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

by Julie Smith

  “Sure,” I said, and took the number. We kissed, and I left with a promise to come back the next day.

  On the way home, I considered the situation. I wasn’t lying when I told Parker I believed him, but I was emotionally involved. I wanted to believe him. That wouldn’t do for a lawyer. If I were going to convince the police or, God forbid, a jury, I’d have to use some sort of evidence besides his lifelong record of good character. Solid citizens are always killing their relatives on a moment’s notice.

  Martinez’s idea about the note was plain crazy. Surely a jury would see that, but I didn’t want the case to get that far, and I didn’t see any chance of talking Martinez out of his own cockamamie theory.

  The fingerprint was damned good evidence for the cops, but of course I didn’t know who else’s fingerprints were on that sculpture. Mine were, probably. And maybe the real murderer’s as well. Or maybe he had worn the rubber gloves. That didn’t make sense, though, if it was a crime of passion. More likely he had wiped it.

  The base of the sculpture had had blood on it. That meant the murderer must have picked it up by the head to use it as a bludgeon. He might, then, have wiped only the head. If Parker had touched the sculpture somewhere round the middle, his print might have escaped the murderer’s ministrations. I’d have to ask Martinez where the print was found.

  Something else was bothering me, too. The times didn’t seem right. If Parker left the bar at 11:30 to go back to Elena’s, he must have gotten there just before twelve. Midnight would be the traditional time for a practical joke like the raid, so that fit.

  I’d called Elena’s at a little after one, and she’d already sent Kandi to my apartment. Parker wasn’t seen going in until 1:45. Kandi must have been there long before that, and presumably Parker didn’t know where she was going. The police theory was that he’d followed her there, so why not go in when she did? There were holes in that, of course; Martinez could argue that he sat in the car getting up his nerve, or that he and Kandi had talked outside, then she went in, and Parker followed later. I once heard a D. A. get around the holes in his theory by saying, “We don’t know who made the unidentified fingerprints; we don’t know why the defendant called the police instead of fleeing. We’ll probably never know.” And he still got a conviction. Still, the times were a good place to start. I made a mental note to call Elena.

  I let my mind go blank and concentrated on my driving, but something nagged at me. Something about the idea that Parker followed Kandi. What was it? I thought for a minute and it came clear. I didn’t know who knew where Kandi was going. If only Elena did, then someone must have followed her—someone other than Parker. Or, as Mickey suggested, Elena killed her, having no problem about where to find her. I needed to find out from Elena who knew where Kandi’d been sent. Anyway, whether the killer was someone who knew where Kandi was going or someone who followed her, he must have been a party guest. That narrowed the field to about 125 people. Swell.

  But if he was someone who followed, how could he tell which apartment Kandi’d gone into? He wouldn’t find her name on any of the mailboxes. Ah, but he would find the note. Maybe he even watched her scribble and insert it in the mailbox before she went in.

  I remembered I was having dinner with Jeannette von Phister that night. It would be a good chance to pump her about Kandi. Parker may not have meant to, but he’d painted his sister as a rather poisonous little cup of tea. Maybe a lot of people had reason to kill her.

  Then there was the ransacking. As I saw it, there were three possibilities: Kandi actually had been killed during the course of a burglary, or the ransacking was done to make it look like that—the position of the police, no doubt—or the murderer had been looking for something. Something Kandi brought there. I decided to proceed on the third hypothesis, since it looked like the only one that held any hope, from my point of view. If the killer had been looking for something, he must have found it, because it wasn’t there now. That meant he must still have it. If I could find any evidence at all that such a thing existed, that would strengthen my case a good deal. And if I could find out who had it—well!—I might even solve a murder.

  I couldn’t believe what I saw when I turned into the two-hundred block of Green Street. Two vans bearing the call letters of TV stations were double-parked, and a strange car was in my space. A swarm of humanity buzzed around my building. The dread mass media.

  Would they know I was Parker’s lawyer? Or care? Probably no to both questions. It must be the address. The police could have told them where Kandi’s body had been found and probably who discovered it. They must have come to hear me tell the terrifying tale in my own words. And they’d taken my parking place.

