Death Turns A Trick (Rebecca Schwartz #1) (A Rebecca Schwartz Mystery) (The Rebecca Schwartz Series) (17 page)

But there wasn’t a word in the story about the money. For some reason, the cops hadn’t seen fit to mention it; probably because it knocked a big hole in their case against Parker. I told Mom and Dad about it. Also, I told them about meeting Frank at Elena’s and then again at the Washington Square Bar and Grill.

“Frankly, I think he twisted my arm and pushed me in the aquarium because he was actually trying to get information,” I said. “I don’t really think he killed Kandi for the money—and the police must not think so, either, since they didn’t book him for murder. Which means the attack had nothing to do with the case; it would have happened whether Kandi’d been killed or not. I mean, the danger came from his trying to solicit me, not my working on the case.”

“He could have been trying to find out how much you knew about the money even if he were the murderer,” Daddy suggested.

“No. I accused him of the murder and said I thought Kandi’d left the money there. If he actually were the murderer, he’d already gotten as much information as he needed. He didn’t have to drown me.”

Daddy conceded the logic of that. “Okay, Beck,” he said. “Just let me know if you need any help.”

But Mom wasn’t done. “Rebecca, darling,” she said, “why did you have to go to that silly bordello party in the first place? Weren’t you brought up to realize the criminal element is dangerous? You of all people? Darling, I just can’t understand why a nice girl like you would dress up like that and…” It was the speech I’d been dreading.

“Mom, look, it was a silly thing to do, and I’m sorry. I promise I won’t—”

“But darling, I don’t
understand
—”

“I don’t really understand it myself, Mom. Gotta go now.” I hung up and stretched, trying out my right arm to see if it still worked. It was stiff, but the pain was bearable. I figured another hot bath would do a lot of good.

So I walked into the bathroom, squeezed the Flokati rug as usual, picked off a few feathers and, when I couldn’t put it off any longer, looked at myself in the mirror. And made a vow never again to say an unkind thing about another woman’s appearance.

Half the right side of my face was an arresting shade of purplish brown and twice its normal size. All the make-up at Elizabeth Arden wouldn’t disguise it.

So I’d just have to be brave. I soaked for a long time, putting off going to see Parker. But it had to be done sometime; he was probably going to be charged that day and arraigned the next, unless Martinez had evolved overnight into a person of normal intelligence.

Parker’d seen the paper, so he didn’t do a double take when the Bride of Frankenstein walked in. He kissed my bruises ever so gently, even the one on my right wrist left by Frank’s beefy fingers. “How do you feel?”

“Fine. The worst part was being interrogated down here.” That wasn’t strictly true, but I thought he might be able to identify with it.

“Rebecca, I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t go getting guilty on me, you ape. It had nothing to do with Kandi or the case or you.”

I was pretty happy with the way he reacted to the thing; he was coming back to his old self: the Parker who liked me—loved me, maybe—but didn’t need me for a surrogate mother.

So I said: “Let’s talk about you.”

“Okay. I took my polygraph.”

“Good. Did you pass?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’ll ask Martinez. But tell me something else first. How much money were you carrying the night of Elena’s party?” I watched to see if his face gave anything away. There wasn’t even an eyelash flicker. “About fifty dollars. Why?” I told him. I may not be a physiognomist, but I swear I couldn’t see a thing in his face except bewilderment, then pleasure, as he realized the money could get him off the hook. He whistled. “It kind of blows the theory that I hit her in anger.”

“That’s my opinion. But Martinez has a lot invested in that little theory. I’m going to see him right now. With any luck, I’ll have you out today. Otherwise—uh—they’ll charge you today and I’ll meet you here at nine o’clock tomorrow for your arraignment.”

* * *

Martinez was chewing on a pencil and looking grumpy. “You look like hell,” he said. I asked him what he made of the money. “We’re investigating,” he snapped.

“It’s what the murderer was looking for, you know. It kind of argues that Parker didn’t do it.”

“You don’t have to prove motive in a murder case. We got witnesses that saw him at the scene, and we got a print on the murder weapon.”

“He told me he took his polygraph,” I said, holding my breath.

“Inconclusive.”

