Tourist Trap (Rebecca Schwartz #3) (A Rebecca Schwartz Mystery) (The Rebecca Schwartz Series) (13 page)

I was starting to get goose bumps. Controlling myself, I said, “You mean the accident on the cable car?”

“Yes. Unless—don’t tell me there’s been another! I couldn’t stand it.”

“Not that I know of. It’s just that I don’t know what he’s been doing lately.”

“Trying to find himself, I imagine. I pray to God every night that nothing else has happened to him and that he’ll come home to us soon. And come home to Jesus, too.”

The last sentence sounded so heartfelt I could almost feel Mrs. Mathison’s pain myself. “I didn’t know he was a religious man.”

“Went to church every Sunday of his life until he left Turlock. Active in Sunday school, too. And the 4-H and the Boy Scouts and president of the Future Farmers of America. We brought him up to lead a good, healthy life and he did, too—a model boy. They still remember him over at the high school.”

“So Les grew up on a farm.”

“More like a ranch, really. I never saw a boy that cared so much for his animals. Hated it when he had to slaughter ’em—but he did have to, of course; they teach ’em that in 4- H; what’s the point of raisin’ ’em if you don’t slaughter ’em? But he was always a sensitive boy. Said they hadn’t done anything to anybody, so why should he hurt ’em? My husband had to whip him till he’d do it; hurt him more than it hurt Les, but he had to—only way to teach him. We never believed in sparin’ the rod, but there was a lot of love here and Les knew it. He’d never have left home if we hadn’t lost the ranch. He said there was nothing for him in Turlock anymore—he had to go to San Francisco and try to make it on his own.” She started to sob. “I’ve wished so many times he’d stayed here, but I know it was God’s will that he had to go. That’s what our pastor said when I went for counseling and I know he’s right. I pray every night I’ll learn to accept it someday.”

“Did he move to the city with his wife?”

“Say, are you a girlfriend of his?”

“No. I’m a lawyer and I thought he might have some information about a case I’m working on.”

“He’s not in trouble, is he?”

Only the worst possible kind. I said, “Frankly, I’m a little worried that no one seems to know where he is.”

“I don’t understand. I thought you said his neighbor told you to call.”

“She told me he’s moved away.”

“Oh, lordy, lordy, I knew I shouldn’t have stopped writing him. My husband told me to, said Les would get in touch when he was ready; I think he thought he’d come home like the prodigal son one day.”

“Maybe you should file a missing persons report.”

“Oh, I couldn’t do that. We aren’t the kind of people who have dealings with the police.”

“I see. I wonder if you could tell me something else. You said Les’s trouble started when he moved to San Francisco. Did something happen besides the incident on the cable car?”

“Are you a Christian, dear?”

“I’m not, actually.”

“Well, I’m not sure I should be talking to you. I think I ought to pray about it.”

“I understand how you feel; but I feel I should tell you the truth. I think Les really might be in trouble.”

“Are you trying to help him?”

There it was—the crunch of conscience. I took a deep breath, but before I could say anything, she spoke again: “I don’t think you are. You’re not a Christian and sometimes I don’t think there is one in the whole city of San Francisco—just last Easter they crucified someone like they did Jesus.”

“Why don’t I give you my address and phone number, just in case?”

She cheered up. “I could send you some very interesting pamphlets.”

“I’d like that.”

“And if you hear anything about Les, you’ll let me know, won’t you?”

“I’ll be glad to. But turnabout’s fair play—if
you
hear something, will you let me know?”

“I don’t know…” She sounded very doubtful indeed.

“I know you’ll do what you can.” I gave her my stats and hung up in a cold sweat.

I’d found the conversation chilling. Mom Mathison talked almost like the Trapper wrote—blaming all her son’s problems on the city itself. I went straight to the piano and spent most of the rest of the day there.

* * *

The next day I drove to Marin, squirmed through my parents’ slides of Israel, and finally managed to get Dad to take a walk with me; I knew talking about the case in front of Mom would cause about the same reaction as announcing I’d joined the Hare Krishnas.

When I’d laid the whole thing out, he said, “I’d been wondering how you were going to pull this one out, Rebecca.”

I breathed a sigh of relief—he hadn’t called me Beck; that meant at least he wasn’t about to have an aneurysm from worry. “The thing’s plausible, all right. A kid from an upright all-American home—and yet abused.”

