Tourist Trap (Rebecca Schwartz #3) (A Rebecca Schwartz Mystery) (The Rebecca Schwartz Series) (20 page)

Cursing my own stupidity, I went back to my office, having lost the whole morning; it was now nearly 11:30. I was about to call Mom, bracing myself for gnashings and wringings, when the phone rang. It seemed to be a bad connection; the caller sounded as if he were whispering. I said: “Could you speak up a little? I can’t hear you.”

The whisper was very distinct now.
“This is The Trapper.”
I couldn’t believe it. How dare the Trapper call me? And at a time like this!

“Why are you calling
me?
” I knew what I sounded like, and even as I talked to a serial killer, I mentally reminded myself that lawyers do not whine.

“Never mind that. I did the bridge.”

“You did the bridge.”

“The accident. On the Golden Gate Bridge.”

“The bridge!” Now I was getting the hang of it. Of course; what could be more of a tourist attraction than the bridge? I said, “Les, listen to me. I know who you are.”

“You don’t know who I am.”

“You’re Les Mathison from Turlock; you were in the 4-H Club.”

“Pay attention. I drove north on the bridge and picked out a car going south to San Francisco—a green 1984 Mercedes. It was easy. I just threw a rock at the windshield. The driver lost control and hit his brakes. Cars started piling up in both lanes, but I was already clear. Tell Burns. And tell him I need a million dollars.”

“A million dollars for what?”

“To make me stop.”

“Les, I’m speaking as a lawyer; turn yourself in. You’ll get off on diminished capacity; I promise—look at Dan White.”

“Listen to me, Rebecca. I want a million dollars.”

“But Rob hasn’t got a million dollars.”

“Just get this in the paper, that’s all. I’ll call back about how to get it to me.”

He hung up. Quickly, I dialed Rob’s number. But I got only the egregious Charlie Fish. “Charlie! Where’s Rob?” I was horrified to hear that I had only half a voice.

“Who is this?”

“Rebecca Schwartz.”

“Oh. Rob’s not here. He’s taken a week’s leave of absence.”

“What?” I was shocked into letting a human toad know my boyfriend hadn’t even told me his plans.

“He didn’t tell you? He got pulled off the story.” If I ever heard triumph in a person’s voice, I was hearing crowing now. I’d happily have belted him if he’d been in the same room. He continued in the same crowing tone: “The city editor said he had a conflict of interest. I can see his line of reasoning, can’t you?”

“So you’re on the story now?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, there’s been a development. The Trapper just called me. He said he caused the accident on the bridge.”

“How do you know it was the Trapper?”

“I—uh—he told me how he did it.”

“So?”

“So
what
, Charlie Fish? What do you mean, ‘So’? I said a man just called me and said he’s the Trapper. It’s your story—don’t you even care?”

“Anybody might have called you—or maybe nobody did. Or maybe you caused the bridge accident to make it look like your client’s innocent and now you’re claiming you got a call from the Trapper. It’s happened before, I hear.”

“You’re being insulting.”

“I’m just saying how am I supposed to believe you? Did you tape the conversation?”

“No, I—”

“Well, if you haven’t got a tape, what have you got?”

I hung up on him. He was a warty little brat, but he had a point—how was I going to get anyone to believe me? And where the hell was Rob when I needed him? I dialed him at home and still got no answer. Then I went to see Liz Hughes, hoping like hell she hadn’t left for lunch yet.

Her office, shared with another lawyer, was one of the closet-sized cubicles our public servants are forced to inhabit—if they were unionized, there’d be a strike over working conditions. It was hardly bigger than mine.

Liz was wearing a peach-colored wool suit with beige blouse. I was wearing the same suit in black, with a white blouse—I’d been so worried about Dad that morning I hadn’t even noticed.

She gave me an ironic smile. “I like your outfit.”

“Half price at Neiman-Marcus.”

“Pretty classy. I got mine at the Emporium.”

I couldn’t believe it. We were talking about clothes. How to extricate myself from inanities and get down to business? But Liz did it. “You seem upset,” she said.

I noticed she hadn’t asked me to sit, but I felt too weak to stand any longer. I flopped into the one rigid wooden chair she had for visitors.

She said: “I hope your father’s okay.”