  It wasn’t reserved, so I couldn’t make them move. I drove to the end of the block and turned around. Since it was a Saturday, I figured Telegraph Hill and North Beach would be full of tourists and shoppers. Finding a space would be practically impossible.

  These parasites had already caused me considerable inconvenience, and they were about to invade my privacy as well. Briefly, I considered giving them the time-honored slip. I could just go to Chris and Larry’s place or somewhere. But then it occurred to me that maybe I could turn the thing to my own advantage. Parker’s advantage. The case just might come to trial, and there were plenty of potential jurors out in TV-land. Never too early to start planting the idea that my client was innocent.

  It took me fifteen minutes to find a parking place, and then I had to walk back three blocks to my house. But I was glad of the delay. It gave me a chance to plan what I would say. The only thing I was sorry about was wearing a white blouse that day. Anybody knows white isn’t good for TV.

  I walked up to my gate as if I didn’t even notice that twenty-five or thirty people wanted to make me a star.

  An unprepossessing sort of fellow with hunched shoulders separated himself from the crush and tugged at my sleeve: “Excuse me, but you wouldn’t be Rebecca Schwartz, would you?”

  I nodded. He produced a tape recorder and held a microphone in my face. “I’m Dave Schildkraut from radio station KCBS. I was wondering if…”

  I held up a palm to stop him. “If you don’t mind,” I said, “I’d like to do it for everyone at once. That way I won’t have to repeat myself.”

  He looked taken aback, but he went back to talk to the others, who were beginning to close in anyway. It seemed I was having a press conference on my front steps. I was shocked at my own chutzpah. Why, I could even go in and change my blouse and no one would blink. But I decided against that. It would look too calculating.

  The TV and radio folks arranged themselves in a half moon around me, shoving a thicket of microphones as close as they could. A few poor souls way in the back looked sadly out of date with their pencils and pads: old-timey newspaper reporters.

  “Miss Schwartz,” said a deep broadcast-voice I vaguely recognized, “could you tell us in your own words what happened last night?”

  I told them very concisely that I’d been to a party, had to leave suddenly to run an errand for the hostess—who later found my purse and sent Kandi home with it—and that I’d found the body when I got home.

  I left out the part about the accident and being detained at the Hall, because they might like the irony too much: the idea that if I’d been home, maybe Kandi wouldn’t have been killed or maybe I would have. Even though it was a Saturday and there wouldn’t be much news to compete with the murder, I wanted to make sure I got to say the important stuff; I didn’t need my client’s innocence competing with real-life human drama.

  “How well did you know Carol Phillips?” asked the deep voice.

  “I just met her last night, but I know her brother quite well.”

  “Parker Phillips? The man they’ve arrested?”

  “Yes. I’m his lawyer.”

  “So you don’t believe he killed his sister.”

  “Certainly not. After a very sloppy and cursory investigation, the police have developed a
case that depends on coincidence and exotic flights of imagination. In their haste to make an arrest, they’ve overlooked several important factors that I am now investigating myself.”

  “Will you tell us what those factors are?”

  “The identity of the murderer, for one.”

  “Does that mean you know?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Do you think Phillips will be charged?”

  “That depends on whether the district attorney will be able to look at the facts coolly and methodically, or whether he will succumb to the hysteria that seems to pervade the San Francisco Police Department.”

  “Thank you, Miss Schwartz.”

  Now that it was over, I had second thoughts. Ninety-nine out of a hundred lawyers would have gone the “no comment” route. But my dad always said that the most important ingredient for being a good lawyer was a generous portion of ham. I didn’t see that I’d done any harm, anyway; I’d twitted the cops, and maybe I’d be giving the murderer a flutter—he’d be sure to watch the news.

  As I fumbled for my keys, one of the pad-and-pencil fellows ambled up. I’d noticed him already. He wasn’t exactly handsome, but he had fabulous electric blue eyes and a quality of vitality, of energy about him that attracted me. He said he was Rob Burns from the Chronicle. Instantly, I was on my guard. “Can I see your press card?”

