Chapter Three

 

“Hey! It’s John, isn’t it?” Our waiter—a dark-haired guy in his thirties with big blue eyes and a boyish grin—beamed in recognition.

John glanced at him, did a double take, glanced at me. “That’s right,” he said with an un-John-like brightness. “Lance, right? Lance, this is my husband, Cosmo.”

Lance also glanced at me. His face didn’t exactly fall, but he was clearly disappointed. “Husband?” he repeated. “Gosh. I didn’t see that coming.”

“Oh, are you psychic?” I inquired.

John cleared his throat.

“Hm?” Lance spared me another distracted look—he was having trouble tearing his gaze from John.

I opened my mouth, but John spoke over me in that fake-hearty voice, “But come he did!”

I smiled at him. “Many times,” I said. “Many, many times.”

John turned the color of his beloved Pinot Noir.

“Ohhhhkay, then!” Lance said. “I’ll just get that wine list, shall I?” He sprinted away.

“Gosh. I didn’t see that coming,” I said to John.

He laughed, shook his head chidingly. “Lance was a long time ago.”

“I should hope.”

He reached across the table, lightly traced my ring finger and the platinum Celtic eternity knot wedding band. “I don’t remember how many Lances there were, but there’s only one you.”

I cocked an eyebrow. “Spoken like a true romantic.”

It was John’s turn to laugh.

Actually, he was a romantic. I didn’t realize it at first—and he would have denied it. But so it was. It was one of a number of things I had initially gotten wrong about John. Like assuming he was a snob. That wasn’t really fair. John didn’t care about price tags or name brands. He simply wanted the best he could afford, whether in ties or wines or swimming pool liners. It wasn’t anything to do with compensating for growing up poor or being ambitious or trying to impress people with his worldly goods. John was a pragmatist, pure and simple.

He believed in doing things right the first time. He believed in paying for quality because it eliminated waste, improved efficiency, and cost less in the long run.

That said, he did care about appearances. Optics.

Not always. Not above all else. Though Mayor Stevens had pushed hard for my arrest when I had been suspected of murdering Seamus Reitherman, John had not postponed our wedding, let alone—as you might expect—ended our engagement. In fact, I found out later, he had threatened to resign as commissioner if I was arrested.

But he felt it was important to be seen at the right places doing the right things. We attended a lot of high-profile social events out of duty rather than enjoyment, and a couple of nights a week we dined out at expensive restaurants where there was a very good chance our photo would end up in the next day’s papers.

Which is what we were doing at Izzy’s Steakhouse in the Marina District on Friday night. The original Izzy’s had been a Barbary Coast saloon legendary for its thick, juicy steaks and Prohibition hooch. The current incarnation offered a highbrow take on the classic model: dark wood and deep booths, a cozy fireplace and specialty cocktails. At least Izzy’s was actually one of John’s favorite places, and once we’d got our drinks and meals were ordered, I could see him slowly relaxing under the soothing influence of soft lights, a second glass of wine, and piano jazz.

I relaxed too. It had been a long and fraught day, but sitting here with John put everything into perspective again.

“Have you spoken to Jinx yet?” I asked when I’d finished giving him the abbreviated version of my day’s activities.

“No.”

That surprised me because John is not one for putting off today what he’d have done three days ago if he’d known about it.

I must have looked my surprise because he said, “We’ve been getting along okay these last couple of months. I’m not looking forward to blowing it all up.”

“Do you have to blow it up? Isn’t there a way to talk to her without it turning into a confrontation?”

“No. Not about something like this. Regardless of how I put it, the words I choose, my tone, my expression, she’s going to look at this as me challenging her right to live her own life the way she chooses.”

He was probably right. Largely because, for most of the time I’d known John, he’d done that very thing to Jinx. Their truce was fragile. And yet, I knew they did love each other.

“You’re just asking for a name, right?”

“That would be the starting point,” John agreed. Or sort of agreed.

I watched him for a moment. “Why don’t I ask her?”

His brows drew into a straight, forbidding line.

I persisted, “After all, the envelope came to me. It was intended for me. That’s something she ought to know.”

“I wasn’t planning to withhold anything,” John said.

“That’s what I’m afraid of.” I was only half teasing. I waited, sipping my Automne en Normandie cocktail. According to the drinks menu, a sweetly tart concoction of Laird’s apple brandy, Granny Smith apple, honey syrup, and a splash of fresh lemon juice. Strong enough to knock Snow White on her ass, for sure.

He said slowly, almost reluctantly, “You do seem better able to communicate with her.”

I laughed. “You make her sound like an alien life form.”

“Sometimes I feel like she is.” But his smile was rueful.

