Tourist Trap (Rebecca Schwartz #3) (A Rebecca Schwartz Mystery) (The Rebecca Schwartz Series) (10 page)

We went to our favorite restaurant, also an Italian one, in downtown San Rafael, and no one else was there except an older woman eating alone. After a while, a man came in with two children dressed to the nines—the girl all got up in a dress and pink socks and the boy in a new red T-shirt. The boy was younger, was obviously trying to keep from crying. Instinctively, I knew their mother had died and their dad hadn’t known how to cook Christmas dinner or hadn’t had the heart.

Mom and Dad let us order anything we wanted, all our favorites, even found new things for us, special tidbits we weren’t normally allowed to have—side orders and appetizers and dessert, absolutely everything we wanted. They made a big to-do of re-creating the Mad Hatter’s party. But no amount of forced good cheer could penetrate the gloom of the place; it made the House of Usher look like a stately pleasure dome. And that’s what Little Italy was like that night.

“Ah, spiedini. And every kind of pasta you could want. And risotto, and calamari, and spumoni. What can I tempt you with?”

Jeff’s voice sounded so much like my father’s had that Christmas nearly twenty years ago that I had to laugh—a desperate, rueful little laugh, I’m afraid. It seemed to hurt Jeff’s feelings.

“Why do you laugh at everything I say?” He spoke with real pain, as if he’d been trying hard to get through to me and had found it about as rewarding as meaningful colloquy with
la belle dame sans merci
. And so of course I had to tell him the story of the un-Christmas party. He seemed to disapprove of our envying the Walker children. “But what happened the next year?” he asked. “Did your folks take you to Mexico? That’s what we used to do at Christmas—except it was the Bahamas.”

“Actually, no. We made the un-Christmas party a tradition, complete with an un-Christmas tree and un-Christmas gifts. Mom even used to make a roast beef—she was strict about not having a turkey—and we’d have Uncle Walter and Aunt Ellen for un-Christmas dinner.”

“I’d want my children to grow up Jewish.”

Not sure what he meant, I said, “We grew up Jewish. Mom and Dad just found a way to give us an extra holiday, that’s all.”

“But not a Jewish holiday.”

“Labor Day isn’t a Jewish holiday and neither is the Fourth of July—do you think Jews shouldn’t celebrate them?”

“It’s not the same thing.”

It’s not the same thing.
I heard myself saying that to Rob when we were talking about his Trapper stories. Jeff’s train of thought, his argument, his conclusion seemed completely inane, indeed designed only to irritate and annoy—had mine been? I thought it might indeed have been; perhaps I’d been deliberately finding fault with Rob, blaming the Trapper on him, projecting like Mom loved to do, when what really upset me was the Trapper himself.

I said, “Jeff. Are you angry with me?”

“Angry? No. Not at all. Why?”

“Because you sound like it. You’re arguing with me when there really isn’t anything to argue about.”

He looked down at his fettucini, as if expecting the noodles to form themselves into letters and words, spelling out the right answer. But he wasn’t a noodle-mancer; he was just gathering his thoughts. And for that I gave him a lot of credit. Jeff seemed a very fair person; he sometimes spoke out in anger or jealousy, but he obviously had the ability to look at himself and what he’d said, reevaluate to determine whether it was what he really meant. It was one of the things I liked best about him.

“Rebecca, I do beg your pardon. You’re right. All I want, really”—his face was the face of a very earnest small boy—“is to get to know you better—to get closer to you—and I do seem to be pushing you away. Honestly, I haven’t the faintest idea why.”

“I have. It’s oppressive here. The whole city’s oppressive.” I spoke with heat. “In case you haven’t noticed, fear stalks the streets.”

“I guess it’s even worse for you. You must feel partly responsible.”

“Responsible? How so?”

He shrugged. “Because it’s your friend who’s done it.” And there we were. Back to my least favorite question in the world—was it Rob or the Trapper who was causing fear to stalk? I didn’t want to think about it—I just wanted to have a good time with Jeff on his last night in town.

“Oh, Jeff, can’t we just forget about all that? Let’s have a good time in spite of it.”

My hand was resting on the table and he took it very gently and diffidently. “I’d like that.”

“Listen, I know what. Let’s take in the view from Nob Hill.”