  He grinned. “Sure. You know, you’re only the second person who’s ever asked me that. Journalism ain’t what it used to be.”

  The card looked okay. “I don’t understand,” I said. “The Chronicle doesn’t publish on Sundays. Why aren’t you out hiking on Mount Tam or something?”

  “Aren’t you clever! We don’t work on Saturdays. I heard about the murder on the radio and called the city editor for a special dispensation. I knew I’d have to work on it tomorrow—for Monday’s paper—so I didn’t want to take a chance on missing you. You’re the lawyer for HYENA, aren’t you?” I didn’t deny it.

  “I’ve seen you around. You were great on the Margaret Blythe Show. I’ve, uh, I’ve wanted to meet you for a long time.” It’s true that I’m a sucker for flattery, but lest you get the idea that I’m just a plain sucker, let me emphasize that he said it almost shyly. Delivery counts for a lot. I thought there was a good chance he might turn into an ally, so I didn’t fight the initial attraction I’d felt.

  “I’ve kind of had the illicit-sex beat lately,” he continued. “In fact, I’ve covered some of your press conferences, and I covered the Strumpets’ Strut. When I heard a Carol Phillips was found dead in the apartment of a Rebecca Schwartz, I remembered somebody I’d met at the, uh, Strut. Kandi Phillips. Now no one is named Kandi; it’s the same woman, isn’t it?”

  “AKA,” I said.

  “San Francisco State student with an unconventional way of paying her tuition.”

  “You’re not going to use that?”

  “She didn’t have a rap sheet. I’ve already checked.”

  “It’s against the law for the cops to give out that information…”

  “Or for me to receive it.” The blue eyes were deliciously naughty. “But they did, and I did, and since she’s never been arrested, I don’t see how I can say the lovely Kandi was a hooker, unless…”

  “Unless you want me to sue your ass.”

  “I’m not particular. I’d like anything you did with my ass.”

  “Do you have everything you need, Mr. Burns?”

  “Rob. There’s only one thing. There’s been a lot of mob activity lately.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I can’t be specific yet. Just a lot of pushing and shoving, kind of establishing territory. I don’t really know what it’s all about, but I can’t help wondering if they’re trying to move in on prostitution in the area. It’s all independent now, as you know.”

  “So what does that have to do with this?”

  “That’s what I wanted to ask you. Is it possible Kandi was somehow involved with them and got in too deep?”

  Now that was an idea. But I discarded it after a few moments’ thought. “I don’t see how. This wasn’t what you’d call your ‘execution-style’ murder. Remember, she was bludgeoned to death. The cops might not have told you, but my apartment was ransacked as well. That doesn’t smack of mob work.”

  “Sure doesn’t. Well, you can’t blame a guy for trying. I’m glad I got to meet you, anyway. I hope it isn’t for the last time.”

  He closed his notebook and left with a wave.

  Chapter Ten

  When I’d come back from Mickey’s earlier that day, I’d been so hopped up on coffee and so much looking forward to getting out of those horrid clothes that I must have had a false sense of well-being. Now, as I entered my ravaged apartment, waves of despondency engulfed me like a soggy towel. You know how I feel about my apartment. It was violated. It was raped and pillaged. And so I felt that I was.

  But I am a naturally sanguine person, and that is no accident. I work at it. I learned a long time ago that the best cure for melancholy is action. Clawing frantically at the soggy towel, I pawed through my albums until I found one of Strauss waltzes, a proven nostrum for whatever-ails-you. I put it on, got into jeans, and put the place back together.

  Practically everything had been thrown off the shelf in the hall closet, and the drawers there and in my bureau had been rummaged, though not too badly. The same went for the kitchen. As I worked, I saw that my initial impression had been right; it was really a very cursory job of ransacking. But it was logical. It was the sort of quick blitz you might have made if you were really looking for something, rather than trying to prove somebody’d been looking for something. No mirrors were broken for dramatic effect; nothing was knocked over for no reason at all. I was more convinced than ever that it was a genuine search.

