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

I dropped back down in the bushes.

“Miss Schwartz, what are you doing?”

“I’ll be along in a minute, Inspector.”

“What are you
doing
, Miss Schwartz? Answer me!” Good. He couldn’t see what I was doing, which was fiddling with my zipper.

I answered in my sweetest voice: “Relieving my bladder, Inspector.”

I took my time about it, too. And then I sauntered up the hill, arms swinging casually by my sides. Martinez seemed to have lost his train of thought about my keeping my hands up. Short attention span, I suppose.

Martinez and Curry took us to the Hall of Justice, of course, or rather, they let us go in our borrowed van, which meant that we had a few minutes alone, of which Rob took full advantage to rib me about resorting to bathroom jokes. I was the least bit sheepish about it, but the truth was, it had worked. I’d nonplussed that creep Martinez, and I could tell Rob was proud of me, whatever my tactics.

I had another great moment after I got up the hill, too. Martinez said again, “Who is getting away, Miss Schwartz?”

Since I’d turned the advantage to myself, when I answered, “Miranda Warning,” he was the one everyone laughed at, not me.

He got me back at the Hall, though. He made me wait hours while he interviewed the Reverend Mr. Robinson and Rob. (Miranda, of course, had gotten clean away.)

The man on the cross was definitely dead. He had no identification on him, we learned, and he had been shot in the chest, probably fatally, before he was hoisted up by the rope and nailed to the cross. Martinez deduced the part about the timing because a live person would hardly have stood still for it.

Martinez managed to keep us around, what with one thing and another, until about the time church was letting out for most Easter worshipers. I was all for falling asleep in the car on the way home, but Rob wanted to talk. What did I make of Miranda Warning? he wanted to know.

I summoned my meager resources. “From her outfit, I’d guess she lives in the Tenderloin. She was about half drunk—slurring her words some of the time, but not always, which probably meant she could control her speech when she thought about it. Which argues she’s had a lot of practice at it. Which, along with her emaciated appearance and, once again, style of dress, indicates she’s probably an alcoholic and pretty much of a derelict. If I had to look for her, I think I might try a Tenderloin doorway.”

“Your basic bag lady?”

I reconsidered. “One step up from that, I think. Maybe not a doorway. A flophouse, perhaps. But here’s something funny—the dead man didn’t look at all like a derelict.”

“And she said he was her lover.”

“She didn’t actually say that, but she certainly implied it. Maybe he was a john. Maybe she’s a prostitute.”

“She wasn’t dressed like one.”

“No, and the way she talked, the guy didn’t really sound like a john. So scratch that. And me. I’m dead.” I yawned.

Rob stopped the van in front of my house.

“I’m setting my alarm for Tuesday,” I said. “Give me a call about then.”

I went in and fed my fish, silently thanking the God of my people, whom I sometimes invoked when it was really necessary, that Mom and Dad were in Israel. Otherwise, my phone would ring the instant Mom heard about the murder on the radio.

Instead it rang three hours later, about a day and a half before I felt up to answering it. I reached for it and got a dial tone. The door. It didn’t even sound like the telephone—I must have been in a coma. I staggered to the intercom: “This better be good.”

“My name is Michael Anthony and I have a check for you—for one million dollars.”

I sighed and pressed the downstairs buzzer. It was Rob’s voice. “I lied,” he said, as he came in. “Really I represent the William Morris Agency. I’m on a nationwide talent hunt and…”

“Don’t tell me. They’re remaking
Gone with the Wind
and want me to play Scarlett.”

“Inherit the Wind
, actually. We thought, what with the feminist movement and all, we’d get a woman to play Clarence Darrow. One of our people caught your act in court.”

“Oh? What did he see? My opening statement? Perhaps my final summation?”

“He didn’t say.”

“What
did
he say?”

“Said you had great tits.”

“Oh, hell. I’m tired.” I plopped down on one of my white sofas, hoping Rob would join me. Instead, he went in the kitchen and put on water for coffee. “Listen, I need help.”

“Mmf.” My eyes were closing.

“The cops found a wallet in a wastebasket near the edge of the park, and it belonged to the man on the cross. Driver’s license identifies him as Jack Sanchez. A tourist from Gallup, New Mexico.”

“Tourist! He didn’t live here?” My eyes opened.

“Tourist: a person who makes a tour. Not a person who lives here.”

