Bell, Book and Scandal (Bedknobs and Broomsticks #3) - Josh Lanyon Page 0,7
simple.
He believed in doing things right the first time. He believed in paying for quality because it eliminated waste, improved efficiency, and cost less in the long run.
That said, he did care about appearances. Optics.
Not always. Not above all else. Though Mayor Stevens had pushed hard for my arrest when I had been suspected of murdering Seamus Reitherman, John had not postponed our wedding, let alone—as you might expect—ended our engagement. In fact, I found out later, he had threatened to resign as commissioner if I was arrested.
But he felt it was important to be seen at the right places doing the right things. We attended a lot of high-profile social events out of duty rather than enjoyment, and a couple of nights a week we dined out at expensive restaurants where there was a very good chance our photo would end up in the next day’s papers.
Which is what we were doing at Izzy’s Steakhouse in the Marina District on Friday night. The original Izzy’s had been a Barbary Coast saloon legendary for its thick, juicy steaks and Prohibition hooch. The current incarnation offered a highbrow take on the classic model: dark wood and deep booths, a cozy fireplace and specialty cocktails. At least Izzy’s was actually one of John’s favorite places, and once we’d got our drinks and meals were ordered, I could see him slowly relaxing under the soothing influence of soft lights, a second glass of wine, and piano jazz.
I relaxed too. It had been a long and fraught day, but sitting here with John put everything into perspective again.
“Have you spoken to Jinx yet?” I asked when I’d finished giving him the abbreviated version of my day’s activities.
“No.”
That surprised me because John is not one for putting off today what he’d have done three days ago if he’d known about it.
I must have looked my surprise because he said, “We’ve been getting along okay these last couple of months. I’m not looking forward to blowing it all up.”
“Do you have to blow it up? Isn’t there a way to talk to her without it turning into a confrontation?”
“No. Not about something like this. Regardless of how I put it, the words I choose, my tone, my expression, she’s going to look at this as me challenging her right to live her own life the way she chooses.”
He was probably right. Largely because, for most of the time I’d known John, he’d done that very thing to Jinx. Their truce was fragile. And yet, I knew they did love each other.
“You’re just asking for a name, right?”
“That would be the starting point,” John agreed. Or sort of agreed.
I watched him for a moment. “Why don’t I ask her?”
His brows drew into a straight, forbidding line.
I persisted, “After all, the envelope came to me. It was intended for me. That’s something she ought to know.”
“I wasn’t planning to withhold anything,” John said.
“That’s what I’m afraid of.” I was only half teasing. I waited, sipping my Automne en Normandie cocktail. According to the drinks menu, a sweetly tart concoction of Laird’s apple brandy, Granny Smith apple, honey syrup, and a splash of fresh lemon juice. Strong enough to knock Snow White on her ass, for sure.
He said slowly, almost reluctantly, “You do seem better able to communicate with her.”
I laughed. “You make her sound like an alien life form.”
“Sometimes I feel like she is.” But his smile was rueful.
Our meals arrived on a waft of cracked peppercorn and bay leaf: filet mignon for me and rack of lamb for John. John ordered another bottle of wine.
When the now-subdued Lance departed again, I said tentatively, “If this guy, this friend of Jinx’s is Cr—like me—”
“French?” John was still smiling, but there was a glint in his eyes.
I cleared my throat. “Yes. French. I could be of help to your investigation.”
I wasn’t halfway through my sentence before he was shaking his head. “Cos, the department has its own occult expert.”
“I know. Solomon Shimon. But he might not actually be, er, French. Maybe he’s Canadien français, which shares some commonalities but isn’t the same as being un citoyen français. If you understand my meaning?”
“Mais oui. I get it. All the same, you don’t work for SFPD; Shimon does. He’s our guy. He’s our occult expert; you’re married to the police commissioner. Equally important but different roles.”
He wasn’t trying to be patronizing. He thought I was feeling jealous or competitive with this unknown occult expert.