you around later, Tee?” White said.

She waved her hand without looking back. The guests whispered as she passed by, and the piano fell silent. Tyra disappeared into the depths of the bar. The piano started up again and gradually, the room filled with the subdued rumble of conversation.

“Amazing, isn’t she?” White sat down in the chair Tyra had just vacated and wriggled obscenely. He grinned at her. “It’s still warm from that cute little butt.”

Bree felt a surge of intense dislike. White looked at her face and scowled. Then, with an aggressive air, he challenged her: “You’re representing Justine Coville, is that right?”

Bree nodded once.

“It’s in her best interest to let us buy out her contract. You’d be wise to consider it.”

Bree didn’t say anything.

“She’s past it, Br . . . Ms. Beaufort. Way past it. She wasn’t much of an actress when she was younger . . .”

“Actually, that’s not true, Mr. White.” Mila, who seemed unaccountably nervous, glanced from Bree to White and back again. “She won a Tony for A Little Night Music. And she was nominated for a Golden Globe for her Streetcar.”

“Christ! That was when, back in the ’80s? Times are different now. There’s no money in the stage, anyhow.” He crossed one trousered leg over the other and balanced his drink on his knee. “I’ll let you in on something you’ll appreciate, Ms. Beaufort.”

Bree didn’t like this fake camaraderie any more than his hostility. Her dislike for this guy was growing.

“Money,” he said. “Art is all about money. If we had a bankable actress in the role of Consuelo, we’d be looking at maybe digging ourselves out of quite a hole. Someone like Allison Buckley, say. Fact is, this production’s in trouble. Not because of Tyra. The only reason we have a hope in hell of success is because she’s such a draw. She could be big. Really big, bigger than Angelina. All she needs is the right vehicle.” He dropped his voice to a confiding whisper. “I’m in on a production right now that could put her over the top.”

Bree looked at her watch. Her face felt frozen.

White looked at her and glanced hastily away.

She relaxed her hands and said as calmly as she could manage, “You’ll excuse us, Mr. White. Mila was good enough to give me a half hour of her time, and I haven’t finished my business with her. I don’t want to waste it.”

He set his drink on an end table. “Yeah,” he said uncertainly. “Sure. See you around.” His gaze fell on Mila, and he said with abrupt viciousness, “I’m going to get Tee a drink. Call me if Phil shows up. I’m pretty pissed off about those cost overruns. You tell him from me that you’re all in a world of hurt.” He left without looking in Bree’s direction again. Bree waited a long moment until her irritation was under control. She wanted to go back to the office, sit down, and try to put all of this stuff in order.

“You wouldn’t be available to work on the shoot, by any chance?” Mila said.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“The way you routed White.” Mila sighed. “We work with a lot of jerks in this business, as I’m sure you’ve heard. He’s not the worst. Not by far.”

“He’s a predator,” Bree said. “You’re watching out for Tyra, I hope. She can’t even stand to look at him.”

“Tyra’s no rocket scientist, Bree. But she hasn’t gotten this far without being able to handle herself around men.”

“She’s going to handle herself better around Justine, I hope?”

“I think so. Tyra’s a little idiot. She’s halfway convinced herself that she is possessed by spirits. It started as a joke. But I have to admit she’s taken it a little far.”

“I don’t want to see Justine hurt.” Bree couldn’t help but smile. “Or Tyra, either.”

“Yeah, she grows on you.” Mira sighed. “Now if you could just teach me that wrath-of-God look of yours, the one that reduced Vincent the Vile to a nice little jelly, I’d be a contented woman. For the next five minutes, anyway. Where did you pick it up?”

“Here and there,” Bree said sadly. “Here and there.”