“Miranda made it sound like she lived with him.”

“Maybe she’s a tourist, too. Sanchez arrived day before yesterday.”

“She’s not a tourist. She must have lied.”

“I think we should check her story out. Drink this.” He curled my fingers around the handle of a coffee cup.

Resigned, I sat up and took a swig. “You think
we
should check her story out. You’ve been a reporter for ten years, right?”

“Eleven.”

“And suddenly you need me to help you. Now which of my many talents is suddenly indispensable?”

“Like I said, you’ve got great tits.”

“Tits.” I was mystified. “You need something to stare at while you type? A little inspiration, maybe?”

“I need a date for the Yellow Parrot.”

I burst out laughing. “Wait till I tell Chris. Intrepid reporter for a metropolitan daily won’t go to a gay bar without an escort. Forget Chris—I’m telling your boss.”

“I thought you might want to come, that’s all.”

He looked so hurt I laughed again. “Okay, pussycat. Let me get dressed.”

He followed me into the bedroom. Emboldened by recent flattery, I pulled off the football jersey in which I’d been napping and gave him a look. But he just looked at his watch: “Come on, kid. I’ve got to make the first edition.”

I should have known. A reporter on a story is like a teenage boy on a date: after Only One Thing. Except it’s not the same thing. So much for my alleged attributes—some guys will say anything to get what they want.

But as I dressed, he nuzzled my neck a little. “I shouldn’t have waked you up.”

“It’s okay.”

“You wouldn’t have been up all night if it hadn’t been for me.”

“Really, it’s fine.”

“And wouldn’t have gotten into a fight, and wouldn’t have found a body, and wouldn’t have ended up spending the morning at the Hall with your least favorite cop.”

“To tell the truth, the worst part was finding out about Mickey.”

“You need a little relaxation. How about a mud bath?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Let’s go up to Calistoga and have a mud bath. Or maybe a mineral bath and a massage.”

“I don’t get it—I thought you were on deadline.”

“Not now. Next Saturday—we can even spend most of the day there and go wine-tasting on the way back.”

“Really?” It sounded like the best idea since portable hair dryers. Maybe it would cleanse the psyche as well as the pores.

“Really. We’ll leave first thing Saturday morning.”

I gave him another kiss, then slipped on a purple sweater and a pair of black leather pants—if the Yellow Parrot was a leather bar, I wanted to look right.

It wasn’t, though. It was just a dark, sad-sack sort of place where a few guys were having a few beers. The bartender had short brown hair with one long curl in the back, punk style. It would have been cute on a twenty-year-old; he was forty-odd. “You folks tourists? There’s something I’ve got to tell you about this place…” He looked as if he was trying to find a way to break it gently.

“We’re from the
Chronicle
,” said Rob, and explained our mission. I hadn’t been sure exactly how he’d do it—whether he’d pretend he was somebody else or what. As well as I knew him, I’d never thought to ask exactly how reporters worked. As it turned out, it was simple—he just laid it all out for the guy: A tourist had been murdered, found nailed to the cross on top of Mount Davidson, and a witness had said he’d been at the Yellow Parrot the night before.

The reaction was similar to what you’d get if you turned a TV camera on a bunch of kids; people practically jumped up and down trying to get in the act. And we were in luck—the bartender (Jake Nestor—“with an o, not an
e
”) had been on duty the night before.

“He was wearing a green cowboy shirt,” said Rob.

“Older guy? Gray hair?”

Rob nodded.

“Yeah, sure. I saw him. He was here for a couple of hours. Amaretto artist.”

“Beg pardon?”

“That was his drink. Amaretto and cream.”

“Oh. Did you notice—”

“Man, what an outfit. Strictly Gallup, New Mexico.”

“He said where he was from, then?”

“Yeah. Said he was a rancher. They have ranches in Gallup?”

Rob shrugged. “I’m not sure. Did he—”

“Said he owned half the state of New Mexico. Tell me about it, man! He got that satin shirt at the local J. C. Penney’s; in the basement, probably. Synthetic City, know what I mean?”

Rob laughed. “Rhinestone cowboy?”

“Didn’t even have boots. He was wearing Adidas.”

Rob got serious. “Well, he’s naked now. Lying on a slab.”

That sobered Jake up. He shivered. “Dead. You don’t think… ?”