“Meaning?”

“Drinks at the top of the Fairmont. My treat.”

“I thought the Top of the Mark was the place to go.”

“Uh-uh. At least not in my book—at the Fairmont you get to ride the outside elevator.”

“I’m cheered up already.”

So was I. We both felt good enough for a little bright chatter over our coffee, and for a while, the ugly pall lifted. Lifted, that is, till we had to go back and walk those lonesome streets again. But then, shortly after that, we were in the lobby of the Fairmont and that was good for both our moods. Like all my favorite hotel lobbies, it’s a great bustling womb of a place that somehow manages to make you feel both at home and as if you’re someplace terribly glamorous.

Funny, I thought, here was a place populated almost solely by tourists—a perfect target—and yet they remained here. On the other hand, where else were they going to go? Out on the streets, where not even the natives ventured? To another hotel, where they’d still be sitting ducks? I began to realize for the first time that the Trapper’s threat to close the place down was an idle one by no means. Little Italy was certainly already suffering and so were the bars in the Castro. The impact on the hotels probably hadn’t yet been felt because the Trapper was relatively new—maybe word of him wasn’t big national news yet; people probably hadn’t had time to cancel their trips to San Francisco. But it would start soon if the murders continued. If the next one were in a hotel… and suddenly I was sure the next one would be. Perhaps it would be arson; perhaps the Trapper would find a way to set a hotel on fire and kill hundreds of people at once. Perhaps it would be the Fairmont, and perhaps while we were on our way up in the elevator made famous by
Ironside
. Jeff was pressing the button now. Perhaps we had only minutes to live. But wait, I told myself—all we had to do was walk out without boarding the damned elevator. I could say I suddenly felt ill…

The elevator came and Jeff whisked me inside. I could have spoken up, but the arrival of the elevator, into which nine other people pressed confidently, brought me to my senses. What was I, Chicken Little? Or Rebecca Schwartz, Jewish feminist lawyer? A Jewish feminist lawyer afraid to get on an ordinary elevator in a well-known hotel on a random Wednesday would suck eggs. I relaxed a little.

Instead of looking at the
^-
view, I watched Jeff watching it. And then people started screaming; people right in the elevator not six inches away. And yet we were still going up. If the elevator wasn’t falling, what was happening? Jeff’s face, changing from near rapture to horror, told me it was something outside. I turned and saw every San Franciscan’s worst nightmare—a runaway cable car on Nob Hill.

It was hurtling down Powell like a roller coaster, nearly at the intersection, almost there, and the light was green on California. People must be screaming, I thought—the people on the cable car—surely they must hear it on California Street. And they must be able to see the car traveling at what looked to me like the speed of light. But would they be able to get out of the way? A taxi, probably paying no attention, just trying to make good time, was right in its path, and there was a car very close in front of it. If the taxi even had time to get out of the cable car’s way, it was going to hit the other car. However, that seemed the better choice to me. Suddenly, the taxi did speed up, the driver apparently just seeing the runaway. But it wasn’t fast enough. The cable car hit the taxi in the rear, probably just about in the back seat area, where the passengers would be. But the cable car was going so fast it merely knocked the taxi aside, where it hit another car, and continued hurtling down the hill.

I read all about it in the
Chronicle
the next morning. The cable car continued to Pine Street, where it hit another car quite a bit harder than it had apparently hit the taxi, and finally came to a stop. Four people were killed, thirteen hospitalized, six of them in critical condition. Reading it, I would have burst into tears, except that I was already cried out. Someone had had hysterics in the glass elevator, and I figured I was next if I didn’t get home soon. So Jeff took me—immediately. He wanted to stick around and be comforting, but I simply wasn’t up to it. If I couldn’t be with a San Franciscan, I didn’t want to be with anyone.

All I wanted to do was cry my eyes out and I’d be much happier doing that alone, anyway. It was too much. First, the Trapper, and then Rob and now this. It wasn’t lost on me, of course, that the cable car collision might be the Trapper’s work. But whether it was or it wasn’t, he was bound to claim credit for it and fear would continue to stalk and San Francisco would remain slightly less habitable than Plovdiv, Bulgaria.

