Tourist Trap (Rebecca Schwartz #3) (A Rebecca Schwartz Mystery) (The Rebecca Schwartz Series) (12 page)

“Did the guy recover okay?”

“Oh, yeah. Testified against me. You know what? I didn’t hardly recognize him. He looked like some guy I’d never seen before in my life. I didn’t want to hurt him, man—we were just two guys on the wrong cable car at the wrong time. I’ve felt awful about it ever since. If there was anything I could do for him, I would.”

“Who was he?”

“Guy named Les Mathison.”

“I like the name.”

“You like the name? You’re my goddamn lawyer and all you can say is you like the name of the guy I beat up? What’s so great about the guy’s goddamn name?”

“It sounds like ‘Lou.’ And also ‘Lee.’ ” I told him about Terry Yannarelli, who had been told the first name of the Trapper and had promptly forgotten it, just, I suspected, as he forgot the names of his sex partners.

I was ready to call it a day as soon as I checked a couple of other points. “Sanchez was killed on Saturday, the night before Easter. Were you doing anything special that night? Seeing Art or anything? Maybe seeing a girlfriend?”

“No. I don’t have no girlfriend and Art works Saturdays. I don’t know nobody else.”

“Then what were you doing?”

He shrugged. “Same thing as always. Watching television.”

“Do you remember what you saw?”

“Hell, no; it all runs together.”

“Was that all you did that night? Watched television?”

He brightened. “Probably not. It was Saturday, man. Once in a while on Saturday—I mean the few Saturdays since I been out—I treat myself to a few beers.”

“Great. Where do you usually go?”

“Different places. I’m looking for a place to hang out.”

“So where were you that night?”

“Hell, I don’t know.”

“Well, I want you to think about it, Lou. It might be extremely important.” I was stern, like a schoolmarm. Extremely important wasn’t the half of it. If I could find someone who saw him at the same time the Trapper was at the Yellow Parrot, I might have the beginnings of a defense.

“Rebecca, tell me something.”

“Sure.”

“When you went out to ask for the coffee, did you tell your guy to call the cops?”

“Of course not.”

“Then how’d they know how to find me?”

It was a question I’d been dreading. “They had Art’s phone tapped.” He looked down at his lap. That had to be a hard thing to learn for a man who clearly hated to ask for help as much as this one did.

“Listen, Lou, I’m going to try to turn it to our advantage. You came to me because you wanted to turn yourself in, didn’t you?”

I held my breath; I’d certainly been leading the witness—I hoped he’d pick up the lead.

He gave me one of his shrugs. “Yeah. Why else?” Not only was it the right answer, I was pretty sure he meant it. “That should help us in the bail hearing.”

But it didn’t. The city of San Francisco wanted blood, and Lou Zimbardo’s would do as nicely as anyone else’s. Bail was denied.

Chris and I kicked the thing around over a couple of glasses of wine. I had a very nasty little theory and I wanted to see how it hit her.

“Tell me the truth. Do you think he’s guilty?”

“Rebecca, I know he’s a loner who doesn’t like to ask people for help. But he’s bound to have at least one friend—someone he could have gotten to call Rob when he was in your office. Or Art could have gotten someone to do it.”

“Neither of them seems to have the guile for it.”

“If Pigball’s the Trapper…”

“Lou.”

“…that’s the least guileful stunt he’s pulled—if you can call multiple murder a stunt.”

“I just don’t think he did it.”

“A good thing, too. You’re his lawyer.”

“But do you really think he’s guilty?”

“One thing—if the Trapper struck again, I’d think twice about it.”

I shuddered. “Look. Suppose Lou isn’t the Trapper and yet the Trapper doesn’t strike again. Doesn’t it seem strange that he hasn’t already? After all, the three incidents came within a few days of each other. It’s been a week now and not a peep out of the Trapper. Which, of course, argues that Lou’s the bad guy. But suppose he isn’t. What would you think is going on? The Trapper seemed so proud of himself: Why wouldn’t he at least let Rob know he’s still out there?”

“I have a hard time stretching that far. After all, Lou has good reason to have a grudge against the city—at least I think a twisted mind could see it that way. Lou knows enough about cable cars to have caused the crash—and what could be better poetic justice for that same twisted mind? And it was Lou’s restaurant where the poisonings took place.”

“Yes, but how does the man on the cross fit in?”

