Tourist Trap (Rebecca Schwartz #3) (A Rebecca Schwartz Mystery) (The Rebecca Schwartz Series) (14 page)

The inevitable happened: He was late to work once too often and lost his job. Before he found another, his daughter was killed in a motorcycle accident—hit by a lad on drugs. It was hardly a month after that that Darlene was stabbed to death on a cable car, having gotten in the middle of someone else’s fight.

It was almost too much to believe. “Annie Ballard,” said Rob, “must have thought she’d died and gone to heaven when ol’ Les started letting down his hair.”

“Oh, Rob.”

“Sorry,” he muttered, and had the grace to flush a bit. “Great quotes, though.”

I couldn’t argue with him. For instance: “When I lost Kathi, I don’t mind telling you, I about lost my faith in God. But I was raised to be a Christian and I kept on prayin’, kept on going to church. Now that Darlene’s dead, I don’t feel that way. I feel like God’s made a monkey out of me. Right now I feel like burning every church in this miserable hellhole.” Ms. Ballard closed with this one: “When I think about what’s happened to me since I came here, I’d like to do to San Francisco what the God I used to believe in did to Sodom and Gomorrah.”

I got goose bumps reading—worse ones than when I’d read the Trapper’s notes to Rob, because those were just the maunderings of a sick mind; now I felt as if I knew the man behind the sickness. He was real to me, and scarier than the shadow man; there wasn’t a shred of doubt in my mind that Les Mathison was the Trapper.

Rob said, “The Trapper’s words are even in there. ‘Hellhole’; ‘Sodom and Gomorrah.’”

“Rob, do you realize the most horrifying thing about this? That wasn’t even the end of it—after all that, he got beat up by Lou Zimbardo.”

“Poor sucker. No wonder he went nuts.”

“Excuse me, but did I hear Rob ‘Hard-Case’ Burns call a multiple murderer a poor sucker?”

He shook his head unhappily. “I never heard of anything like this.”

“You’re just jealous because someone else got the story.”

“I’ve got feelings, too, you know.”

I patted his hand. “I forget sometimes.”

“So now what? Do we go to the D.A. and lay it on him?”

“I don’t think it’s good enough. He’s got physical evidence against Lou.”

“What? The gun that killed Sanchez? All part of the frame-up.”

“It reads like that if you don’t think he’s guilty, but what if you do? And he’s got reason to prosecute Lou—he can get a conviction.”

“But surely if you know about Mathison, there’s a reasonable doubt.”

“Yes, but there’s no proof against him; there’s proof against Lou.”

“So let the cops get some.”

“I don’t think this will convince them; I think we have to have more.”

“I thought you’d be thrilled.”

“I am,” I said. “I’m beside myself.”

“You know what he must have done? He must have been planning the thing all the time Lou was in prison, waiting for him to get out.”

“My goose bumps have goose bumps.” I shivered and reached for Rob, for comfort, just as the bartender shouted: “Phone for Rob Burns.”

Rob answered the page and came back flushed. “A bomb went off at the Bonanza Inn. An elevator crashed with a load of conventioneers aboard.” He was fumbling in his pocket for money to pay up so he could get out fast. “Want to come?” I did not. Not in the least. But the Bonanza Inn on Union Square was one of the top five hotels in the city—enormous, nicely appointed but not fabulously expensive, maybe fifty years old (which made it historic without being a relic), newly redecorated, conveniently located near Union Square, and currently, due to the massive refurbishing, very much in vogue—in other words, a prime Trapper target. I remembered my premonition the night of the cable car crash that the Trapper would strike a hotel. I followed Rob out the door, though I knew I wouldn’t catch him. He’d slammed down a couple of bills and charged out like a rhino; I was reminded rather sickeningly of the night the Trapper struck Full Fathom Five, when Rob left me in a cloud of dust at the Eagle Cafe. As I clacked after him this time, wishing ardently for Nikes to replace my Joan and Davids, I was discomfited that I was now using the Trapper’s shenanigans as mileposts, that I’d done it twice in the last five minutes. In a way, as I thought about what the city had been through and might be about to go through again, I wished Lou really were the Trapper.