Our meals arrived on a waft of cracked peppercorn and bay leaf: filet mignon for me and rack of lamb for John. John ordered another bottle of wine.

When the now-subdued Lance departed again, I said tentatively, “If this guy, this friend of Jinx’s is Cr—like me—”

“French?” John was still smiling, but there was a glint in his eyes.

I cleared my throat. “Yes. French. I could be of help to your investigation.”

I wasn’t halfway through my sentence before he was shaking his head. “Cos, the department has its own occult expert.”

“I know. Solomon Shimon. But he might not actually be, er, French. Maybe he’s Canadien français, which shares some commonalities but isn’t the same as being un citoyen français. If you understand my meaning?”

“Mais oui. I get it. All the same, you don’t work for SFPD; Shimon does. He’s our guy. He’s our occult expert; you’re married to the police commissioner. Equally important but different roles.”

He wasn’t trying to be patronizing. He thought I was feeling jealous or competitive with this unknown occult expert.

“I understand. I just want you to understand that I’m a-a valuable resource. If you need me. I can guarantee I have connections Shimon won’t.”

John smiled faintly. “I appreciate that offer.”

“I don’t think you do, but it’s true.”

He let that pass, said diplomatically, “You know, you’ll be able to evaluate Shimon for yourself tomorrow evening.”

A sherry-roasted mushroom fell off my fork. “He’s going to be at the Stevenses’ Halloween party?”

“So I hear. You might be pleasantly surprised. I hope you will. He’s not one of these kooks we see on nightly news human-interest segments.”

“You’re killing me with the compliments.”

John looked like he wasn’t sure if I was joking. “He takes this stuff as seriously as you do. That’s all I’m getting at. He’s got an impressive clearance rate—”

My cell phone buzzed into life, and the whole table jittered with it, knocking silverware against plates, nearly overturning the wineglasses.

“Jesus,” John said, grabbing for the wine bottle before it spilled.

“Sorry.”

Technology is not my friend. I’ve had one television, three microwaves, and five cell phones blow up at my touch—and still counting.

I looked down and recognized, with relief, Ambrose’s owl symbol. “It’s Ambrose. Excuse me. I have to take this.”

John muttered something, hastily mopping at the contents of the spilled wineglasses.

I threaded my way through the crowded tables and stepped outside. The evening air was cool and scented of the marina and woodsmoke. Overhead, the painted sign of Izzy Gomez creaked in the October breeze.

“Hey. Everything okay?” I asked.

“I’m so sorry, Cos.” Ambrose’s voice was high and shaky. “She never did that before.”

“It’s okay. Are you okay? Is she okay?” I was beginning to sound like a self-help guru for witches.

“Me? I’m fine. Cos, I’m so, so s—”

“Not your fault. Not hers either. Why didn’t you tell me things had gotten this bad? I didn’t realize what you were dealing with.”

“What could you do about it?”

“I don’t know. But maybe together we can figure something out.”

Ambrose still sounded very young, very wobbly as he tried to explain. “She was always in two minds about her power, you know? She was raised in the church, and so she always thought maybe this was wrong. It’s why she wouldn’t ever really teach me any spells.”

“I see.” I was starting to. “Are you coming in to the shop tomorrow?”

“I can’t. Not until Monday. Not until the lady next door is back. Usually, she watches her during the day, but she’s been visiting family this week and GramMa kept getting out of the apartment.”

The picture his words painted was truly disturbing. Was he tying her to the bed? Locking her in a closet?

“Okay. Got it. Then I’ll see you on Monday and we’ll start figuring out what we can do to make life a little easier for you and your grand-mère.”

He burst out, “Why would you? I nearly got you killed.” His voice cracked on “killed.”

I made a dismissive sound—alarmingly reminiscent of my mother. “Quelle absurdité! You didn’t invite me over. That was my own idea. And not to be immodest, but I think I can take your grandma in hand-to-hand.”

Ambrose gave a weak laugh. I could only imagine what the last few hours had been like for him. Had he been chasing the old girl all through the city as she jumped from postern to postern? It was very possible.

“Try not to worry,” I said.

I was worried enough for both of us.

 

 

“Did you want me to contact social services?” John asked on the drive home to Greenwich Street. “See if I can pull some strings?”

This is one of the things I love about John. When he offers help, it isn’t just lip service. He will try to come up with real and practical solutions. Sometimes whether you want them or not.

“I’d have to ask Ambrose. There may be certain…complications.” Like my understanding that the old lady subsisted on social-security fraud. I wasn’t going to share that possibility with John, though.

“I hope the kid isn’t not asking for assistance out of misguided pride. This is why we have local government,” John said. “To provide a safety net.”

