Ronald Parchese said. The angel held the business card by one edge without looking at it. “And Suite 0? Who has a Suite 0?” “Beazley, Barlow, and Caldecott,” Bree said. “Who’s Barlow?” Ron demanded. “Haven’t a clue at the moment. But I plan to find out.” Bree had left the Bay Street building and walked to the Angelus Street office in a grim state of mind. Ron Parchese, her secretary, was in. Petru Lechta, her Russian paralegal, was in, too. Both angels were playing gin rummy at the old pine table in the kitchen. Their last case had wrapped up two weeks ago, and no new cases had come in. She supposed it was as good a way for angels to spend their time as any other. Her offices occupied the ground floor of a small white clapboard house that sat smack in the middle of Georgia’s only All-Murderers Cemetery. Her landlady, Lavinia Mather, lived on the second floor. From the various thumps overhead, Lavinia was probably up there, but with angels, you never knew. Bree took the card back.