Damn! The things aren’t admissible in court, but the cops love them. If Parker’d passed, Martinez probably would have been a lot more reasonable.

“He was probably nervous when he took the test.”

“How do you get around the fingerprint?”

“That’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you about. Whereabouts was that print?”

“Around the middle of the statue, I think. What difference does it make?”

“Doesn’t that strike you as an awkward way to grab a club? I mean, wouldn’t you grip it near the top?”

“I might. Your client apparently wouldn’t.”

“You’re pretty determined to charge him, aren’t you?”

“Damn straight.”

That Martinez should see a shrink. I’ve never seen a man more hell-bent on self-destruction.

It would have been unladylike to stalk out, so I just made a dignified exit without another word. Then I broke the news to Parker that he was probably going to be charged.

Seething, I went back to my office and made coffee, to have something to do with my hands, since Chris was on the phone and I couldn’t buttonhole her quite yet. I counted to a hundred while the coffee cooled and noticed my hand didn’t shake when I picked up the cup.

Chris and I have only two tiny little rooms opening off a tiny little entry way, so I could easily hear when she hung up. I poured another cup of coffee for her, went into her office, and plunked myself down in the client’s chair. “Oh, you poor peach,” she said. “I didn’t know you’d look
this
bad.”

“Thanks. I think they’re going to charge Parker.”

“Oh foot.” Chris is southern and prone to talk funny now and then. She wrapped spidery hands around her coffee cup and wrinkled up her face. “Well, hell, that’s the least of your worries.” She produced a stack of telephone messages. “Every TV and radio station in town is hot on your trail. Also a Stacy Clayton and a Rob—um—Pigball.”

“Burns. He works for the
Chronicle
. And Stacy’s one of Elena’s partners. Did she leave a number?”

“No. Said she might drop by sometime today. Are you going to duck the reporters?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I can use them.”

She frowned. Chris didn’t care much for my self-serving manipulation of the press, so I decided not to tell her yet about the little idea that stack of messages had given me. Rob Burns wouldn’t like it either.

I changed the subject and told Chris about the money. “Maybe it’s Diddleybop’s,” she said. “At the bordello.”

“Elena? Yeah, I was going to call her first thing this morning.”

Chris pulled the phone over, and I dialed. Elena must not have been a mass media addict, because she didn’t seem to know about my adventure of the night before. “Do I gather from our conversation of the other day,” I began after a few pleasantries, “that Kandi got half the money for her tricks and the rest went into the co-op’s kitty?”

“Right. That’s the way it works for everybody.”

“And where is the money kept?”

“In a safe here at the house, and then in two bank accounts: a savings and a checking.”

“Are you missing any?”

“No. Why?”

“Who has access to it?”

“All the co-op members, in all three places. Why?”

“None of the part-timers? I mean Kandi, specifically. Could she have gotten into the safe?”

“No way. She didn’t even know where it was. But why, for Christ’s sake?”

I figured I might as well tell her. If she were the murderer, she’d guess anyway. “Because Kandi hid $25,000 in my asparagus fem before she got killed. I’m trying to find out where she got it.”

Elena was silent. It would be unkind to call her an acquisitive woman, but I figured if I could see her, she’d probably have dollar signs in her eyes, like old-timey comic book characters. “We never have that much in the safe,” she said at last.

“Did anyone at the party complain of missing any money?”

“No.”

“What about the senator? Think hard; did he say anything that hinted at it?”

“Are you kidding? Who’d bring $25,000 to a whorehouse?”

“Well, somebody must have. Who had access to his clothes besides Kandi?”

“Anybody could have. All the co-op members would have known where his clothes were, and anyone else might have slipped upstairs, found them, and patted them down. That Frank fellow, for instance.”

“No. I had a little talk with him last night, and I don’t think he knew about the money. He’s a cop.”

“Jesus.”

“Read today’s
Chronicle
—you might get a kick out of it. But back to the senator. Who had access to his clothes after Kandi took them to the basement?”

“Again, anybody might have. Although it isn’t really likely that any of the guests would have wandered down there.”

“Did you tell the senator that Kandi took his clothes to the basement?”

“No, but for Christ’s sake, Rebecca, do you honestly think the senator would be dumb enough to bring $25,000 to a whorehouse?”

