Angel Condemned (27 page)

“I’m a tax attorney, not a criminal defense lawyer.” She traced a circle on the pavers with the toe of her shoe. Maybe she should give Lewis McCallen a call after all. The pompous jerk.

“What?”

“Sorry. I didn’t realize I was muttering. Maybe I’m not the right lawyer for this case.”

Hunter moved closer to her on the bench. She felt the warmth of his shoulder, the length of his arm, and his hip. The only good thing to come out of this arrest is that she could see him again. “You might think about pleading her out. Ask for mitigation due to diminished capacity. If you want me to tell you that she behaved in a rational way on the day of the murder, and an irrational way the day she was arrested, I will. It’s true.”

“She’s innocent.”

Hunter grunted. Then he sighed. Then he asked, “Why are you so sure?”

Bree put her head back and stared up at the sky. It was going to rain. A breeze whipped along the square, kicking up stray leaves, a couple of leaflets, and a little dust. “There’s all these little pieces that don’t fit.”

“There always are.”

“Did you know that the Chamberses are connected to all of the principals in this case?”

“Of course they are.”

She ignored the slight exasperation in his voice. “Thirty years ago, Allard Chambers taught a graduate seminar in Roman antiquities. He and Jillian led an archeological expedition to Istanbul. You know who was on that dig? Schofield Martin, Charles Martin’s younger brother. Terrance Kennedy, who later had a daughter named Alicia. Prosper White, who went on to a not-very-distinguished career as a curator. Chambers flunked White out of his course the semester following the dig. Did you know that? And there was a fourth person on the dig . . . who doesn’t come into this case.”

“Don’t tell me you think there’s a thirty-year-old conspiracy that’s ended up in White’s murder. You’re smarter than that.”

“Nope. I don’t think that. But I’ll tell you what I do think. Resentment, jealousies, hate—all that existed among these people for a long time. Chance brought Chambers and White together again. Chance didn’t dictate what happened next. That was somebody who got pushed a little too far. Somebody willing to let the old resentments ride until there was one more event. A tipping point.”

“What event? What are you talking about?”

“I don’t know yet. But I’m going to find out. You interviewed Charles Martin, didn’t you? And Alicia Kennedy?”

“Yes.”

“I want to see Bullet Martin first. He’s most likely to leave town. Where is he? Where’s he staying? Come on, Hunter. He’s a material witness in the case against my client, and I’m going to be allowed to cross-examine him later on. What does it matter if I see him now rather than later?” She resisted the urge to punch him in the arm.

“He’s at the Hyatt. He wants to go back to Texas, and we’re letting him go as soon as we retake his statement. He might have left already.”

Bree was already on her feet and headed back toward the river, her cell phone in her hand. She called 411 for information and connected to the hotel as soon as she got the number.

She didn’t like the look on Hunter’s face.

She turned her back so she wouldn’t have to look at him and completed the phone call. “He’s in. He’ll see me.” She tucked the cell phone into her pocket. “What’s the matter?”

“I’m working on it.”

“Working on what?”

“On the fact that given your job and my job, this sort of thing is going to happen occasionally.”

“So what are you going to do about it? You can see what I’m doing about it. I have to.”

“You’re right. We both have to.”

“You’re not going to come up with any rules? No ‘don’t go there’? No ‘stop or it’s off’?”

“Just one rule.” He walked up to her and kissed her, to the amusement of a passing park worker. “If you get into a jam, call me.”

Charles Martin had a fifth-floor suite with a view of the Savannah River. When Bree walked in, the drapes over the sliding glass doors were open. The sun was making a determined effort to break through the cloud cover. The water was a color between ochre and steel.

The living room had the pleasant anonymity of its kind; dark wood desk, table and chairs, a sturdy, expensively covered couch that faced the balcony, frosted panes of glass that set the small kitchen apart. Martin was in shirtsleeves and tie, his suit coat tossed over the armchair. His briefcase was shut. A few papers stuck out from one end. Bree guessed he’d been working and hastily stuffed the papers away when she’d tapped at the outer door.

“Ms. Winston-Beaufort. You’ve been having quite a time of it, according to the newscasts.” He gestured toward the couch. “Have a seat. Can I get you anything to drink? Coffee? Something a little stronger?”

“Not right now.” She took a place at the small table and then took her iPad out of her tote. She took a moment to look at him. He met her gaze with a bland smile. “So you’re representing the crazy Mrs. Chambers.”

“Dr. Chambers, yes.”

“And you want to talk to me about it? No problem. I’m going stir crazy here. Glad to see a friendly face. I’m checking in with some lawyer named Blackburn this afternoon, and then I can get my ass on back to Houston. Don’t suppose she’ll be too happy to know that I’ve agreed to talk to you. Seeing as how you’re a member of the opposition and all.”

The back of Bree’s neck prickled. Sasha had gone back to the town house. The Hyatt had a rule against pets. She hadn’t realized how much she depended on Sasha’s sensitivities to threats from the true Opposition. She searched Martin’s face. Nothing there but a pleased self-interest. No hint of anything darker.

“How’s the poor woman doing, away? Your client.”

Bree had considered several approaches on her way up to Martin’s suite. She’d taken five minutes to call Royal and ask him about Martin’s criminal record, and she wasn’t sure at this point how it affected Jillian’s case. He’d been accused, and cleared, of insider trading in the 2009 investment bank failures. He hadn’t fared so well on the charges of embezzlement of client funds; he’d made restitution and then served eight months of a year’s sentence in a minimum security prison in Connecticut.

He was probably tough, certainly greedy, and used to lying.

There had been one other whisper of criminal doings—and it was the most tentative of leads. Bullet Martin had an import business specializing in antiquities, and U.S. Customs had started an investigation into the legality of some of his cargo.