The police hadn’t yet cordoned off the building, and the emergency vehicles hadn’t yet started to arrive; apparently, the second word came over the police radio the city desk had called Rob, who was known to hang out at John’s Grill and could be at the scene in about three minutes, only half hurrying. But on a breaking story Rob wouldn’t have dreamt of half hurrying and had no doubt kicked small children and helpless winos out of his way in his relentless protection of the people’s right to know. I’d say I got there in about three minutes ten seconds, and already he was nowhere to be seen.

A phalanx of security guards blocked the doors. “Is something happening?” I said in a concerned voice.

“We can’t let you in right now, ma’am.”

“But I’m staying here.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am. We can’t let you in.”

“What is it, a fire?” I let my voice rise. “My husband’s in there.”

“No, ma’am, it’s not a fire.”

“But my husband!” I wailed.

The guard didn’t answer, just stood there impassively. That made me mad. In truth, there was no real reason I had to go in, but I was getting caught up in the excitement, so caught up I’d already compromised my principles by lying and hadn’t even realized it, hadn’t even stopped to consider the ethics of the situation. I tried to push past, still doing my imitation of a terrified wife. The guard grabbed my arm. “Ma’am, you can’t go in there now.”

“I’ve got to.” I tried to jerk my arm away, but he held on. To my horror, I saw that I was beginning to draw a crowd, and I could also hear sirens getting close. If I didn’t get in now, I probably wasn’t going to. Should I retreat?

And then I heard a male voice say, “The lady’s with me.” It was Pete Brainard of the
Chronicle
, evidently the photographer they’d sent to meet Rob. He was flashing his press card.

“Let’s see her press card.”

“She’s not a reporter. She’s my assistant.” Pete took his heavy camera bag off his shoulder and put it on mine. “Here, Rebecca, take this will you?”

“We can’t let her in without a press card.”

“Dammit, she’s with me!” The guard had relaxed his grip on my arm, and now Pete grabbed me every bit as roughly, and whisked me past the rent-a-cop.

“Goddamn newshawks!” the guard said, giving up the fight. It made me giggle. “Newshawk” was what my mother called Rob when she wanted to be particularly insulting. There was no one quite so arrogant as a newshawk on a story, be he or she reporter or photographer. If I thought I had a right to be in that hotel, I was probably catching the disease myself. No doubt Mom would be disappointed in me, but it wouldn’t be the first time.

The lobby was nearly deserted, the elevators being around a corner and down a corridor. We ran toward them, me weighed down by Pete’s heavy camera case. In the distance, we could see a crowd. Up close it proved to be not a dense one, but a milling one, again kept at bay by the hotel’s security staff. Rob was at the front.

He was pale. Looking past the line of guards, I could see why. More than a dozen men and women were lying on the floor, some moaning, some lying still, as maids, bellmen, and hotel executives raced back and forth with blankets and first-aid supplies. I started to feel as if I shouldn’t have come.

As Pete and I reached Rob, we heard a commotion behind us, and the crowd parted, the line of guards parted, to let the first medics through. Pete went into frantic action, snapping the overall scene, the carnage on the floor, the faces of the paramedics, the faces of the victims. He couldn’t yet get close enough to get to the fallen elevator itself, but I knew he’d stay there until he could, even though as the first photographer on the scene, he was bound to have the best pictures.

Rob was simply watching, scribbling on his notepad, not bothering anyone. I supposed he’d already talked to hotel personnel and witnesses, and he’d talk to more later, but at the moment he was a witness himself. I felt profoundly depressed; the breathless excitement had passed and I was watching something that resembled one of the more frenetic war-is-hell scenes from M*A*S*H. I wondered what the hell I was doing there.

“Rebecca, give me a long lens, dammit!”

I fumbled in Pete’s bag, found the lens, and promptly dropped it. I thanked my stars the floor was carpeted, but when I bent down to pick it up, I bumped someone who was thrown off-balance and who accidentally kicked it just past one of the guards. I was going to ask him to hand it back, but Pete pushed past me, reaching for it. The guard grabbed him and pushed him back, hard. The crowd fell back in a shudder, but they were mostly well behaved. Which was more than I could say for Pete, who shouted, “Stupid asshole!”

“Who’re you calling asshole?” The guard doubled up his fist.

“I’m from the
Chronicle
.”

“I don’t care if you’re from the
New York Times
, you’re out of line.”

“Goddamn jerks got no respect for the press.” Pete was only mumbling now, having better sense than to provoke fisticuffs, but still obsessed with the one thing on his mind:
“This is a news story and I am currently God.”

