Tourist Trap (Rebecca Schwartz #3) (A Rebecca Schwartz Mystery) (The Rebecca Schwartz Series) (15 page)

Franklin: “You gotta be kiddin’.”

Hunt: “Some people’ll do anything.”

Curry: “I never yet met a lawyer told the truth twice in the same day.”

There had to be ways around this. I could call Martinez’s superior. I could repeat the whole preposterous conversation to Rob and let him write a story about it that would make Martinez sorry he ever tangled with the likes of Rebecca Schwartz. I could get my dad to—I stopped in mid-thought.

None of the above. I couldn’t turn to Rob or Dad. I could call Martinez’s superior, but not till tomorrow. I had to handle Martinez myself, and now. My hands itched for my purse or briefcase.

I said, “Inspector Martinez, I don’t even understand what the message meant. I’m just telling you what I heard.”

“You mean what your client told you to say.”

“My client? My client’s in jail—how could he have done this?”

“You ever heard of a timing device? Let me tell you something, Miss Schwartz. Elevators are serviced every week, but the servicemen go into the shaft only every two weeks. So he could have set it two weeks ago. And God knows how many more booby traps he’s left around. Let me tell you something else. That crash was caused by two charges—one that severed the hoist cables and one that severed the governor cable that should have stopped the car. You know how an elevator works? If the hoists are severed, the governor pulls up wedges underneath it called safeties, and the safeties stop the fall. As it happens, I’ve spent the evening with elevator specialists, who tell me the one thing your client probably didn’t know: It’s practically impossible to kill somebody in a falling elevator. So maybe nobody’s going to die as a result of this, but it won’t be because your client didn’t try. By the way, guess what explosive was used at the Bonanza Inn?”

“How should I know?”

“You seem to know quite a lot. Plastic explosive, Miss Schwartz. Just like your client told you. Remember that little book on explosives we found in Lou’s room? There’s a big fat chapter on how to make Plastique. Another thing—didn’t you notice the Trapper doesn’t ask for money? And he writes instead of phones? Next time get the M.O. right, okay?”

“He phoned about the cable car.”

“I am just about at the end of my patience!” He was bellowing. “You try it once and it doesn’t work and now you try it again. Do you think I’m a complete fool?”

I said, “What I think is quite beside the point, Inspector Martinez. The simple fact is that you have blown this case. You may get a conviction, but I’m telling you right now that Lou Zimbardo is an innocent man. Not only is my client not the Trapper, but I know who is.”

“Yeah? Who?” Martinez was only too happy to play, probably thinking I’d say something like, “I’m not at liberty to disclose that information at this point in time.”

Instead I said, “Les Mathison.”

“Who?”

“Inspector Hunt, are you listening? Franklin? Curry? The Trapper is Les Mathison.”

Martinez: “Who the hell is Les Mathison?”

Franklin: “What’s she talking about?”

Hunt: “What the hell does she know, anyway?”

Curry: “Where is he?”

“Good night, gentlemen,” I said, reaching, with perfect cool, for my two bags. Whether they’d taken me seriously or not, they were too bewildered to toss out any more insults. I’d gotten them off my back, but it was a complicated thing I’d done. It might actually start Martinez’s pea-sized brain in motion; maybe he’d run some checks on Les, get interested, perhaps even find him.

Before it was too late, I got hold of myself. I was so flushed with victory I’d forgotten whom I was dealing with. Martinez would do something intelligent when the Bay Bridge started galloping like Gertie. In the meantime, he’d ignore the Les theory just because it was mine. I wondered if I’d hurt my client by baiting him. But surely not. The D.A., not Martinez, would decide whether or not to investigate Les—that is, he would if I ever got enough evidence to go to him.

Needless to say, the more tender moments of my reunion with Rob had to be postponed. So I perused the
Chronicle
alone the next morning, and could certainly have used a warm hug when I saw the headline: “Elevator Disaster—Police Fear Trapper Booby Trap.” Martinez had been careful not to libel my client, but he had told the press that the bombs had been set using a timing device, and that police were investigating the possibility that they were set by Lou Zimbardo, the Trapper suspect, before he was incarcerated; and he did say that police were checking other hotel elevators for bombs, thus renewing the famous climate of fear. It was also going to be a climate of vengeance—I figured Lou had about as much of a chance of getting a fair trial in San Francisco as Martinez had of getting into MENSA.