She drained her glass and shrugged. “The D.A.’s not asking that question.”

“Right. But that’s because he doesn’t have to, to satisfy a jury. Nonetheless, the logical mind must ask it.”

“Okay. I’ll ask it. How?”

“I’ve asked myself again and again, and I can’t come up with anything—that is, if Lou’s the Trapper. I’ve even put the question to Lou and he doesn’t get it.”

“Of course he’d say that.”

“The point is, I can’t get anywhere. But if the Trapper were someone else, it might fit in.”

“But who?”

She just wouldn’t bite—I’d thought the wine would loosen her mind up, but it hadn’t. Chris being a Virginian, I would have been better off with bourbon, but it was too late to switch now. I hit her with my theory: “The person who’s trying to frame Lou.”

She put her wineglass down and rubbed the side of her long nose with one of her long fingers, a gesture that seems to help her think. “A frame-up. The only possible alternate solution. Yes, I see it. The only tricky part would be getting the mussels into the restaurant without Lou seeing him—but it’s not that tricky. He could have come before Lou’s shift started.’’

“Right.”

“Why would anyone want to frame Lou?”

“Think about it.”

But she didn’t need to. Her mind was now sufficiently loose to work without prodding. She answered her own question: “For beating his head in.”

“Right again. Les Mathison.”

“The Perry Mason solution! Partner, you’re flat out colorful.”

“But it does make sense, doesn’t it?”

“Let’s put it this way—I don’t see what other defense you’ve got. You can put Rob and Alan and yourself on the stand to testify about the phone call—”

“And make laughingstocks of all of us.”

“And you can have whachadoogy…”

“Lou.”

…testify that he was watching TV that night—or maybe he was in a bar he can’t remember the name of—”

“And make a laughingstock out of my client.”

“Or you could try something else—and frankly, I can’t think of a single other possibility.”

“Except finding the real Trapper.”

She sighed. “Okay, I’m game. Where do we start?”

“Let’s call Terry Yannarelli.”

But Terry wasn’t in the phone book. This time I sighed. “I guess I’ll have to go see him. Want to join me?”

“Can’t. Bob and I are going out to dinner.”

It was a bit unusual interviewing a potential witness without a witness of my own (in case he later changed his story), but I’d be taking only a preliminary statement, certainly not a formal one. He might be more relaxed if I went alone.

Terry wasn’t at home, so there was nothing for it but to try the Yellow Parrot. He was there, talking to a kid who looked rather like a blond version of Art Zimbardo. Not Terry’s type, I should have thought, but maybe there weren’t any older married types in the place at the time.

He remembered me, greeting me with a hearty “Where’s Rob?”

“Why? Want your picture in the paper again?”

“I got a lot of tricks out of that.”

“I’m sure you do okay without benefit of press agent.”

He shrugged. “My face
is
my fortune.”

“You know, Terry—you’re the only person I know who’s actually seen the Trapper.”

“What do you mean? You haven’t seen your own client?”

“Well, see, I’m pretty sure my client didn’t do it. Did you see his picture in the paper?”

“Sure.”

“What did you think?”

“Not bad. More or less my type, to tell you the truth.” The blond kid made a face and walked away. I cocked an eyebrow. Terry shrugged. “No problem. There’s plenty more where he came from.”

“Could you get serious for a minute?”

“About what?” He looked genuinely surprised.

“My client. Was he the guy you talked to the night Sanchez was murdered?”

“Who’s Sanchez?”

“Rhinestone, dammit. How many murderers have you talked to lately?”

He smiled. “Maybe lots. I like danger, remember?”

“Terry, can I buy you a drink?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

Jake the bartender set us up and I started over. “Now, about my client. Did he look familiar to you?”

“I couldn’t really tell. He’s clean-shaven and the trick had a beard.”

“I thought he wasn’t a trick.”

“They’re all tricks. He just didn’t work out.”

“If you actually saw my client, do you think you could tell? Maybe if he talked to you—could you recognize his voice?”

“Maybe.”

“But you don’t think so.”

He shook his head. “I don’t remember a damn thing about the guy except he didn’t want to su—”

“Never mind. Listen—that name he gave you. Was it Les, by any chance?”

He thought for a minute. “Could have been.”

“I’ll bet you’re a whiz at Trivial Pursuit.”

“Huh?”

“Having total recall and all.”

