Oscar awoke with a loud snort and bolted into the workroom at the back of the store. The nape of my neck tingled.
I turned to see a man lurking on the sidewalk in front of the shop door. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with dark hair and pale, almost colorless eyes. He wasn’t trying to open the door—he simply stood there, staring in through the glass. Looming. Threatening.
He looked familiar.
Dangitall.
Chapter 2
I had met Tristan Dupree when I was a teenager. I had traveled alone to Germany in search of my estranged father, who had abandoned my mother and me when I was a toddler. Our eventual reunion had been a disaster on several fronts, though for some reason I could never remember exactly what had transpired—which was odd, since I usually had a great memory. But whatever it was, I knew it had been bad. And Tristan Dupree had been part of it.
If only I could remember the details. Still, I had a vague impression that Tristan was an underling, a minion—not an archfiend himself, but the guy who runs to the corner store to fetch the archfiend’s cigarettes.
But even so, I was wary at the sight of him. As a general rule, anything or anyone popping up from my past was a harbinger of trouble.
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 bēag.”
“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?”
“This is one of those complicated situations. . . .” I trailed off.
“Meaning what, exactly?” asked Carlos.
“Meaning I’m not sure what he’s talking about.”
Tristan repeated: “Forty-eight hours.”
“What happens then?” Carlos asked, his eyes boring into Tristan.
“Am I free to go, Inspector?” Tristan asked.
Carlos and I exchanged a glance. He was dressed in plain clothes, and no one else had called him by his title. How had Tristan known he was a cop—and an inspector at that?
“Not if you’re making threats against Ms. Ivory, you’re not,” said Carlos.
“I am not the one who is making the threats,” Tristan said. He nodded at Sailor. “He is the one with whom you should speak. One moment ago he threatened my life. Lily Ivory, I am staying at the Hotel Marais. On Bush Street, not far from the Chinatown gates.” He handed me a business card from a downtown hotel. “Room two seventeen. I shall be waiting to hear from you.”
Carlos, Sailor, and I watched as Tristan Dupree turned and walked down the street. He had a slight limp but was nonetheless an imposing figure.
“Lily, you sure do know some interesting people,” Carlos said, breaking the silence. “Friend of yours?”
“An acquaintance, at best,” I replied. “I met him in Germany many years ago, and haven’t seen him since.”
“What did you steal from him?”
“Honestly, I have no idea.”
“So you did steal something?”
“Honestly—”
“You have no idea,” Carlos finished my sentence with a nod.
“What brings you here, Carlos?” I asked, changing the subject.
“Just so happens I was down the street at Coffee to the People when Maya called. She thought there might be trouble.”
“No trouble here,” I chirped.
Sailor glowered.
“That a fact?” Carlos said. “So what’s with the forty-eight-hour deadline?”
“I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about; Tristan’s a bit of a drama king,” I said. “I’ll look through my old things, see if I might have accidentally squirreled something away.”
I was lying through my teeth. I had no idea what a bēag was, much less whether I