A sidebar by Charlie Fish, a young hot dog who was bucking to replace Rob as star reporter, explained how the bombs were set: Someone went into the machine room and lined the opening where the cables go through to the elevator with plastic explosives; he then put another charge in the case over the governor. Timing devices were found for both bombs, but the demolitions experts couldn’t be sure when they’d been set.

The casualty count was twelve injured, three seriously; no one dead, thank God.

Nowhere in either story was the Trapper’s phone call to me mentioned. I was thinking about bursting into unlawyer like tears when the doorbell rang—Rob, with coffee and croissants. I wasn’t hungry. Rob said, “I hope you’re not mad; I did something I’m not sure about.”

I had a feeling I knew what it was, but was prevented from asking by an urgently ringing phone. I picked it up, resigned: “Hi, Mom.”

“Are you psychic, darling?”

“Just a good guess.”

“Have you seen the
Chronicle?
”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Whose side is that Rob on, anyway?”

“He’s just doing his job, Mom.”

“He didn’t have to make it sound like your client set those bombs.”

“I don’t think he meant to, Mom. He was just quoting the cops.”

“He could have left that stuff out.”

“I wish, Mom, but reporters have to report.”

“There’s no such thing as objectivity.”

“Well, they try for it.”

“You’d think he could help you out a little.”

“I’ve got to run, Mom. Call you back, okay?”

Rob had finished his croissant and was working on mine. I said, “Mom thinks you could have made my client look better.” That was kind of an odd position I was in, just then. Defending modern journalism.”

“Listen, I did something that might not be ethical; I’m all mixed up about it.”

“I noticed you didn’t mention the Trapper’s call. Is that what you mean?”

He spoke softly, so that I had to strain to hear. “Yeah, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I mean, I know if the defense lawyer had been anyone else, I would have—and thereby made him or her a laughingstock. But I couldn’t do it to you.”

“You could have asked me how I felt about it.” I was just trying that on for size—more or less playing the devil’s advocate—because I didn’t really know how I felt about it. In a way, I wanted it made public. It was true, dammit—the real Trapper had called and was still on the loose and I thought people should know. On the other hand, I knew they wouldn’t believe it—coming from me—and that indeed reporting the phone call would have made both my client and me look bad.

Rob said, “I could have asked you, but it wouldn’t have been fair; figuring out what to do was up to me. Involving you would only have made you an accessory to a possible breach of ethics. Actually, a certain breach of ethics, except for the fact that the call was meant for me. Yes, you’re my girlfriend, and yes, that’s why I suppressed it; but no other defense lawyer in the world would be put in the position of appearing a horse’s ass by my failure to take my own phone call.”

I didn’t say anything, trying to digest what he was saying. “Rebecca, I’m sorry I asked you to take the call—it was unforgivably stupid.”

“Oh, don’t be silly. It seemed like the right thing to do at the time. Listen, thanks for doing what you did; I’m sure it was the right thing.”

But I wasn’t sure and neither was he. Maybe there just wasn’t a right answer to the question.

Rob finished off my croissant. “I’ve got to run. Can I see you tomorrow?”

“How about tonight?”

“I have to work.”

“Tomorrow then. I’ll make something here.”

“No. I want to take you out.”

“I’d rather just wear jeans and put my feet up.” Why stand on ceremony with a man you’ve been dating for more than a year?

“Okay, I’ll cook.”

“Wow. You’re taking reconciliation to dizzying heights.”

“I’ve been taking cooking classes.”

“If you’d told me that, I would have called sooner.”

“You love me for myself.”

“That and your purple prose.”

* * *

I had a morning court appearance and didn’t get to the office ‘till nearly noon. Imagine my surprise to find my secretary knitting; knitting something white and dainty and very small. Far too small for the clammy hands of a tall chap in a schlumpy outfit. He looked like someone playing dolls with his daughter. Daughter! What was I thinking of? And yet there was a fifty-fifty chance he was going to have one. I thought I’d better take time out and get used to the idea. I said, “Don’t forget to purl.”

“Pearl. That’s it! We’ll name her after Janis Joplin.”

“What if it’s a boy?”

“Jimi.”