“My father.” I’d forgotten about him. “I haven’t heard yet. I had another kind of excitement. The Trapper called.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“Someone called me and whispered. He said he caused the accident on the bridge.”

“I guess you have to expect those kinds of calls.” She was trying to be nice, but she wanted me in her office like she wanted a scorpion in her shoe.

“He said he threw a rock at someone’s windshield.” I explained exactly how he said he’d done it. She took careful notes, looking very efficient. “And then he said he wanted a million dollars to stop.”

“Did he say how he wanted the money delivered.”

“No. He said he’d call back. ” I wasn’t about to tell her he’d told me to get it into the paper.

She smiled very politely. “It sounds like a nut call, don’t you think?”

“Liz, he told me how he did it.”

“It’s already been on the radio.”

I was speechless. And furious with Charlie Fish for not telling me. “I didn’t know. But, listen, if that’s how it happened, then
somebody
did it—how do you know it wasn’t my caller?”

She shrugged, and I could see by the way her shoulders strained against the light wool that she paid regular visits to a gym. She had time for a husband and two kids, too—Superwoman in a peach suit. “It might have been your caller. Don’t you think you should file a police report?”

“I will, of course. But won’t you at least entertain the notion that maybe you’ve got the wrong man?”

“That would be pretty hard on my morale.”

“Liz, I know who the Trapper is.”

“Rebecca, listen. This is an important case to both of us. We’ve both got to try it tomorrow. I don’t mean to be rude, but if I listen to this I’m going to have to get up two hours early to meditate tomorrow: I really can’t afford to have you throw off my equilibrium at this point.”

“You think this is some kind of ploy?”

“I have no doubt you’re sincere. But I’m equally convinced we have the right man. That’s the way it has to be or I wouldn’t be trying the case.”

If I were Superwoman, I’d have rudely stayed exactly where I was, pouring out the whole story—to throw her precious equilibrium off, if for no other reason. But there was something about the imperious way she spoke that stopped me cold. I wasn’t a little bit intimidated, I was out of my depth. I’m ashamed to say I let her get away with it.

Filing the police report was no picnic, either. I thought I could just go down to the first floor of the Hall of Justice and tell my story at Southern Station. But the young patrolman I talked to would have none of it. He excused himself for a moment—to make a phone call, it turned out. In a few moments, we were joined by none other than San Francisco’s most active human stumbling block to metropolitan justice.

“Inspector Martinez,” said the cop, “handles all the Trapper reports.” The next half hour was the least bit dispiriting—like the North Pole is slightly chilly. By the time I got back to the office, I was wondering how hemlock would taste. But then Dad called. “Sorry I didn’t make it to court this morning.”

“Dad! I forgot all about you.”

“I knew you could handle things.”

“No, I don’t mean that—I got a recess. But everything’s gone wrong. How long were you tied up on the bridge?”

“Oh, a couple of hours. It wasn’t too hard—I found some nice people with a deck of cards.”

“What was the damage?”

“You have no faith in your old man—I won ten dollars.”

“I mean on the bridge.”

“You haven’t heard? My, you must have been busy.”

“You could say that.”

“Well, it was a miracle. A lot of cars smashed, but no one badly hurt. Did you hear how it happened?”

“I heard it firsthand—the Trapper called me.”

“Called
you
—how about Rob?”

“He got pulled off the story, took a week’s leave from work, and doesn’t answer his phone. Even I can’t get him.”

“You’re having quite a day.”

“You don’t know the half of it—I went to see Liz Hughes.”

“Ah! A bold move.”

“I think she thinks I’m nuts.”

“That’s okay. Let her underestimate you.”

“She wouldn’t talk to me—she said it might upset her ‘equilibrium.’”

“I’m sure it did.”

“What?”

“Well, you talked to her a little, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“So you probably upset her a little.”

“Dad, you’re a cockeyed optimist.”

But talking to him cheered me up. Until Mom called. “Rebecca, this is too hard on your father.”

“What is?”

“He was on the bridge for hours this morning. And where were you, darling? I called and called.”

“Oh? Alan didn’t tell me.”

“I told him not to. I knew you were too busy to talk to your mother.”

“How could I call you back if I didn’t know you were calling?”

“I thought you might have called on your own—you knew I’d be worried about your father.”