None of it pointed the way to the most urgent question.

She wanted to know if he was a killer.

“How old were you when your brother died in Istanbul, Mr. Martin?”

The question caught him off guard. His eyes widened. They were small and dark brown, a startling color with his white hair. After a brief pause, he grinned easily. “Schofield? Hell. That was more than thirty years ago.” He sat down in the chair adjacent to the couch. “I was twenty-five. I’d just started with my first bank. Scooey was three years younger than me. Decided that dirt and pots were a better career than investment banking.” He chuckled. “Given the crash of 2010, he might have been right. You probably know I import artifacts in a small way. It’s a business that hasn’t treated me too badly.”

“Were you close?”

He shrugged. “He was my brother. Sure. Yeah. I guess so.”

“When did you first meet Jillian Chambers?”

He smiled thinly. His drawl became more pronounced. “Lookin’ for an alternate theory to the crime, Ms. Winston-Beaufort? You’re barking up the wrong stump, honey.”

“I don’t know what I’m looking for, Mr. Martin.” She did her best to look blonde, young, and helpless. The first two always worked, at least.

“Well, now, I sure didn’t kill her thirty years later for messing up my baby brother.”

“She did? Mess up your baby brother?”

“I caught a glimpse of her on the news last night. They reran her arrest. Looks bad. You should have seen her years ago. She cleaned up pretty nice, Jillian did. Scooey fell hard for her.”

“How did you meet her, Mr. Martin?”

“Call me Bullet. Most folks do. How did I meet Jillian? She made a statement at the hearing. The family had to ask the court to declare my brother dead. Did you know that? Hell of a thing. Shook my folks up big time. Anyhow—Jillian was the last one to see Scooey alive before he got swept off the ship.”

“The
Indies Queen
.”

“Might have been. It was a long time ago. I don’t really recall.”

Bree’s heart rate picked up. It was his first mistake. She hoped it wasn’t his last.

“Your ship, Mr. Martin. Or partly yours.”

He froze, like a rattlesnake staring down the headlights of a car.

“The
New York Times
did a series of articles about the failure of the investment banks in 2009 and 2010. You were featured in couple of them, and one of them listed some of your assets. You own some shares in the
Indies Queen
. Your brother died on that ship.”

“An unfortunate coincidence, Ms. Winston-Beaufort.” The tips of his ears were bright red. A flush stained his cheekbones.

“Maybe.” She took the little pine box out of her pocket, opened the lid, and held the Cross up. It caught the weak sunlight pouring in from the balcony doors. The silver glowed like a small moon in her hand. “Do you recognize this?”

“No.”

His second mistake. Bree’s heart rate went up another notch.

“And you are an internationally known collector of such things? It’s an artifact—or perhaps the replica of an artifact—from the late 700s. Found near Istanbul. I’ll tell you what, Mr. Martin. I think you involved your brother in smuggling artifacts from Allard Chambers’s dig.”

His eyes flicked to the balcony doors and back again. His hands curled slightly. He shifted his feet under him and cocked his head to one side, as if assessing how much resistance she could offer. “My import business is completely legal, Ms. Winston-Beaufort.”

“Is it, now,” she said pleasantly. “The customs people have a lot of questions about that.”

“I have partners. What can I say? I’m not responsible for their behavior. I can assure you, if you’re looking to implicate
me
in anything illegal, you’re not going to find a thing.” He drew his lips back in a predatory smile. “It may interest you to know that I completed the sale of my shares in the
Indies Queen
just this morning. I’m completely out of the business.”

“That’s bound to impress customs,” Bree said cordially.

Hostility rose off Martin like smoke from a banked fire.

“And in addition to Prosper White, your partners are . . . Pardon me,
were . . .”
She flipped through her yellow pad, as if searching for a note that would remind her.

“Terrance Kennedy and Allard Chambers. Terry bought shares in the business way back and hasn’t paid a lot of attention to it since. Allard supplied the relics, or did until the university pulled his funding for the digs.” He cocked his forefinger at her, as if pointing a gun. “Allard’s the one you want to take a good hard look at if you think any of those goods were illegal. Last I heard, he’s in a world of hurt for cash.”

Twenty minutes later, Bree opened the door to Reclaimables and found Allard Chambers kneeling on the carpet, sorting through a dilapidated set of cardboard boxes. She grabbed him by the shoulder with one hand and hauled him to his feet. She pointed to his desk at the back of the store. “Back there.” Then, “Sit down, please.”

Allard sat, and fumbled for his pipe.

“I’ve just seen Bullet Martin.”

Allard became very still.

“He said you supplied Prosper White with relics from your digs. For the past thirty years.”

Allard nodded quietly.

“He didn’t admit it—but the customs agents are likely to find out anyway: you’ve been smuggling illegally obtained relics out of the Near East for thirty years.”

“Yes,” he said quietly.

“When Prosper refused to authenticate the Cross—you lost your job, your funding, your whole life.”

“Yes.”

Bree was calmer now. She shoved a stack of old newspapers off the chair at the side of his desk and sat down. “Tell me. The truth.”

“I told you it should be me sitting in that jail cell, and not Jillian. She loved . . . beautiful things. Not surprising. She was so beautiful herself. A modern Theodora. There wasn’t any money, in the early days. Not enough to buy her what she wanted. And by the time I realized that her demand for jewelry, clothes—all of that—was part of the mania, it was too late.

“So when Bullet came up with the idea to start selling relics on the side, it was easy to slip him a piece or two. They weren’t from the digs, you know. Or, at least, not many of them. When you’re dealing with the kind of poverty that plagues the countries over there, you can always find a black market.