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?”

“According to the witnesses and the security tapes, he was there. Walked out through the hotel lobby with blood on him, stopping to check his watch, cool as a cucumber. Big as day and bold as brass.”

“But that makes no sense.”

“No, it doesn’t. Frankly, that’s what troubles me the most. I can easily believe Sailor could go after someone he thought might harm you—but I can’t believe he would be so ham-fisted about it. Sailor’s not stupid. If he’d planned to do Dupree harm, why wouldn’t he have caught him out on the street, away from witnesses and cameras?”

“Good question.”

“And if Sailor did murder Dupree, why would he go straight home and wait for the cops to bang on his door? Or if it was a deal where he just went to talk to him, and things got out of hand, why wouldn’t he have told us Dupree attacked first, claim self-defense?”

I nodded, and sneezed.

“Bless you,” Carlos said. “And finally, according to the witnesses, Dupree must have fought back, because Sailor left the hotel battered—cuts, bruises, blood dripping down his face, the whole nine yards.”

My heart flipped. Was Sailor okay? “Was he taken to the hospital? Is it bad?”

“That’s another hinky part: When Sailor was arrested, he didn’t have a scratch on him.”

“He didn’t?” I was relieved for Sailor, but Carlos was right—that was hinky.

He shook his head. “Of course, I hear tell there are folks out there with special talents, maybe the ability to cure a person faster than would be normal. So, the crime happened late this afternoon. Where were you this afternoon and evening?”

“I was in the shop, with Maya. We closed at six.”

“That the usual time?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. What did you do after the shop closed?”

“I went upstairs, made dinner for—” I halted. I made mac ’n’ cheese for my pig would sound weird. “. . . myself, and did a little housekeeping.”

“And afterward . . . ?”

“I was with Ai—” I stopped, remembering how Carlos felt about this particular witchy godfather. But the cat was already out of the bag, so I finished what I was saying. “Excuse me. I met with Aidan Rhodes at the wax museum.”

Carlos gave me a look. A cop look.

“He’s a business associate, Carlos.”

“And what kind of business would that be, exactly?”

“Witchy business.”

“Uh-huh. When was this?”

“I probably arrived at the wax museum about seven thirty or eight.”

He raised an eyebrow. “And you spent the next several hours with him?”

“Time flies when you’re doing witchy business.”

“I’ll just bet it does.” He rubbed his neck. “Okay, it’s not the greatest alibi, but they’ve got security cameras at the wax museum, which can verify your presence. Unless . . . Is this the sort of thing you can do from afar?”

“What sort of thing?”

“Curing Sailor, healing his wounds.”

I sneezed again.

“Bless you.”

“Thanks.” I shook my head. “Lately I can’t seem to even heal myself, much less someone else.”

He gave me a skeptical look.

“Seriously, Carlos, that kind of healing isn’t in my repertoire. My grandmother can cure all sorts of things, usually with the laying on of hands or a brew. But even she can’t cast over serious injuries from a distance, as far as I know.”

He nodded and lapsed into silence. This was Carlos’s way, and although I sometimes had to literally bite my tongue to keep from blathering on in his presence, I had learned to try to respect his silence lest I blurt out something incriminating. I was pretty sure this was what made him such an effective homicide inspector.

We both took a moment, sipping our drinks. I’m not a big drinker, but the Buena Vista’s Irish coffee was sweet, creamy, and delicious. It made me feel warm and cozy inside. It occurred to me that I hadn’t eaten since lunch, and I hoped the alcohol wouldn’t go straight to my head. Clearly, I had work

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