He was holding my hand, and I squeezed him back in a silent thank-you. Aloha’s eyes met mine in the rearview mirror. She smiled faintly.

The city provided John with a car and an official driver by the name of Aloha Newman. Aloha was a short, stocky woman of about thirty. She was a Hawaiian transplant. I suspected she was perhaps descended from the Menehune, but had never seen any indication of supernatural ability—beyond being always able to find a parking space, no matter how crowded the city.

The limo turned down the long narrow drive leading to our cul-de-sac. Coit Tower glimmered in the distance. Lights shone cheerfully in the townhouses across from ours, illuminating paper ghosts and sparkly jack-o’-lanterns in windows—Halloween was only a week away. The building next to us was still dark, still uninhabited. The property manager had been forced to file for bankruptcy.

Aloha pulled in front of 1132, and John and I piled out before she could unbuckle her seat belt.

“Commish!” she objected, as she always did.

“We’re good,” John told her.

She shook her head. “Do you need me tomorrow night, Commissioner?”

“No. I’ll drive us to the mayor’s party. See you Monday. Have a good weekend.”

“Same bat time, same bat channel!”

John shoved the door shut, and the limo silently rolled away, its red taillights climbing skyward until they vanished over the crest of the drive.

“That was a long-ass day.” John put his arm around me as we walked up the steps to our townhouse. I sighed agreement.

Pyewacket, the three-hundred-year-old Familiar who inhabits the body of a Russian Blue cat, greeted us inside the enclosed loggia. I picked him up, bumped my face against his furry one. “Hello, you.”

Pye purred hello.

“What’s he doing loose?” John unlocked our front door.

I murmured, “He loves the nightlife. He got to boogie on the disco ’round, oh yea,” and Pye meowed in accompaniment—and then conveyed the real news of the evening.

“Are you kidding? John—”

John had already pushed open the door, stepped inside, and turned on the light. The night breeze gusting through the living room from the wide-open French doors leading onto the back patio slammed the door shut again, cutting us off.

I yanked it open. “John!”

John swung back to me, his expression hard and dangerous. He put a hand on my shoulder and pushed me back a couple of steps. “Stay outside. We’ve had a break-in.”

I planted my hand on the door, which he was trying to close in my face. “I know. It’s okay. They’re gone now.”

John stopped trying to propel me out of harm’s way. “What do you mean they’re gone?”

“Pye says they’re gone.”

“Pye says?”

It’s not like we hadn’t been through this. But I think even after four-plus months, it was hard for John to accept that Pyewacket was more than a surly cat with a taste for Friskies Paté and Jewel of Russia Ultra Black Label.

“Pye was here when they…broke in.” I faltered because they had not broken in, they had used an unlocking spell. Our intruders were definitely Craft. That, in my opinion, was the worst news of the night.

John made a sound of exasperation. “If you and the Cat on the Mat don’t mind, I’m going to check for myself.” He closed the door firmly and, to my irritation, locked it.

Still cradling Pyewacket, I put my hand up and snapped my fingers. You don’t need an unlocking spell for your own front door. The deadbolt turned, and the door swung open.

John was already halfway up the staircase leading to the master bedroom, the second guest bedroom, and his office. Oh, and the gun safe. He glanced back, but apparently decided to choose his battles, because he continued upstairs without a word.

I looked around the front room. Other than the open French doors, everything seemed normal. Well, I mean there was a skeleton sprawled facedown on the hardwood floor, and several vintage black sequin-covered cat pop-ups lay on the coffee table, but that was from me not finishing putting up the Halloween decorations.

“What were they looking for?” I asked Pyewacket. “Do you know?”

Pye did not know. He had not stuck around long enough to find out.

“Who were they? Do I know them?”

The best Pye could do there was assure me he did not know them. He jumped from my arms and disappeared up the staircase after John.

I closed my eyes, attempting a Sort de découverte. It’s a very old spell, and, in these days of electronic surveillance, nearly obsolete.

Quem oportet te habere altitudo, pondus, et aetatis, et sexus, ubi es?

Tu quis es, mille rerum, sed quisque elegit artifex videre quæ vos decies non quod tibi nomen est?

ex quo non sis et sis mihi.

Ostende faciem tuam!

I think there were problems with my recollection of the spell, but in any case, before I finished speaking, John came back down the stairs, and I broke off.

If John had noticed me waving my arms and chanting Latin in our living room, he didn’t mention it.

“They broke into my desk. It doesn’t seem like they took anything. They were in your office as well. You’ll want to take a look, but I’m guessing you won’t find anything missing.”

“If they weren’t here to rob us, why…” I tailed off at John’s expression.

John said bleakly, “My guess? They were looking for something they could use to blackmail us with.”