Free Angel's Advocate by Mary Stanton

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