“Where’s Ambrose? I asked him to move this thing.”
Blanche murmured something vague, and I glanced at her. Behind heart-shaped rhinestone spectacles, her blue-green gaze was evasive.
“What?”
“Oh. Well… He had to leave.”
I frowned. “Had to leave why?”
“I’m not exactly sure. Something to do with his grandmother.”
“Not again!”
She raised her hands in a now-don’t-get-excited gesture. “I think it really was an emergency.”
“It’s always an emergency.”
Blanche didn’t bother to argue because it was true.
“This can’t go on. The whole point in hiring him was because we need someone here.”
“I know.” Blanche sounded sympathetic. As though Ambrose’s irresponsible behavior didn’t affect her too.
“I mean, I like him. I think he’s a good kid. He’s a big help when he’s here. But he’s never here.”
“Yes. True.” Her expression was regretful.
I brooded for a moment or two. “Okay. Don’t worry. I’ll deal with it.”
Behind the sparkling red glasses, Blanche’s eyes went wide with alarm. “Cos, you’re not— Are you going to fire him?”
I hesitated. “I’m not sure. Probably not? Not today. Not without talking to him. But this can’t go on.”
“I know. I know.” Her tone was soothing.
“I know you know.”
“It’s just he’s in such a difficult situation.”
I nodded. This was so. Ambrose was sole caretaker of his elderly grandmother.
She added persuasively, “And he is trained now.”
“Whatever that means.”
Blanche said coaxingly, “He’s used to us? We’re used to him?”
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Shook my head.
* * * * *
I arrived at City Hall one minute after noon. Pat Anderson, John’s charming and ruthlessly efficient executive assistant, apologetically informed me that John’s meeting with “The Brass” had gone into overtime.
In this case “The Brass” meant Mayor Stevens, Police Chief Morrisey, Deputy Chief Danville, the Board of Supervisors, various elected officers, and other entities.
“Uh-oh,” I said. “That sounds like a recipe for indigestion.”
“I wish I’d known you had a lunch date, Mr. Saville. I could have—”
“No, no. This was spur-of-the-moment.”
“Ah.” Pat’s smile was sympathetic—I was getting that a lot today.
I was trying to think if there was a way I could slip in for a quick word with John. This wasn’t an emergency, exactly, but the situation was certainly urgent. John would certainly think it was urgent.
“I’m so sorry your vacation plans had to be canceled,” Pat was saying.
“Hm? Yes. Thanks.” John and I had been planning to travel back to Salem, Massachusetts to visit my father for the holiday, but then Reverend Tzeng had shown up on SFPD’s doorstep with her tale of harassment and extortion. “Business before pleasure. Pat, do you think there’s any chance—”
Pat was opening her mouth to regretfully inform me there was no chance in hell, when the door to the conference room flew open and a crowd of grim-faced men and women in business attire streamed out, all of them talking at once as they answered their phones, checked for text messages, and nodded distractedly to each other.
John was at the back of the crowd, handsome and imposing in a dark gray suit with micro checks. That is, I think he’s handsome, but his features are too severe, too fierce to ever sell anything but truth, justice, and the American Way. Like the others, he was grim-faced, so I deduced the meeting had not gone well for anyone. My heart squeezed at the uncharacteristic weariness I saw in his face. I hated to think I was about to add to his already considerable stress.
He didn’t see me at first. He was talking with Sergeant Pete Bergamasco, his bodyguard and general factotum. Bergamasco is one of those brusque former military types, but beneath his olive drab exterior beats a heart that burns with devotion for John. Not romantically. Bergamasco is not gay. Even if he were gay, I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t be the romantic type. But he is definitely a one-man dog. He tolerates me.
“Pat, can you push my one o’clock back to two and my two to tomorrow?” John called over the din of voices.
“On it.” Pat reached for the phone.
John was a big guy, the tallest man present, and at last his restless gaze lit on me lurking by the doorway. His face brightened. “Hey,” he said, coming to meet me.
“Hi.”
He kissed me, and we got some smiles from the others as they filed past. Technically, we were still newlyweds, and most people have a soft spot for the newly married. Not including Sergeant Bergamasco.
“Cos. Were you hoping for lunch? I can’t get away today.”
“Another day would be lovely. Can I talk to you?”
John hesitated, glanced at the line of lawmakers funneling out the door into the hallway, glanced at Bergamasco, who looked resigned.
“Just for a minute,” I said quickly. “It’s important, or I wouldn’t ask.”
John’s amber eyes met mine, and his expression softened. “Of course.” He put his hand on my back, guiding me through the queue, which made way as though before Moses parting the Red Sea.
We stepped into John’s very large mahogany-paneled corner office. He closed the door, and the thick carpet and thicker walls instantly swallowed the reception area noise in a gulp.
“What’s wrong?”
“This came in yesterday’s mail. I only opened it this morning.” I handed over the manila envelope.
John frowned, took the envelope, peered inside. He drew out a photo. His face changed.
“Jesus Christ.”
“Blanche handled it, I handled it, the mail person handled it, so I don’t know about fingerprints. But there was a very faint scintilla…”
I stopped talking. He wasn’t listening.
I studied his stony face, said, “She’s a grown woman, John. She isn’t doing anything wrong.”
I could see myself come back into focus. John growled, “You don’t know that. This guy could be married. This guy could be…anything.”
“Anything” meaning nothing good, as evidenced by the sigil tattooed on Jinx’s unknown partner’s back. But this was not about me, not about the Craft, and I did not take offense.
“Okay. Fair enough. But my point is, Jinx’s actions don’t reflect on you. Don’t reflect on your office.”
He threw me a look of impatience, but his voice was quiet, even, as he said, “Of course they do, Cos. In the court of public opinion? My sister’s actions absolutely reflect on me.”
I wanted to argue, but maybe he was right. In fact, he probably was right.
He drew out another photo, studied it with hard eyes. “Goddamn it,” he said softly. His gaze rose to meet mine. “Did you know about this? Do you know who this is?”
“No,” I said quickly. “I had—have—no idea.”
For a moment I was afraid the old suspicions and misunderstandings that had nearly torn us apart before would resurface, but he accepted it with a little nod. He turned away, went to his desk, and dumped the photos out. With a couple of quick movements, he arranged them in a large square and then stared down at the big picture.