“No,” I answered truthfully. “I don’t see why anyone would.”

I hung up, discouraged. Chris had her chin cupped in her hands. “No luck?”

I shook my head and stared into my coffee cup. I guess I must have done it for quite a while without realizing time was slipping by.

“Say, Rebecca—” said Chris.

Something about her tone made me look up. “Yes?”

“You seem kind of distracted. I mean I know you nearly got killed last night, and your client’s about to be charged with murder, but you are exhibiting aberrant behavior. For you, the normal reaction to all that is to shut yourself up with some music, not come into my office and stare into your coffee cup like a crystal-gazer.”

I sighed. She was right, and I hadn’t realized it myself till then. I was trying to keep something at the edge of my consciousness and not succeeding very well. It was Uncle Walter, the only person I knew who actually had access to $25,000 and had known Kandi.

“Anything you want to tell old Chris?”

Yes, but I couldn’t. That’s how bad I was. I was still trying to think of an answer when the phone rang.

It was Rob Burns. “Hi, kid. How’s your face?”

“Purple, thanks. I’m glad you called.”

“Jaycocks has made bail.”

“So? Do you think he’ll come after me again?”

“Of course not. I just thought you’d want to know. Want to have lunch?”

“Sure.” I was surprised how very much the idea pleased me. “I’ve got some things to tell you.”

“Exclusively?”

“Can’t. But I’ll tell you first.”

“No good. The electronic parasites—also known as the broadcast media—can use it right away.”

“I’ll make it up to you,” I said. And then thought: Whoops, Rebecca, why’d you say that?

“Done. I’ll pick you up at noon.”

Chris was smiling when I hung up. “Whoever that was, you like him. Good. You need a new peach blossom.”

“What about Parker?”

“I don’t like you consorting with the criminal element.”

I threw a pencil at her.

“But seriously, folks,” she said, “how are we going to get him out of jail?”

“I’ll tell you how. I’m going to tell every reporter in town about the money, starting with the peach blossom on the phone.”

Her fine long nose quivered at the end. Chris didn’t know it, but that was something that happened when she was upset. “What good will that do?” she asked, controlling herself.

“At best, make the cops realize they’ve made a terrible mistake by charging my client. At worst, just embarrass them.”

“It’s childish, Rebecca. And possibly unprofessional.”

“Maybe, but mostly you don’t like it because it goes against your genteel southern grain. You can’t turn me into a lady, you know.”

She let her gentility show. “Fuckin’ A. Do your worst.”

I went back into my own office and sat back down at my big ugly oak desk. It’s an odd thing about that office, by the way; nothing could be more different from my apartment. It’s cozy, lined with law books and hung with photos of my family. Not my style at all, but a warm little world I love.

There was still an hour and a half before Rob would be there, so I started making phone calls. It was true I’d told Rob I’d tell him my news first, but he’d said that was no good, so I figured all bets were off.

I’d done two phone interviews and set up an afternoon taping with a TV station when Stacy arrived. This time she wasn’t the little-girl fantasy she’d been at the FDO party, and she wasn’t the hard-looking child who drank sherry with Elena and me. She was well dressed, nicely made up, and looked at least twenty. She knocked lightly, almost shyly, I thought, on the sill of my open office door.

“Rebecca?”

“Stacy. Chris told me you called.”

“I’ve been calling for two days. What happened to your face?”

Involuntarily, my hand went to my bruised right cheek. I’d forgotten about it. “Sit down,” I said, and she did. “You didn’t happen to call shortly before midnight last night, did you?”

“I did, yes. About eleven forty-five.”

“No kidding! Well, shake, pal—you saved me from a fate worse than death. Possibly from death.” She took my extended hand, puzzled. I told her how the phone call had interrupted a rape in progress and then I told her what had happened to my face and asked what I could do for her.

“I’m sorry I was such a bitch the other day,” she said.

“You were upset.”

“Look, I think your client or lover, or whoever he is, is guilty as hell, but I’ve been thinking about things. I mean, there’s something I ought to tell you. In the interests of justice or something.” Her mouth turned up in a half sneer, but I thought she seemed embarrassed. “I lied when we talked at the bordello.”