“Abused?”

“They beat him, didn’t they? Beat him to make him kill his pets?”

“Dad, they don’t think of them as pets in 4-H.”

“But he thought of them as pets—his mother said so. Can you imagine anything more horrifying to a child than being beaten by his own parents because he refused to heartlessly kill the helpless animals he’d raised and loved?”

“Dad, for heaven’s sake—this is me, not a jury.”

“I may be being a little dramatic, but think about it—can you?”

“It sounds pretty awful, all right. I wonder if any of them were lambs.”

“I don’t think things like that unbalance a person, exactly, but suppose someone with that kind of history actually does go off the deep end; he’s bound to have a skewed sense of justice. And even as a youngster, this lad had justice on his mind—the mother said he thought it was unfair to kill animals that didn’t hurt anyone, didn’t she?”

“Something like that.”

“Add the element of Christianity and you get another set of contradictions. You get Jesus saying to turn the other cheek, but the Old Testament God saying, ‘Vengeance is mine.’ You also get Jesus saying, ‘Blessed are the meek,’ and Christian parents beating up their lads for acting wimpy. Most kids work it out somehow or other, but in the case of one who’s slightly unbalanced, all that stuff is still in the brain somewhere, mixing it up like a couple of street gangs.”

Suddenly I had a mental image, not of thugs at a weekend rumble, but of tiny knights in heavy armor, flailing about with mouse-sized swords somewhere in Les’s skull.

“I’ll bet Mrs. Mathison wasn’t lying when she said there was a lot of love in that home and that Les knew it. I’d be willing to believe he was a perfectly sincere, if somewhat confused Boy Scout and Future Farmer. But suppose he became severely disillusioned, convinced God wasn’t quite the benign shepherd He’s cracked up to be.”

“He might get cranky and nail someone to a cross on Easter Sunday.”

Dad sighed. “He might if he were
messhuge
. But nothing Mrs. M. said really indicated that. I wonder about those animals.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Suppose I wanted you to kill Noah.”

Noah had been my childhood cat. “And suppose I forced you to do it by beating you.” I nodded, trying to take it in.

“Then when you actually killed Noah, do you think you might still be angry?”

I was beginning to get the hang of it. “Angry enough to kill, you mean? You mean in some weird way, I might be so mad at you I’d actually enjoy killing Noah?”

He nodded. “I’ll have to talk to one of my shrink friends. It might possibly work that way.”

“The only problem is, it’s just a theory. The only way we’d ever find out is if Les told us.”

“Hold your horses, babe. I’m just kicking it around, trying to figure out if I can believe in Les as the Trapper.”

“And?”

“Well, let’s put it this way—your client’s going to the green room if you don’t come up with some better defense than you’ve currently got.”

“Dad!” It hurt, hearing it put so bluntly.

“Don’t get upset, Beck. You’ve got to be practical about this. What if you do lose him? You have to be prepared for it. You can’t get too emotionally involved.”

“I like the way you said, ‘lose him,’ not ‘lose the case.’ That’s keeping a healthy distance.”

“You also have to remember that if you lose the case, he’s a goner. And I’ve got to tell you, I think there’s a good chance you’ll lose.”

“You don’t like the Les Mathison theory.”

“I think it’s worth pursuing.” He gave me one of his famous smiles, the kind that showed off all the cute crinkles around the blue eyes.

At least he didn’t think I was completely off my nut. And he and Chris were in agreement—they both thought it was my only chance. That made three of us.

“You’ve got two choices,” Chris said when I brought her up to date the next morning. “Hire an investigator or get Rob to help.”

Without hesitation, I picked up the Yellow Pages and turned to Private Investigators. I knew who I wanted, a guy who’d done some good work for some people I knew. I’d even met him a couple of times—a big Italian guy—but try as I might I couldn’t get his name to come to me. I ran my finger down the lists, turning the pages, but nothing jarred my memory. I’d have to call one of my friends who’d used him. I picked up the phone, held the receiver so long I lost the dial tone, punched the button to get it back, and dialed Rob’s number. Deep down, I must have been looking for an excuse to call him.

