Defending Angels by Mary Stanton

client list, as I was about to tell you, has some of the best people in Savannah.”
    Bree frowned. This was leading up to something.
    “Among them,” Payton said easily, “Dr. and Mrs. Grainger Skinner.”
    “And they are?” Bree said. Then the penny dropped. “Benjamin Skinner’s son and his wife.”
    “His son,” Antonia said doubtfully. “Oh! The guy who answered the phone when you called Mr. Skinner back.”
    Payton shrugged in a deprecating way. “Grainger Skinner himself isn’t that big a deal—it’s not money that counts in Savannah. But his wife is a Pendergast, and that does count for something.”
    Antonia paid no attention to this. “Huh. That was such a weird thing to have happened, Bree. I mean, I had no idea cell phone calls were stored like e-mail.” She forgot, temporarily, that she hated Payton the Rat and said to him. “Some glitch in the cell phone tower made Bree get a phone call from Skinner after he died. Isn’t that bizarre?”
    “That’s bullshit, is what it is,” Payton said. “You know, Bree, there’s ways of soliciting clients, and then there’s ways of soliciting clients. You kind of stepped over the line, there, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
    “Oh, I mind,” Bree said. The small, regretful ache in her heart was rapidly turning into a large urge toward violence. She hadn’t dumped beer over anyone’s head in years. Maybe it was time she took it up again.
    “I’m glad I ran into you here, instead of having to look you up in that place on ...” he stopped, dug into his suit coat pocket, and pulled out his BlackBerry. He tapped it, then said, “Angelus, you said? I can’t find it.”
    “Very edgy,” Antonia said loyally. “That location is the start of a new trend.”
    “Not if your clients don’t know where the hell it is.”
    Antonia glared at him. “She’s going to be the hottest lawyer in town in no time.”
    “That’s good to hear,” Payton said smoothly, “because I certainly wouldn’t want anything to stand in the way of that rush of new clients.”
    “Anything like what?” Bree asked.
    “Like a totally futile investigation into the death of Benjamin Skinner.” He hunched forward, his hands folded on the table, his brow furrowed in earnest concern. “Trust me on this one, Bree. Liz Overshaw is a well-known crank. Sort of the epitome, if you don’t mind my being frank, of the postmenopausal, hysterical female.”
    “Oh, I mind,” Bree said politely. She smiled.
    Antonia looked at the smile and said nervously, “Uh, Bree?”
    Payton’s tone became even more confiding. “I mean, what possible good can it do you to begin your career in this town by antagonizing the biggest player in the city?”
    “I don’t know,” Bree said, with dangerous calm. “What good do you think it can do me?”
    “Well, that’s just it. No good at all. Look here, Bree. We’re in a position to send a lot of good cases your way. You did pretty well in corporate tax law, as I recall. And that can be a gold mine for you if”—he tapped her wrist with an admonitory forefinger—“you decide to play ball.”
    Later, Bree figured it was the tap on the wrist that did it. She didn’t really remember anything too clearly. She was furious, that she recalled. She jumped up with some idea of grabbing both Payton’s ears and banging his head sharply against the table. The next thing she knew, she was on her feet in the middle of the room, and Payton was on his back against the bar ten feet away, looking dazed.
    A tall, powerfully built man with colorless eyes had his hand on her shoulder. Antonia sat huddled at the back of the booth, her face pale.
    “You really shouldn’t have done that,” the man said.
    Bree wanted to say, “Done what?” but she didn’t. The glass doors to the restaurant swung wide open. Most of the customers huddled under the tables. Dishes, glasses, bits of pizza, salad, and napkins littered the floor. It looked like the aftermath of a