Remembrance (The Mediator #7)(88)
Paul looked confused. “Wait. Are you being sarcastic?”
“Yes, you idiot,” I said to him. “We almost got shot tonight because you don’t even know how to fasten a pair of handcuffs.”
“Then why did you take me?”
“Because I couldn’t let Jesse do it. He’s got too much to lose.”
Paul sank back into his chair, looking stunned. “Shit. She used me.”
“Oh, grow up, Paul. Jesse, listen, I—”
“I thought we’d talked about this.” Jesse had folded his arms across his chest in such a manner that his biceps were bulging beneath the suit jacket he wore (jackets and ties were mandatory for male diners at Mariner’s). Jesse’s wasn’t as expensive as Paul’s, but he still looked very, very good in it. “I had to promise to work a half dozen shifts to get another resident to cover my shift in the ER tonight, and then, after waiting here for you for over an hour, I learn that you’re late because you killed Delgado? How could you even think of doing something like that after what you and I discussed this afternoon, Susannah?”
“First of all, I never said I killed Delgado. He took his own life. Second of all, I’m sorry I lied. But I told you, I didn’t want you risking your reputation for a sleazebag like—”
“And I told you I didn’t want you risking your life.”
“I’m sorry,” I said again. I’d never seen him so angry. “But I said I wasn’t going to sit around decorating bonnets. You should know by now I’m not that type of girl. And it turned out to be worth it. I have Delgado’s client list. Not the clients who bought his regular photographs—he had a separate thumb drive of private clients who bought what he called his ‘specialty photos’ . . . photos you definitely don’t want to see. Father Francisco’s name is on that list.”
Jesse made a face as if he’d tasted something bitter, but all he’d done was take another, slower sip from his champagne glass, which the waiter had come by to superciliously refill. “Ah. The good news never ends, does it?”
“It is good news, Jesse,” I said urgently, gazing into his eyes, which were still dark with suppressed anger, and something else I couldn’t entirely identify. “There was enough on that thumb drive to put Father Francisco—and a lot of other people—away, maybe even forever. I’m going to turn everything over to CeeCee tomorrow.”
Jesse’s lips twisted. “So the world is supposed to believe that Delgado had a crisis of conscience before he killed himself, and sent his list of private clients to the local press?”
“I think that’s best. CeeCee will make sure Becca Walters’s name stays out of it.”
Jesse nodded thoughtfully. “And perhaps this will allow the spirit of Lucia to rest.”
“Not to interrupt this touching moment, but can I just say one thing?” Paul held up one hand.
“No.” Jesse stabbed an index finger in Paul’s direction. “You should shut up, unless you want to end up like Delgado. And you”—his furious gaze snapped back toward me—“can hardly blame me for thinking the worst, especially after what David told me tonight. What bargain were you two arguing about when you pulled up? And what could possibly have happened graduation night? I was with you almost the entire time.”
“Jesse,” I said. “I wanted to tell you. I really did. But I was afraid of how you’d react—like now, for instance.”
He looked indignant. “What am I doing wrong?”
“Everything! I had this situation completely under control until you came in here—”
“Oh, please.” Paul groaned. “Much as I’m enjoying watching you squirm, Simon, I need to go shower, because I smell like a Venezuelan flight attendant. So I’m calling it quits for the night. I can assure you, de Silva, nothing happened on graduation night except one little moment of indiscretion on my part, for which your girlfriend kneed me in the balls. And then tonight, as the coup de grace, she forced me to watch a degenerate blow his brains out. There. Are you happy now? Seriously, I give up. She’s all yours.”
Jesse made a lunge at Paul as he rose to leave the table, catching him by the lapels of his suit jacket and causing all of the dishware to rattle noisily, and some of the silver to slide to the floor.
“She was never yours to give, Slater,” Jesse hissed, his face only inches from Paul’s. “Nor is she mine. Women aren’t horses, they don’t belong to one man or another, though maybe you think they do, since you’ve evidently been working so hard to steal her away.”
“I wouldn’t call it work.” Paul did not sound particularly troubled by the fact that there was six feet or so of fuming former ghost looming over him. “Not when you’ve made it so easy by failing to properly tend to her needs.”
Fortunately the sommelier hurried over at that exact moment, and he and I both managed to pry Jesse away from Paul in time to keep him from physically assaulting him . . . but not in time to keep every head in the restaurant from swiveling toward us.
I felt all of Jesse’s muscles tense beneath my fingers. He was itching to heave a punch in Paul’s face, and truthfully, Paul deserved one.
But neither the sommelier nor I wanted a scene in Mariner’s, especially at the Window Table. With our combined weight and a combination of pushing and pulling, we managed to get Jesse back into his seat before he did any damage.