“Nothing, Lucille,” I said with a shake of my head. “I’m sure it’s nothing. I’m just jumpy, and worried about Sailor. But if Renee comes back, would you let me know?”
She nodded, her soft brown eyes gazing at me intently. “Of course. Please give Sailor my love, and let me know if there’s anything at all I can do. I have a niece who works for the sheriff’s office. I’d be happy to make a call if you need a personal contact.”
“Thank you, Lucille,” I said. “I appreciate that, and I know Sailor will, too.”
• • •
The prosaically named County Jail #2 is located on Seventh Street, not far from the freeway. Many’s the time I’d been stuck in traffic in the approach to the Bay Bridge, and gazed at the serpentine building with its partially fogged windows, thinking of those inside, awaiting their fate.
I had been here a few times to visit prisoners.
It dawned on me that my father had once been accused of murder. My fiancé currently stood accused of murder. Perhaps I should wonder about the men in my life.
The check-in process for visitors always seemed to take forever, but at long last I sat at the counter, waiting.
Sailor shuffled in; his dark hair stuck up, uncombed, and whiskers shadowed his jaw in blue-black. He looked pissed off. But that was nothing new. Sailor had his great moments—amazingly great—but his default way of looking at the world was grumpy, and his general attitude had not been helped by a night in jail.
We took a long moment, just staring at each other. Drinking in the sight of each other. Then he started talking.
According to Sailor, he had been practicing a new psychic technique in his apartment when the cops came a-knocking. He had been alone since about four in the afternoon, and all evening. There was no more to the story.
“I’m surprised you didn’t sense the police were on their way.”
“I was in a trance state. And I had no reason to be on guard.”
“That’s it? You didn’t go anywhere near Dupree? You weren’t at the Hotel Marais at all?”
He shook his head. “No, I was in the East Bay working with Aunt Renna until a little before four, then walked the labyrinth up at Sibley Park. After that, I went straight home. I was nowhere near Dupree’s hotel, Lily.”
“So Renna can vouch for you?” I asked, feeling hopeful.
“Only until four. The police seem to think I would have had enough time to get back to the hotel. I guess they haven’t sat in traffic on the Bay Bridge lately—even on the bike it’s a challenge. But in any case, Renna’s a known Rom fortune-teller. The DA will make the case that she’s unreliable, and that she’s lying to protect me. Doubtful anyone will believe her.”
“That’s awfully cynical,” I said, disappointed.
“And this surprises you?” Sailor’s words were sarcastic, but his tone was gentle.
“Is there anything else you can tell me? Anything at all that might help? Have you been able to see anything?”
“Not much. The only thing . . .”
“What is it?”
“It doesn’t make much sense. As I’ve told you, I ‘see’ things in symbols, usually. And I keep seeing my dad’s old watch.”
“What would a watch symbolize?”
He shrugged. “Running out of time, maybe? It’s unusual for me; usually I see things in the language of flowers. I did also see aspen trees. . . .”
“In my tradition, aspen leaves are used in antitheft charms.”
He nodded. “It’s unclear what it means. But I had an inkling that someone had been in my apartment yesterday. You didn’t go by there, did you?”
“No, I was at the shop all day. I haven’t been to your place in a while.”
“That’s what I thought. I didn’t find anything disturbed; it was just a sense I had. I also had a vision of a symbol of some sort. Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to fully make it out. I was seeing it in the trance just before I was arrested, as a matter of fact, and tried sketching it, but it still made no sense.”
“The man—the fellow who seems to have killed Tristan—stopped to look at a watch.”
“Interesting. Still not sure what that tells us, though.”
“Hervé met me at the hotel last night,” I said, “and was able to make contact with Tristan’s spirit. But he couldn’t tell me much. He did mention cupcakes, so I suppose Renee’s involved in whatever’s going on.”
“You’re suggesting the cupcake lady beat up Tristan?” he asked in a sardonic tone.
“No, of course not. But she has people working for her.”
“What motive would she have?”
“I don’t know,” I said, shaking my head. “Tristan shouted about the bēag again, and I still don’t know what he was after, much less why. But . . . when I asked him who killed him, he was very clear. He said it was you.”
“He and everyone else at the hotel, apparently.”
“Why would they think that?”
He shrugged.
“Sailor, remember the other day, when Maya said she saw you, or someone who looked just like you, in an herb shop in Chinatown . . . ?”
He held my gaze but didn’t help me to finish the phrase.
“I had the sense you weren’t being entirely forthright.”
“Forthright?” The corner of his mouth kicked up in a slight smile.
“All right, let’s put our cards on the table,” I said, annoyed. I’d been up all night worrying about Sailor and trying to figure out how to prove his innocence—and here he was, being Mr. Cranky Pants? “I had the sense you were . . . lying.” When he still didn’t respond, I asked: “Were you?”
He glanced around, then leaned forward slightly. “I’ve been working on projection.”
“I’m going to assume you don’t mean in a psychological sense, accusing others of the things you are guilty of?”
He shook his head. “No. Actual projection. Psychic projection, which is sometimes called astral projection.”
“What does that