“I think he met someone here who killed him.”

“Sweet Jesus,” said Jake.

“Did he leave with anyone?”

“Omigod. Yeah. He did. There was this other cowboy type…”

“Someone you knew?”

“No. He was weird, though. I should have known he was weird. Terry liked him.”

“Terry?”

“Yeah. Terry Yannarelli. Lives around the corner—you can talk to him if you want.”

“Terry liked him,” said Rob, “but he didn’t leave with him?”

“No. That’s the weird part. There’s guys in this neighborhood who’d kill to go home with Terry. I don’t go in for that clean-cut type myself, but he’s Mr. Star Boarder—I give him free drinks every night just to keep him here.”

“A drawing card, is he?”

“Regular little belle of the ball.”

“But Rhinestone’s friend didn’t like him.”

Jake said, “It’s coming back to me now. Terry sent him a drink and he came over and talked. But only for about five minutes. Never seen it happen before.”

“Maybe the guy didn’t go in for the clean-cut type. What’d he look like?”

Jake got a faraway look, as if trying very hard to remember. Rob prompted: “Good-looking?”

“Damned if I know. He had on shades and a cowboy hat, pulled down.”

“Anything else?”

“Beard. Couldn’t tell much, really. Mystery man. Jesus, he must be the murderer.”

Rob nodded.

“Come to think of it, he wasn’t dressed right either. For the hat. Jeans; that was okay. But he had on this kind of ordinary shirt.”

“Synthetic City?”

“I don’t know. Just ordinary. Jeez. A murderer. You know what?” said Jake. “Nobody else was interested in that poor dude.”

“The murderer?”

“No. Rhinestone. He couldn’t attract flies, you know? I should have given him a free beer. You know what about that guy?”

“Rhinestone?” Rob sounded confused.

“No. The murderer.”

“What?”

“His beard looked kind of fake.”

I almost said, “Synthetic City?” but stopped myself in the nick of time.

We’d drawn quite a little crowd by now, and a buzzing had started. The regulars had caught on that a man had come into the bar last night and picked up someone and killed him. It was now occurring to them that it could have happened to anyone; that this sort of thing had happened before—and when it happened once, it usually happened twice, and three times. The gay version of Jack the Ripper.

Rob got Terry’s address from Jake and nodded, as we left, to the little group of bar buzzers. “Fear stalks,” he said.

“Huh?”

“That’s my follow story. ‘Fear Stalks the Streets; Lunatic on the Loose.’”

“We don’t know that. It sounds as if the killer went straight for Rhinestone—I mean Sanchez; he must have known him.”

“Yeah, but it’ll still make a pretty decent follow.”

I bit my tongue to avoid a fight.

If Terry Yannarelli was really Italian, he must have had a nose job—either that or his mother’s name was McGillicuddy. He was a regular-featured redhead, but not the freckled kind; he had kind of gold skin that looked as if it had more than a passing acquaintance with a sun lamp. I could see what the guys saw in him. He was wearing only a towel when he opened the door, so I could see pretty well. He had excellent muscle definition, the kind guys get from working out three times a week. He was definitely eager to talk.

“I knew there was something funny about that guy. I told Jake—did he tell you? I knew it. He said it was sour grapes.”

“You talked to him for a while?”

“Hell, no—I tried, but he didn’t want to talk. Plain wasn’t interested. Asked me where I was from and that was about it. I said, ‘I live around the corner,’ and gave him a wink, you know. That usually gets ’em. Jake thinks they like me because I’m cute, but, really, it’s because I’m geographically desirable. The straight ones especially like that.”

“The straight ones?”

“You know. The ones with a wife and kids at home—that come to Castro Street once a month or so. They like to go around the corner for a quickie. I’ll tell you something—that’s my weakness.”

“Quickies?”

“Straight ones. I can always spot ’em.”

“And this guy was straight?”

“Bet on it. He killed that old guy, didn’t he? That’s the kind that gets weird. They hate themselves because they’re gay, so they want to beat up on gay guys.”

“They beat up on you?”

“Sometimes. That’s not the part I like. I like the danger.”

I spoke for the first time, unable to keep quiet: “But you could have been killed—doesn’t that frighten you?”

He shrugged. “I can take care of myself. That’s probably what it was, come to think of it—he didn’t think he could take me. I knew there was something funny about him.”