I stroked the soft leather medicine bag I kept on a braided silk rope around my waist.
“Friend of yours?” Maya asked quietly, sidling up beside me.
“Not exactly,” I mumbled.
“Should I call the cops? Or Aidan, or... someone?”
Just then Sailor walked up behind Dupree and tapped him on the shoulder. Dupree didn’t move a muscle.
Through the glass we heard Sailor’s gruff voice: “Can I help you with something?”
As Dupree slowly turned to face Sailor, I rushed across the shop and flung open the door.
The two men were equals in stature and apparent strength. Neither moved or spoke, but instead they stood silently staring at each other, doing that rival-male assessing thing.
“Tristan!” I said. “What a surprise. What brings you to San Francisco?”
He turned to face me and nodded once, very slowly. “Lily Ivory.”
“Listen, buddy,” Sailor growled. “I don’t know what your deal is, but it’s time for you to scram.”
Dupree stared at Sailor, then back at me, as if a spectator at a slow-motion tennis match.
“You know what?” I said in as chipper a tone as I could muster, though my voice broke slightly. “Sailor, I’ve got this. Honest. Tristan and I go way back. Why don’t you head on back to work, and Tristan and I will catch up over a nice cup of tea?”
“No tea,” answered Tristan. His deep monotone was all the more threatening for its lack of animation. “Just the beag.”
“The what?” Sailor and I asked at the same time.
“Is that the way it is going to be?” Tristan asked, his expressionless light eyes never leaving mine.
“Honestly, Tristan, I have no idea what—”
“Forty-eight hours. I’ll come back.”
“You come back,” Sailor said, his voice a study in anger, “and you’ll deal with me.”
Tristan nodded.
“Listen, Tristan,” I began, “why don’t we—”
“Forty-eight hours.”
“Make no mistake, pal. You come anywhere near her, you lay a hand on her,” Sailor threatened, “and I’ll kill you.”
At that moment I heard a car door slam. Homicide Inspector Carlos Romero, of the San Francisco Police Department, had double-parked his unmarked police car on busy Haight Street, causing an immediate traffic snarl. Relief warred with consternation in my chest. Carlos was a friend. But he was also a cop.
“Everything okay here, folks?” Carlos said as he joined us, his dark brown eyes evaluating the tense scene.
“Just peachy,” I piped.
“Lily Ivory stole from me,” said Tristan.
“Is that right?” Carlos said. “And who might you be?”
“I am Mr. Tristan Dupree,” Tristan replied in his stilted way.
Carlos turned to me, a faint smile on his face. “Lily, did you steal something from this gentleman?”
