“What about them?”
“Do you want them? Does he? The only thing that will bring a powerful witch down faster than falling in love is becoming a mother. Children will make you vulnerable, Lily, dangerously so. It’s one thing to go up against demonic forces when your own life is at risk. Imagine risking the life of your child.”
“I don’t think—”
I cut myself off when Noctemus leapt down from her perch on the bookshelf, meowing loudly and heading for the door. A moment later there was a soft rapping. Aidan went to answer the door, opening it just a crack. I heard him talking softly to Clarinda.
“Call Maya,” Aidan said, closing the door. He took a cell phone from his breast pocket and held it out to me.
“Why? Is something wrong?”
“Maya left a message that you need to call her. That’s all I know.”
“I didn’t know you have a cell phone,” I commented, taking the phone.
“Everyone has a cell phone.”
“Not me.”
He shook his head and gave me a rueful smile.
“And if you have a cell phone, why don’t I have your number?”
“Make the call, Lily.”
My fingers shook slightly as I dialed. If Maya had tracked me down at the wax museum, it must be important.
“Maya? What’s wrong?”
“Lily. I’ve been calling everyone I could think of, trying to find you. Sailor’s been arrested.”
An entire shelf’s worth of books flew across the room and smashed against the opposite wall, falling to the floor with a crash. Across the desk, Aidan’s too-blue eyes held mine.
“My Sailor? Arrested for what?”
“Murder.”
Chapter 6
The knowing look in Aidan’s eyes was insufferable. I avoided it while I rummaged in my bag for Carlos Romero’s card and called his number. The inspector wouldn’t talk about the case over the phone, but to my surprise, he suggested we meet at the Buena Vista Café in ten minutes.
“What did I tell you?” Aidan asked after I had hung up and handed him his phone. “A witch like you cannot maintain a serious romantic relationship. If it doesn’t destroy you, it will destroy him. Frankly I’d rather it be Sailor than you, but ultimately it’s not good for—”
“Listen, Aidan. If you can’t—or won’t—help me,” I said, enraged, as I grabbed my still-unopened shoe box and stormed out of the office, “then stay out of it.”
I slammed the door behind me.
* * *
? ? ?
The Buena Vista Café sits at the corner of Hyde Street and Beach Street, not far from Fisherman’s Wharf and the wax museum. Since it was past midnight on a weeknight, I found a parking spot almost directly across the street, just above Aquatic Park.
Carlos was waiting for me on the corner. I parked and jogged over to him.
“What happened?” I demanded as soon as I was within earshot. “Where is he? How do I get him out? I need to talk to him.”
“And a good evening to you, too, Lily.”
“Seriously, Carlos. What in the world happened? Sailor didn’t kill anybody.”
“If you don’t know what happened, how do you know he didn’t kill anybody?” Carlos asked.
“He wouldn’t do that.”
Are you sure? a tiny voice in my head asked. Could Aidan be right? How well did I know my fiancé, after all? Sailor had a temper—a sometimes volatile temper. Was it possible he had lost control while facing an adversary?
Once again I sneezed. I was worn-out, tired. It was late, and I was still feeling the aftereffects of melding magic with Aidan, but truthfully I had been feeling off all day. What was going on with me?
“Please, Carlos, tell me what happened.”
“It’s still under investi—”
“Is it your case?”
“Come, buy me a cup of coffee and we’ll chat.”
“At this hour?”
“We’ll make it Irish coffee. A little whiskey will be good for what ails you.”
“I want to see Sailor.”
“All in good time. Let’s talk first.” He gestured to the battered box under my arm. I hadn’t wanted to leave it in the car. Just in case. “What’s that?”
“A shoe box,” I said.
“I can see that. Is it time for show-and-tell?”
I shook my head. “Just worried about car break-ins. It’s a . . . project I’m working on.”
His eyebrows rose a smidgen, but he didn’t pursue it. Carlos held the door open for me and I led the way into the Buena Vista.
Even at this late hour on a weeknight, the place was jumping, with most seats occupied. To the left was a long bar reminiscent of an old-timey saloon, and in front of the windows were tables. We grabbed a small one not far from the door, and I stashed the shoe box on the seat next to me. Until I figured out what was in it, I wanted to keep it close.
“They say the fishermen used to drink here because they could see when the boats came in,” said Carlos after ordering two Irish coffees from the bartender.
“I’ve never been here,” I murmured, not in the mood for small talk. “But what—”
“You’ve never been to the Buena Vista?” Carlos asked. “It’s a genuine San Francisco watering hole, made famous by columnist Herb Caen. He used to ride the cable car down Hyde Street and stop in for Irish coffee. Which was invented right here at the Buena Vista, by the way.”
“To tell you the truth, Carlos, I don’t even know what Irish coffee is, and at the moment I don’t particularly care. Please tell me, who is the inspector assigned to this case?”
“As luck would have it, I am.”
“You are? But Sailor’s a friend of yours.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
“Are you allowed to investigate someone you know?”
“According to General Rules of Conduct Order Number Fifty-seven, ‘Conflict of Interest in Investigations’: ‘If a member is assigned to an investigation in which the member knows or suspects, or should reasonably know or suspect, that the member has a personal or family interest, the member shall immediately report the interest to the member’s immediate supervisor.’”
I blinked. “You’ve got that memorized?”
“I’ve got several of the General Orders memorized. Comes in handy. Besides, I’m sorry to say this isn’t the first time a potential conflict of interest has arisen. San Francisco is in many ways a small town, and I’ve got a large and colorful family. Ah, the drinks.”
Carlos retrieved the Irish coffees from the bar and set before me a stemmed glass of steaming, fragrant coffee topped with a thick layer of cream.
“You’re going to thank me for introducing you to this,” he said, taking a seat and raising his glass in a toast. “Here’s to exonerating your jailbird boyfriend.”
“Tell me what happened. Please, Carlos.”
He grew more serious, gazing out at the darkness in the direction of Aquatic Park. Finally, he blew out a breath and took another sip of his drink. “Just so we’re clear, I wouldn’t be discussing any of this with you if the situation didn’t strike me as hinky.”
“‘Hinky’ being the official police term for something that doesn’t add up.”
He nodded.
“Who is the victim?”
“You really don’t know?”
I shook my head.
“Tristan Dupree.”
My heart sank. Of course. “Carlos, honestly, Sailor was headed to Oakland—”
“There are witnesses.”
“That’s not possible.”
“I don’t know what to tell you. Except that there are indeed witnesses.”
“Well . . . eyewitnesses can be mistaken.”
“You think I don’t know that? But three different people picked him out of a lineup. Three, Lily. Upstanding citizens, with no apparent ax to grind. And if that weren’t enough, I’ve seen the hotel’s security camera footage. It was Sailor.”
I sat back, stunned. “There has to be some explanation.”
“I’d love to hear it.”
“Then tell me, what seems hinky to you?”
He shrugged, took another sip of his Irish coffee, and inclined his dark head. His eyes searched mine: intelligent, caring. Worried.
“Sailor denied it. Completely. Claimed he wasn’t in that part of town, not there at all.”
“And?”