  After I’d satisfied my rage for order, I applied Spic ‘N Span to the fingerprint powder, and it worked nicely.

  I had to work up to calling Parker’s parents. Nobody wants to tell perfect strangers their son is in jail for killing his sister. So I called Chris instead. She never listens to the radio, and anyway, I wouldn’t want her to hear about the murder that way. Halfway through my narrative, she bummed a cigarette from Larry, breaking a six-month-old vow.

  She thought the impromptu press conference was a bad move, but promised to watch it anyhow.

  I called my dad to see what he thought. My mom answered: “Rebecca, thank God! Your father wants to talk to you. Are you all right, darling?”

  I said I was, and Daddy came on the phone. “My daughter, the celebrity,” he said. “Your name’s all over the radio.”

  “Not as much as it’s going to be. Daddy, did Mom tell you they’ve arrested a suspect? And that I’m his lawyer?”

  “Yes.” His voice was serious. “Are you sure you can handle it?”

  “I think so. Listen, here’s what I did. When I got home, every reporter in town was here. So I denounced the police department and made emotional protestations of my client’s innocence. Do you think I went too far?”

  He laughed—deep, rumbling, appreciative guffaws. “What’s the harm? The worst that could happen is the D.A. could claim prejudice and ask for a change of venue if the case gets to trial. But what’s the big deal? You’re doing fine, bubee. You’re your father’s daughter.”

  “You’ll watch, won’t you?”

  “Sure. Six o’clock?”

  “I don’t think so. More likely eleven.”

  There were no more ways to put it off, so I called Parker’s folks. The cops had told them about Carol; this was for Parker. His mother answered.

  She didn’t interrupt me as I identified myself as Parker’s lawyer, explaining the position, and assured her there was nothing to worry about, the police didn’t have a decent case, and I was sure he’d be released. “I see,” she said. Her voice trickled from the receiver like ice water. “Are you sure he has competent legal counsel?”

  Did I need that?
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br />   I counted to ten, quick, and didn’t decide till I got to seven whether or not to let her get away with it. “Mrs. Phillips,” I said finally, trying not to sound as icy as she had, “I know you’ve had several bad shocks today, so perhaps you aren’t aware that you’re being insulting.”

  “I beg your pardon,” she said. “I didn’t realize what I was saying. I suppose I had a snobbish urge for a—for someone well known. There is a criminal lawyer named Isaac Schwartz, I believe, who…”

  “He’s my father,” I said.

  “Oh. Well then. You must be with the same firm.”

  “No, but I’ll see that Parker has the best advice I can give him. If he isn’t satisfied, he can fire me. Fair enough?”

  “Very well. Thank you for calling.”

  My hand shook as I put down the phone. Why had I admitted Isaac Schwartz was my father? Hoping a little of the glory would rub off on me? Bad form, Rebecca. And a thoroughly unpleasant encounter. I didn’t know what ailed Mrs. Phillips, but I supposed she was either rich or well-born. One or both of these things sometimes makes for haughtiness.

  I turned on the TV and didn’t see myself. Then I went into the bathroom to start getting ready for dinner with Jeannette, pausing to squeeze the rug at the bottom and pluck a few more feathers off.

  Jeannette always wanted to dine at the Washington Square Bar and Grill. This is a North Beach hangout that has not won coast-to-coast acclaim for its fine food, but its clientele is supposed to be very “in.” And since Jeannette was very “in,” she liked to be seen there. The place is a plum-colored womb with white tablecloths, dark wood, and plenty of light, so everyone can see who’s there.

  I walked the five or six blocks from my house, preceding Jeannette by about five minutes. She bustled in, arms flying, making her purple cape a perpetual motion machine that slapped at passing waiters. “I simply cannot believe it about Kandi! We were all together not two hours before it must have happened, and then you…” She stopped, apparently to spare my feelings.

  “You heard it on the radio?” I asked.