Tourist Trap (Rebecca Schwartz #3) (A Rebecca Schwartz Mystery) (The Rebecca Schwartz Series) (8 page)

“What things?”

“The cops don’t want us to run the note. They’re afraid it’ll cause a panic.”

“It will. I’m panicked and I’m not even a tourist.”

“True; it will. But wouldn’t you prefer to know there’s a homicidal maniac on the loose so you could stay off the streets if you felt like it?”

“I think I would. I wish we could have warned people away from Pier 39.”

“That’s the way I feel. As it happened, though, he timed it so we couldn’t. He substituted the mussels the same day we got the letter, so at least no one got hurt because we made the wrong decision.”

My stomach contracted into a hard little knot. “I keep thinking about the poor old man who died. And his family. Rob, please don’t…”

I stopped myself in midsentence.

“Don’t what?”

“Nothing. Don’t be a stranger. I’m sorry you can’t make lunch. I’ll miss you.”

I hung up, thanking my stars I’d caught myself. I’d been about to tell Rob, don’t get involved, don’t expose yourself, stay out of this horrible thing; exactly—precisely—the way my mother had spoken to me on more than one occasion. Was it just habit—the habit of hearing it over and over—that made me want to say that? Fear was my mother’s M.O.—was I catching it? I hoped not. I hoped this was an exception to the way I looked at life and not the start of a fear habit of my own, because I hated the way it felt. I was frightened for Rob and frightened for myself and frightened for all the poor souls from Cincinnati who wanted a look at the Golden Gate Bridge in spring, and frightened for anyone who might be mistaken for a tourist or who might be near a tourist attraction next time the Trapper struck. After all, plenty of our landmarks were part of our everyday life.

No doubt I could have worked myself up to a terrifying neurotic frenzy, but a distraction presented itself. Jeff Simon phoned and asked me to dinner. Of course I declined, but it did no good.

“Look, I just enjoy your company. That’s all. I know you’re seeing someone—I even know his name and what he does, since you talked endlessly about him last night.”

“I don’t think I—”

“But I’m up here for a week on business. Taking a deposition—you’re one of the few women I know who even understand the word—and I’m lonely, all right? I want to be with somebody intelligent and have a nice dinner. That’s absolutely all, I promise.”

“Rob might—” Rob might call. But then he might not. I had a right to do what I wanted with my evenings, without feeling I had to wait by the phone like some Valley Girl with styling mousse for brains. Things with Rob were definitely shaky; and I liked Jeff Simon. Maybe I owed it to myself to get to know him. “Okay,” I said. “Eight o’clock.”

“I’ll pick you up at your place.”

I looked at my watch. I had a deposition of my own to take in half an hour.

I didn’t get home till seven, but that was still plenty of time to feed the fish, shower, and change clothes. With a little time left over to talk on the phone if anyone happened to call. But Rob didn’t.

Very well then. I applied some unaccustomed violet eye shadow. But to what end I didn’t know—in the hope, I guess, of getting a little male admiration from whatever quarter I could.

My attire for the evening was nouveau court jester—black pants that fit like tights, topped with a giant silver-gray sweater. In my case, the sweater had to be Godzilla-sized to cover telltale top-of-thigh bulge. In truth, being five feet five and a hundred twenty-five pounds, I was a bit on the short, rounded side for the medieval look, but I’d bought the outfit after seeing Chris in one like it. Being six feet tall and three-quarters leg, she pulled it off spectacularly. Oh, well. I’d gotten the entire costume, mohair sweater and all, at a January sale for eighty dollars. How could I go wrong?

Jeff didn’t seem to think I had. He was quite mannerly about it, sweeping his eyes face to foot most discreetly, but nonetheless sweeping them. He turned from my person to my pad. “Ah, a reader. Hardly anyone is anymore.”

“All my friends read.”

He shook his head. “I can’t find anyone who does. I moved out from New York two years ago and I’m still suffering culture shock.”

“Can’t find anyone to read the Sunday
Times
with?”

“You understand!”

“I ought to—I’ve been out with enough New Yorkers.”

“Oh. You seem like one of us. I mean—intelligent.”

“I was born and raised in Marin County, California, hot-tub capital of the world.”

“You must have gone East to school.”

“Nope. Cal and then Boalt for law school. All I had to do was cross the bridge.”