I was sure of it later when I walked into John’s Grill and saw him waiting for me on a barstool. When he saw me, he smiled, and his face looked as if somebody’d plugged him in and flipped a switch. If I’d been worried that I was wearing nothing nicer than a lawyerly black suit, I forgot about it. “You look terrific,” he said, and I knew he’d have said it if I’d had a stocking over my face; he didn’t really care how I looked at all, he just wanted to be with me, and I loved him for it.

“So do you.” To my unmitigated horror, tears popped into my eyes.

“Awww. Where does it hurt? I’ll kiss it.” For the next couple of minutes we must have looked like a standing tangle of black linen and tan corduroy. I couldn’t imagine what had made me stay away.

“I must have been crazy,” I said.

He looked alarmed. “To see me?”

“Not to see you.”

Relief flooded his face. “Certifiable.”

“I was hurt.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“I’m
sorry.”

The drunk at the next table leaned over. “You two belong on daytime TV.”

“We
are
getting a little sudsy,” said Rob.

“I’m enjoying it.”

“Wallow in it, baby. Cry me a river.”

“Oh, can it.”

“Speaking of cans… and suds—”

“Beer’s for journalists.”

He hailed the bartender: “One beer and one insipid white wine.”

“Please, no Yuppie jokes.”

“I like Yup women. They have money.”

“Same old Rob.”

“Admit it. It’s been hell without my acerbic wit.”

“There’s always Kruzick.”

“That reminds me—how’s the little mother?”

“Still determined to go through with it; I think she’s working up the nerve to tell Mom and Dad.”

“Marin General better double their emergency room staff.”

“Let’s don’t talk about it.” Mickey’s pregnancy was an area of my life—along with Rob—that I’d managed to put out of my mind since taking Lou’s case. Thinking about it—especially Mom’s reaction to it—depressed me too much. “Sorry,” he said. “Let’s talk business first.”

“And then what?”

“How about a rousing game of gin?” He reached in his pocket and took out an envelope. “Look what I brought you.”

“Clips!”

He nodded. “Clips indeed. Guaranteed to make you the happiest lawyer on Montgomery Street.”

“You found something on Les Mathison.” I’d asked him to look, realizing it was only an outside chance.

“Not just something, babycakes. I’ve got what you want.” I’m no good at coquettish looks, but I attempted one: “I’ll bet you do.” And then I fell upon the clippings like a cop on a box of doughnuts.

There were two, the first a routine crime story about a woman killed in a random incident of violence aboard a cable car. The woman’s name was Darlene Mathison.

The second was an interview with the bereaved husband, Leslie Mathison, formerly of Turlock. The reporter, one Annie Ballard, had hit pay dirt, turning up a human interest story so good she’d written a long, moving feature about it—a story detailing the life of a simple man who grew up on a ranch, who knew only an innocent kind of life in which he’d been a churchgoer and a member of the 4-H Club; a man who after moving to San Francisco with his wife and daughter, had found the same kind of hardships any city dweller might have. And then the hardships began to multiply. He had frustrations with banks, buses, and restaurants as anyone would—the sort of problems all city dwellers take for granted. But Les didn’t take them for granted; he found himself frustrated everywhere he turned and had no armor to cope with his frustration. He took a job at a flooring company in South San Francisco.

His family suffered because banks wouldn’t take out-of-town checks without a waiting period, because a decent apartment for a family of three was for beyond his means, because everything cost too much. He found himself horrified by the crowds on the bus, in restaurants, everywhere he went on business, everywhere he took his family for fun. He was a man who’d never before had to wait in line to see a movie. Because his rent was so high, he’d had to sell his car. Aside from the inconvenience of having to leave for work an hour before he had to punch in, aside from the vandals and druggies on the MUNI, there was a very real problem with that—the buses sometimes didn’t run on time, sometimes broke down, and caused him to be late to work. He would have left earlier, he told Annie Ballard, but his wife worked a morning shift as a waitress, which meant he had to get their daughter, Kathi, ready for school. Even so, he had to leave Kathi alone for half an hour: “I’d see that kid sitting there, hardly able to hold her eyes open, looking so forlorn every morning when I left I just couldn’t stand to think of making her get up at 6:30, and stay alone an hour in the house just so I could make sure I got to work on time for some bozo who didn’t care about anything except the almighty dollar.” Ms. Ballard noted that his voice shook as he spoke.