Having read the distinctly uncheering news in the
San Francisco Chronicle
and having forborne to break into tears yet again, I was contemplating a dispiriting morning of catching up on detail work, tying up loose ends, returning phone calls, and wishing I were in the Bahamas when Alan came in to announce a Mr. Mike Lewis. As he did so, the phone rang. And as Mr. Lewis had no appointment, I elected to answer it first. It is hardly rude to keep someone waiting who is lucky to find you in in the first place.

“Rebecca, listen, I’ve been thinking over what you said—about not seeing each other for a while.”

“Rob?”

“Who else aren’t you seeing for a while?”

“Rob. I can’t talk to you now.”

But he didn’t hear me—he was listening to an assistant editor calling his name—I could hear him over the wire. “Oops, sorry. I’ve got another call. Call you right back, okay?” Not okay. Absolutely not; a perfect example of why I wanted the trial separation—good God, I sounded as if we were married. Well, this was a perfect example of why we probably never would be—he couldn’t even beg forgiveness without his stupid job interrupting. Of course, I probably wouldn’t even have called him in the first place during my own office hours, but I had time for him afterward, and he didn’t always have time for me. So what was I doing sitting waiting for the phone to ring again when I could be cleaning up details, tying up loose ends, returning my own calls, and seeing Mr. Mike Lewis? Certainly not making an important feminist statement. The phone rang.

“It was him.”

My stomach did a little flip-flop. “The Trapper?”

“Yes. He said he nobbled the runaway cable car.”

“But of course he’d claim he did it. If he didn’t do it, he gets a free one.”

“He said it wasn’t easy, but it was worth it.”

“I don’t feel well.”

“He told me exactly how he did it, Rebecca. I’ve got to call the MUNI to make sure it was done the way he said it was, but it sounded all too plausible.”

“Still. Anyone who knows anything about cable cars could probably figure out what has to happen to cause a runaway.”

“I asked him a couple of control questions.”

“Such as?”

“What did he say in the postscript to the second note?”

“And?”

“He knew about the mussels in the men’s room.”

“Oh.” It sounded all too convincing. “What was the other question?”

“Miranda Warning’s real name.”

“And?”

“It’s Waring. Miranda Waring—how do you like that?”

“He really does know her?”

“Seemed to. Though I admit he sounded pretty surprised when I sprung her on him.”

“Oh, Rob.” I couldn’t keep the dismay out of my voice. “What’s wrong?”

“He probably didn’t know she was in the car when he killed Sanchez. Now what choice does he have? He’ll kill her.”

“I never thought of that.”

“He seemed to get awfully upset when I mentioned Miranda. Now that I think of it.” He sounded properly sobered.

“Oh, Rob,” I said again, afraid to say too much; I didn’t want to lose my temper so early in the day.

Rob said, “Wait a minute! It’s okay—she’s safe.”

“How so?”

“His motive for killing her would be to conceal his identity, right?”

“Yes, but he’s killed for less a few times already.”

“He told me his name.”

“The Trapper told you his name?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And you didn’t tell me?”

“I just hadn’t gotten to it yet.”

“Well?”

“Lou Zimbardo.”

I was disgusted. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. The Trapper knows that’s who the cops are looking for. Everybody who reads the paper does. Why
wouldn’t
he say that’s who he is?” I rang off without waiting for an answer and began searching my purse for tissues; I felt another good cry coming on. But I’d hardly tuned up when Alan came back in: “Mr. Lewis is getting impatient.”

“Oh, screw him. He should have called for an appointment.”

“He’s with a guy says he knows you. They wanted me to give you his name.”

“Oh, hell. Who is he?” I blew my nose and started rifling my purse again, this time for makeup to repair the damage. “Ow.” I’d stuck my finger on one of the fangs Rob and I had bought at the Pier 39 magic shop. When would I remember to clean out my purse?

“Art Zimbardo, if that means anything.” He turned and sauntered out. Even Kruzick had to know the cops were looking for Art’s brother Lou; he was pretending to be cool.

When I felt reasonably presentable, I went out, made a big show of greeting Art, and quickly took him back into my office, making sure I didn’t give him an opening to introduce Mr. Lewis first. Because I had a feeling Lewis might be Lou and I figured Alan had the same feeling and I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of finding out for sure. Which just shows you how small-minded I was feeling that morning.