“But your apartment—” He made a sweeping gesture. “It’s so spare—so Bauhaus.”

In a way, I suppose he was right. It was all black and white, with here and there a little red, much like my wardrobe. I abominate brown, yellow, orange, and all warm colors. I had two deep white sofas, facing each other, with a chrome and glass coffee table in between, a chrome lamp, and a dark piano on a Flokati rug. Rather wintry and sparse indeed.

But I also had a seven-foot palm, two rife, lush asparagus ferns the size of medicine balls, and my hundred-gallon saltwater aquarium, teeming with marine life in every color on the planet. Was Jeff blind?

“How about the wildlife?” I asked.

“Nobody’s perfect.”

Sometimes I think there’s something distinctly anhedonic in the ex-New Yorker. Still, Jeff had another side—he could tell a great story.

“So far,” he said, “I’ve found the food in San Francisco fairly overrated. Do you know Khan Toke?”

“You didn’t like the Hayes Street Grill?”

“It was okay.” He looked crestfallen. “I just wanted to try something new. Don’t you like Thai food?”

“Sure. Let’s go there.” I admit I was intimidated. Since he’d said he didn’t like San Francisco restaurants I was afraid to suggest any place else—it mightn’t pass muster with his Eastern tastes. But I definitely had my doubts about Khan Toke, doubts that had a great deal more to do with the atmosphere than the very excellent food.

A waiter took our shoes and led us barefoot to our table, where we were invited to sit on the floor next to each other, not even across the table, but quite close, with shoes informally off and legs curled under us, as if we were longtime friends lounging together. It was a dark, elegant, sensual restaurant.

“Very romantic,” said Jeff.

My hands started to sweat, but I said nothing. I was at odds with myself; it
was
romantic and on the one hand, I liked that quite well; on the other, I felt guilty and loyal to Rob and a bit bullied—after all, Jeff had made a particular point of not wanting romance. I ordered a glass of wine, knowing I would have to switch to beer when the fiery food came, but for the moment very much needing something smooth and grapy and likely to encourage the two disputatious Rebeccas to come to terms.

Jeff told his stories which, along with the wine, beer, fish balls, curries, and spicy, minty dainties, worked wonders to put me at ease. This time I learned that a certain sex bomb female singer liked to prowl lesbian bars in disguise, that three male heartthrobs were said to be suffering from AIDS, that two seemingly thriving studios were on the verge of bankruptcy, and that a cable TV station was doing a musical version of
Pride and Prejudice
set in the year 2100.

Once he was done entertaining me royally, Jeff apologized for hogging the floor and asked me once again about myself, whereupon I unleashed all my worries about Rob and the Trapper, and all my unhappiness with Rob in what Mickey had called his werewolf-reporter role. Jeff clucked sympathetically until the bill came and then, suddenly horrified at what I’d done, I clammed up, too embarrassed to speak. “I’ve been awful company,” I said finally. “I hope you’ll forgive me.”

“What?” Jeff spoke absently. “You’ve been great.” We got up to leave. “You don’t think we could catch something from this rug, do you?”

“Jeff, for heaven’s sake—through your socks?”

His smile was a trifle rueful. “You never know. What did you think of the restaurant?”

“Delicious. Really terrific. Thanks for bringing me.”

“You didn’t think the duck was a little overdone?”

“It seemed fine to me.”

“I thought the fish balls were a bit on the greasy side. Is this neighborhood safe to walk in?”

“Sure. One of the safest in the city.” We headed toward his rented car.

“It doesn’t look all that savory.”

“You’ve got a nerve. Just about anywhere in New York makes me quail and quake.”

“But New York’s got so much
character
.”

I was still feeling guilty about pouring out my troubles, and wanted to ask if I could buy Jeff dessert, but I was afraid he wouldn’t like any place I suggested, so I let it go. I did scrape up the courage to ask him in for coffee and almost instantly regretted it. “It’s Italian roast,” I said.

“That’s okay. I’ll just have tea.”

“Oh. Sorry, I haven’t got any.” I did, but it was only Lipton’s, and I was damned if I was going to admit that.

Jeff took my hands in both of his. “I don’t care what we drink, Rebecca. I just want to be with you.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. “You mean the Italian roast’ll be okay?”

Jeff made a face. “No. I meant I really don’t need anything.”