“Not Elvis?” I was sorry the instant I said it.

“Elvis. Better yet.”

He was capable of going through with it. Even if Mickey managed a halfway-Jewish-sounding name that Mom and Dad could live with—like David, say—he’d probably call the kid El and we’d all end up doing it. Depressing, but that was the least of the Schwartz family problems-to-be. I was just going into a black reverie, imagining conversations with Mom that would spook a shrink, when Alan spoke again: “Your dad’s on his way over. He wants to take you to lunch.”

“He does? Great.”

“I think it’s time he knew about the baby.”

Goose bumps started forming on my extremities. “What are you getting at?”

“How’s this? He comes in, sees me knitting, and says, ‘New hobby, Alan?’ And I say, ‘Not exactly, Mr. Schwartz. It’s just that I don’t know how Mickey and I are going to support little Pearl or Elvis on the pittance I make here, so I’m just trying to save a few precious pennies on bunting.’ Then he says…”

“Very funny, Alan.”

“Of course, if I were to get a raise it wouldn’t be necessary.”

I did owe him a raise. At least, most decent employees should get a raise after a year’s faithful service. But Kruzick’s work was distinctly slipshod and he was about as faithful as a tomcat—every time he had an audition for some amateur production he left Chris and me to fend for ourselves. I said, “Pearl can starve before I’ll raise you a nickel.”

“You’d starve your own niece?”

Dad’s voice said, “But you don’t have a niece. New hobby, Alan?”

“Dad! When did you come in?” I managed to speak before Kruzick could, but he gave me a now-or-never look and opened his mouth. Once again, I was too quick for him: “He’s an expectant father in a play. I was helping him rehearse.”

Dad chuckled. “He looks exactly the part, doesn’t he? One of those neurotic ones that worry all the time. I bet he’d make Mickey pack her suitcase about the third month.”

I held my breath. “Oh, no, I wouldn’t, Mr. Schwartz. I’m a regular cucumber. In fact, the only thing I’m really worried about is getting to the shul on time.”

“Isn’t that an odd place to have a baby?”

“Alan’s playing an unmarried father, Dad.” I didn’t think Kruzick was really going to do anything rash—just torment me to the limit—but I was starting to sweat. This was entirely too close to the bone.

“A modern twist,” said Dad.

Kruzick said, “She can’t make up her mind to marry me.”

“I think we better eat, Dad. I’m feeling faint.”

“You don’t look so good,” said Kruzick.

Dad was still chuckling when we hit the pavement. “Alan sure gets into his roles, doesn’t he?”

“Great little actor.”

“I could really see him as a father.”

Dad opened the door of Sam’s Grill, ushered me in, and held up two fingers to let the maître d’ know the size of our party. “I need a drink,” I said.

“Worried about your case, Beck?”

I nodded, pulling a serious face and making a mental note to nag Mickey into telling Mom and Dad to get the
tsuris
over with. “Dad, I need your help.”

He gave me one of the sparkly smiles that had won the hearts of juries by the dozen. “I’ll do anything I can. I wanted to see you today to let you know that.”

“Will you be co-counsel?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

Dad loved a good fight, but he hated to lose. If he was willing to be co-counsel, maybe that meant something. “Do you think we have a chance?”

He gave me one of the glasses of white wine the bartender had just handed to him. “Want me to be honest with you?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Well, I’m going to be.”

“I’m ready.”

“Frankly, no. We haven’t a chance.”

“Then why do you want a piece of it?”

“Because it’s too much for you.”

“Too much for me!”

“Now, calm down. I don’t mean you can’t handle it—the legal aspects of it, I mean. You can handle it as well as I can.”

“That’s not true and you know it. You’re one of the best criminal lawyers in the country. I’m not quite in that exalted class.”

“Very well, then. You can handle it as well as any lawyer in the city except me.”

We both laughed, but I was feeling tense. “What did you mean when you said it was too much for me?”

“I meant emotionally. I’m sorry, Beck, but I don’t see a way to win this thing. You’re not ready to lose a case like this; it could break your confidence as a trial lawyer. If you lose, I don’t want you going down alone. I want you to see that no one could have won.”

“You’re treating me like a child.”

“I was afraid you’d feel that way. But it isn’t that. I’d do the same for any talented young lawyer.”