“Oh, I was, Mom, I was. I just wasn’t in the office, that’s all. I went to the bridge to find him.”

“Well, darling, that wasn’t very smart. You could have got stuck in traffic yourself.”

“I did.”

“Too bad you didn’t call—I’d have told you not to go.”

“I’m sure you would, Mom.”

“Darling, I’m pleading with you; I’m begging you. Your father’s not as young as he used to be. This case he doesn’t need—and neither do you.”

“You want us to withdraw?”

“Just set your father free.”

I almost laughed—perhaps I was at last developing maturity. I’d always admired Chris’s affectionately amused attitude toward Mom, but I didn’t have enough distance to ape it. This, however, was hilarious—if there was anything that kept Dad young, it was a good scrap, a game that looked as if it couldn’t be won. Ultimately, Mom had just given me reason to cheer up again—even if Lou went to the Green Room, Dad would probably live ten years longer as a result of working on the case. I said: “Okay, Mom. He’s been looking a little peaked to me, too. I’ll tell him he’s fired.”

“But you’ll hurt his feelings.”

“If it has to be done, it has to be done.”

“I don’t think you can handle the case alone.” That could have hurt
my
feelings, but I knew by now that it was no reflection of Mom’s regard for my ability; she just liked to find things to be nervous about.

“I probably can’t, Mom, but if Dad’s health is at stake—”

“Maybe he shouldn’t leave you alone—” I knew she was genuinely torn. What was the bigger worry—the specter of Dad wearing himself out or me disgracing the family by going down in flames alone? I could see endless teasing possibilities—I could have kept her going for twenty minutes or so—but I was sure Liz Hughes would never tease her mother and I was currently taking Superwoman lessons. I said, “I’ll think about it very, very carefully, Mom. I’m sure one of us will come up with a solution.” Actually, I was sure she’d go back and forth, back and forth, undecided about the lesser of the evils, until the case was safely over; she thrived on indecision, so I knew I’d made her happy.

Hanging up, I called Rob again. Again no answer. I knew from experience that Rob could take care of himself; but there was a serial killer on the loose —one who knew Rob, who might have followed him from the
Chronicle
to—where? Some dark cul-de-sac. The Trapper had said “never mind” why he hadn’t called Rob. Suddenly the words took on a new and ominous meaning. Maybe it was pure fear—like my mother’s—or maybe it was that combined with the events of the day. I don’t know. But suddenly I was sobbing in a most un-Superwomanly fashion. And in walked Jeff Simon.

“My poor baby.” He came around the desk and patted me. I was too humiliated to do anything but continue sobbing. “You’re getting killed in court.”

He maneuvered me into first a standing position and then a hug, so that I was quite literally giving his three-piece suit a saltwater bath. “Your nice clothes.”

While it wasn’t unpleasant to be held, I felt that using Jeff’s shoulder wasn’t ethical under the circumstances. I tried to get away, but apparently he’d decided to sacrifice haberdashery for gallantry. “Don’t worry about the suit. I’ve got a great cleaner in L.A. that doesn’t charge any more than the monthly payment on a Porsche.”

“This is only making me feel worse.”

“From the newspaper story I thought you’d be suicidal.”

“What newspaper story?”

“In the
LA Times
.”

“Oh, no!” I hadn’t even seen that one.

“You must feel really ganged up on. And knowing your client’s guilty has to be about as galling as anything I can imagine. Having to defend scum like that! You’re too fine a person for it, Rebecca.”

In normal circumstances, I would have been furious with him, but I was so worked up about Rob I was quickly forgetting my embarrassment and also the fact that Jeff—as Jeff—was there at all. He could have been my shrink or my mom or a Phidian sculpture or an eight-foot poster of Boy George and all I’d have been aware of was a sounding board. “I’m so worried about Rob.”

“Rob! You mean that newspaper hack?”

“Oh, Jeff—I’m afraid the Trapper’s killed him.”

“But your client’s the Trapper. Isn’t he?”

“Of course not. Les Mathison is. He just called and said something awful.”

“Let me get this straight. The Trapper isn’t your client, but he happens to be a friend of yours, anyway?”

“No. But I found out who he is and he called me. And Rob’s disappeared.”

“I’m sure you know that most missing persons are walkaways.”