I made some for myself, anyway. I feel that when you ask someone in for a cup of coffee, he is obligated to drink one, but if he declines to drink one, he is certainly obligated to leave when the time has elapsed that it would normally take him to drink one. I didn’t want Jeff to lose track of time.

To tell the truth, I guess I was policing myself as well. When Jeff got started on my favorite subject—what a really sterling person I am and how lucky he was to have met me—he was at his most charming. I was learning that he was a little frightened of the world, a little picky—in short, a bit of a wimp, perhaps—but nonetheless I thought him a mensch.

So. Did I kiss him good night? Of course.

And I was glad I had when I saw the
Chronicle
the next morning—glad because it made me cross with Rob. The headlines screamed; the prose was pretty shrill, too. “Random Killer Targets S.F. Tourists,” said the banner, and underneath was Rob’s story, connecting the so-called gay murder of Jack Sanchez of Gallup, New Mexico, the man Rob and I had found nailed to the cross, with the poisonings of eleven people at Pier 39 that resulted in the death of Brewster Baskett of Winnemucca, Nevada. Photos of the Trapper’s notes were reproduced, but the last sentence was blocked out of the second note—the part about the mussels in the men’s room. That meant the
Chron
had made a deal with the cops to withhold it.

Along with the main story were four sidebars. One contained opinions of selected psychiatrists as to the sort of person who would do such a thing. “An angry, vindictive person,” deduced one. “Someone with a grudge,” another proclaimed. “A fruitcake with half a dozen screws loose” wasn’t among the opinions. Maybe the shrinks thought it was self-evident, or maybe they were saving themselves to be expert witnesses.

The second sidebar was about PSP—paralytic shellfish poisoning—which you get from quarantined mussels. The next was a gory little walk down Memory Lane, detailing the fearsome activities of yesteryear’s Zebra and Zodiac serial killers. And the fourth, headed, “S.F. Tourism Endangered,” outlined the chilling truth about what the Trapper’s work could actually do to the economy of the city. Explaining that tourism is San Francisco’s largest industry, it noted that approximately 2.5 million tourists visit the city each year, dropping over a billion dollars, supporting some 60,000 jobs and bringing in almost $60 million in local taxes. If the hordes stayed away even for a few weeks—especially now, in the peak spring and summer months—if, as the Trapper predicted, he “closed this hellhole down,” jobs would be lost, hotels and restaurants would get shaky, places like Pier 39 and companies like the one that gives boat rides on the bay would be history in no time at all. The story quoted the Trapper himself: “What would this crummy joint be without tourists?” Rob admitted in the story that no one really knew, but it wouldn’t be completely off-base to say that parts of it—Fisherman’s Wharf, for instance—would resemble a ghost town. And that the economic damage would be devastating.

I had to give Rob credit for doing his homework. If the Trapper really was a serial killer—someone as dangerous as Zebra or Zodiac—the impact on the city’s economy was the real story, and the Trapper knew it. I certainly saw nothing to contradict the shrinks’ opinions that he was a very angry, vindictive person with a grudge, and that the grudge apparently was against the city. “Ever since I came here,” he had written, “I’ve had nothing but trouble and now the whole city is going to pay.” He might be a fruitcake, but there was a clean, taut logic about his current project.

But I still wasn’t convinced that the Trapper was the person who had killed Sanchez and done the poisonings; he (or she) might be a person who read the newspapers and liked to write notes. The person who did the poisonings probably had written the notes, I admitted, because he knew where the Eastern mussels were. But how could we be sure he’d killed Sanchez? I thought Rob was making too much of the whole thing—terrifying people who could be going about their lives in blissful ignorance. And yet, I’d told him I myself would rather know than not know if there were a homicidal maniac about.

But all those screaming headlines were so needlessly fear-inducing! So
tacky
. And all the doomsaying could very well be creating a self-fulfilling prophecy. I knew Rob had considered all that. Had spent a horrible day in meetings with cops and editors and city officials who were all very seriously considering all that; who had arrived, probably, at a mutual decision to break the Trapper story. But knowing that didn’t make me like it any better.

The phone rang. “Your boyfriend,” said Jeff Simon, “went a little overboard, didn’t he?”

My first impulse was to protect Rob. “Jeff, you’ve got to remember, San Francisco is different from New York. We don’t have the good gray
Times
.”