I was starting to feel my old revulsion for my boyfriend’s job, but something took my mind off it. Loud and clear, even in the midst of all that, I heard someone calling Rob’s name—a bellman who’d come to tell him he had a phone call. I didn’t think hotel employees would have gone to that much trouble for just anyone, but thanks to the Trapper, Rob was currently something of a VIP around town. He looked dismayed, torn between what was probably an instructional call from his office and the story itself.

Finally, he said, “Rebecca, could you take the call?” I wanted out of there, anyway, and jumped at the chance. As I turned around, Pete grabbed his bag, still on my shoulder, and pulled. I snapped, “Take it easy, will you?” But he didn’t even bother to answer.

“This is Rebecca Schwartz,” I said to the caller. “Rob can’t get away right now. He asked me to relay the message.”

The caller spoke in a calm, authoritative voice:
“This is the Trapper. I did it with plastic. Two charges—one for the hoists, one for the governor. There’s only one way to stop this—pay me half a million dollars. I’ll call back about the details. In the meantime, tell Burns he better put this in the paper tomorrow.”

The Trapper hung up; I wasn’t so quick. I stared into space, still holding the receiver, until finally it occurred to me to jot the message down. All I had was the back of a check, but that would do. I was still writing, trying to get it exactly word for word, when I felt an arm around my waist. “Was it the city desk?”

“Oh, Rob! It was the Trapper.”

“No!”

“I’m afraid so.” I read him the message.

“You’re sure that’s exactly right?”

“Pretty sure. I might have a ‘the’ where there ought to be an ‘a,’ but believe me, that’s basically what he said. I don’t get the stuff about the plastic and the governor, but the hoists must be cables.”

Rob said, “He never asked for money before.”

“You think it wasn’t Les?”

“What did his voice sound like?”

I tried to think. “A regular man’s voice. Very calm. Sort of icy calm.”

He shrugged. “My caller was calm, too, but I don’t know where that gets us. Damn! What if it wasn’t Les?”

“If it wasn’t, there’s another one out there, trying to cash in on his operation.” My head was spinning. “Maybe it’s starting all over again.”

Rob said, “I wish I’d taken that call.”

And that wasn’t the fun part of the evening; it was just one laugh after another when I tried to do my duty as a citizen and tell the cops what I knew about their case. “Miss Schwartz,” fumed Martinez, “you gotta be nuts, coming to me with a thing like this.”

“A thing like what?”

“You’re the defense lawyer in the Trapper case, right? Well, naturally you’re gonna do anything you can to get your client off.”

“What!” I was on my feet, no longer wishing for Nikes, grateful instead for any height I could muster.

“Look. So you trumped up the call. I’m not gonna arrest you for giving false evidence—I’m gonna forget the whole thing, okay? Maybe you’re not nuts. Maybe you’re still a little inexperienced; maybe you didn’t know any better. But you gotta be nuts if you ever try anything like this again.”

I deliberately put my purse and briefcase on the floor; if I continued to be tempted with a ready weapon I was most certainly going to commit assault on a police officer. I had once been to jail and I wasn’t going back even if I had to deprive myself of the supreme pleasure of belting this android. I cleared my throat, but still my voice sounded husky. “Inspector Martinez, I came to you out of courtesy—because the Trapper case is your case. I answered a call for Rob Burns tonight—”

“Very convenient.”

“—that I thought might have some bearing on this case. I could have gone to someone else in the department, and I will if you decline to take my information. Meanwhile, I’ll ask you to apologize for your insulting implications.”

“Apologize!” I believe the sound he made next could be accurately called a hoot. Even the colorless Curry seemed amused, though there wasn’t a peep out of him; just a malicious set to his mouth.

“I believe,” I said, not quite calmly, but not yet losing it, “I believe you accused me of giving false evidence.”

“False evidence!” Martinez was beginning to guffaw; Curry joined in, but they still weren’t satisfied. “Hey, Franklin! Hunt! Listen to this.” A couple of bored-looking cops turned his way. “Schwartzy here’s the lawyer for the Trapper so guess what she tries to pull?” Tears were starting to run down his cheeks. Apparently, he was just realizing he could dine out on my story for weeks. “She says the Trapper called her constant companion, Rob Burns—”

“Rob and I haven’t even spoken—”

“And she just happened to intercept the call.”