He laughed. “I do too many drugs.”

“Les, Lee, or Lou?”

“Haven’t a clue.”

So much for my only possible witness.

* * *

The next day was Saturday and I had it all to myself. Rob and I had never finished our conversation about a “trial separation,” but things were sort of working out that way. We were wary of each other. I was preoccupied with Lou’s case and he, I think, had gotten his feelings hurt by my admission that I’d had a date with someone else. To tell the truth, I think he might have been dating someone else, freed to do it by my admission. I didn’t know what I wanted from him right then and didn’t have the energy to confront the thing at the moment.

I fed my fish, played a little Beethoven, and looked up two names in the phone book—Miranda Waring and Les Mathison. There wasn’t even an M. Waring, but there was a Leslie Mathison on Twelfth Avenue.

For a while, I stared at the fish, trying to figure out what to do next. If this was my Les, he was a guy I suspected of being a lunatic who’d as soon murder me as put on his socks. I could hardly phone such a person—that would serve no purpose except to put him on his guard. But I couldn’t see the point of confronting him either. At least not yet. The thing to do first was figure out if he was my pigeon.

I drove out to Twelfth Avenue and looked at his house. It was a duplex, his address being the second-floor apartment. A perfectly nice place, if slightly characterless—big enough for a family. I remembered Lou’s telling me that Les had lost his wife—though whether she’d died or left him I didn’t know; I wondered if he had children. It was hard to think of the Trapper as someone’s dad.

I got out of the Volvo and stood on the sidewalk, staring rudely until I saw a curtain move in the downstairs apartment. Gathering my nerve, I rang the doorbell. Two scruffy children answered my ring in about two seconds, followed instantly by a tired-looking woman, overweight and lank of hair. “You look too old,” she said, “for a baby-sitter.”

“I am, I think. Are you expecting one?”

She looked downcast. “She’s half an hour late already.”

“I’m actually looking for Les Mathison.”

“Les moved out six months ago.”

“I’m not sure I’ve got the right Les. Is this one married?”

“He was. You must have been out of touch for a long time if you don’t know about all that.”

“We sort of lost track of each other.”

“Are you his friend or Darlene’s?”

I hated it when Rob lied to get a story, but I could see how tempting it was. I paused a moment, trying to stem my mendacious urges, and finally blurted out, “I heard he had an accident on a cable car.”

She looked terribly distressed. “Look, I’m afraid I don’t know where to find him.”

“Do you know anyone who would? I really need to talk to him.”

“His mother, maybe, but I don’t know her name. All I know is she’s from Turlock. She came down to take care of him after he—I mean, I always just called her Mrs. Mathison.” The distress suddenly left her face. “Oh, there she is. Thank God.” I looked around, half expecting Mrs. Mathison herself, but the only human in sight was a teenage girl. The babysitter.

I left elated, pretty sure I was on the right track. Les’s neighbor, I thought, had pegged me for an old friend and didn’t want to be the one to tell me bad news—either about Darlene or about Les’s assault on the cable car. At any rate, there was
something
she didn’t want to tell me; if this was a different Les, he’d had his share of bad luck, too.

Now I had to figure out how to approach Mom Mathison. On practical grounds, I decided against driving to Turlock. I might have all day Saturday to myself, but that was ridiculous.

In the end, I phoned, using one of Rob’s favorite tactics for getting people to talk. He claims experience has taught him it’s what they really want to do, anyway—just give them a chance and they’ll probably go at it full tilt. I wasn’t sure what I’d do if Mrs. Mathison asked any difficult questions—like why did I want to find Les—but I felt that after berating Rob for lying to get information, I ought to try to avoid doing it myself.

There were four Mathisons in Turlock, and the third time I asked for Les a woman spoke up hopefully: “Les? He’s not here right now—did he tell you he would be?”

“Is this Mrs. Mathison? His mother?”

“Yes, it is. Are you a friend of Les’s?”

“I’m afraid not, Mrs. Mathison. But I need to talk to him, and his neighbor told me he might be there. My name is Rebecca Schwartz,” I added, hoping she wouldn’t recognize it.

“Oh.” She sounded disappointed. “Well, I haven’t heard from Les in—oh, maybe a year or more. Before that, only every once in a while. Ever since his accident he’s stayed away. I so much wanted him to come home, too—he never had a worry in the world till he moved to San Francisco.”