Death Turns A Trick (Rebecca Schwartz #1) (A Rebecca Schwartz Mystery) (The Rebecca Schwartz Series) (8 page)

“One day—around Halloween—I got a pair of those fake glasses with a nose and mustache. You know, Groucho Marx glasses—and I put them on along with the velvet cape and sneaked up behind Carol. We used to watch that weekly horror show on TV—
Creature Features
, I think they call it now—and we'd recently seen one of the versions of ‘Dracula.’ Anyway, I tapped her on the shoulder and she screamed. No one else was home, so I could do anything I wanted. I chased her around the house for about ten minutes, until finally I cornered her and she just kind of sank down, whimpering.

“She was so defenseless and so terrified and so
pretty
, I realized I loved her.

“I was a teenager, and she was only about seven; I wasn’t used to moments of sentiment. I picked her up and took off the glasses. She put her arms around my neck and wouldn’t let go.”

Parker’s voice was choked, but he went on. “She was, well, wild in high school. Ran away from home, and we didn’t hear from her for over a year. She came home strung out. She got straight and stayed home long enough to graduate. Then she went away again. To San Francisco. This time she kept in touch, and in a way that was even more heart-breaking. We knew she was on every kind of drug but heroin. Acid, speed, downers—coke, I guess, when she could get it. She’d always been a bright girl, and she was wasting herself. She was a vegetable. I swear to God, all she said was ‘Hey, man’ and ‘Far out’ for three years. But a couple of years ago her boyfriend got busted for dealing, and that seemed to sober her up.

“She wrote me that she was going back to school. Our parents had stopped giving her money a long time ago, so I offered to do what I could. She said no, she had a job as a waitress. And I respected her for that. For not taking money. If I’d known what she was doing…”

He put a hand over his eyes. I patted it and told him to take a break while I got him some water.

Perhaps I should tell you now that I wasn’t exactly pleased by this narrative. Here I was, looking for a man I wouldn’t have to mother, and I had a six-footer crying all over me. I told myself I was being unreasonable; that people go through periods of unhappiness and have to help each other through them; that Parker would do the same for me if the roles were reversed. But our relationship was just beginning, and this was no way to start. In retrospect, it seems funny that I thought that, when I didn’t even know if he was about to confess to murder or what, but I did. I’m afraid it wasn’t a very professional attitude.

If what I said seems cold, let me tell you that I was nearly in tears myself. That was the trouble.

I got the water, and he drank it. “Anyway,” he began again, “when I saw her at Elena’s, you can imagine how I felt. I saw her right after you’d told me you could tell the hookers by the length of their skirts. I saw a pair of legs and I looked at them first, and then there was… was Carol. I couldn’t take it in. I mean I did and I didn’t. Do you know what I mean?”

“Yes,” I said. “That’s what happens when you get a shock. You know it’s true because your senses tell you, but you resist it. Because you want it not to be true.”

He took my hand and squeezed it. “Exactly, yes. Well, I just wanted to get out of there. I didn’t want to be in the same room with her. I’m sorry I left you like that, but it was so sudden… It was as if someone else actually walked out of that house. I felt disembodied. I wasn’t thinking.” I squeezed back to let him know I understood.

“Somehow, I got myself to a bar. I remember getting in the car and not having any idea where to go or what to do, and then I just saw a bar, and I stopped and went in. I didn’t even remember where it was.”

“What was the name of it?”

“I don’t know. Does it matter?”

“Not for now, but maybe later.”

“I got drunk. I just sat there drinking one Scotch-and-water after another until I was numb enough to start thinking about it. And then I finally did realize it was true. I was furious. I hadn’t felt like that with her before. I mean being a druggie is wasting your life, but this! When she could have done anything she wanted, had all the choices in the world. Drugs are considered—well, a life-style, you know? Some people think they’re a way to enlightenment or peace of mind or something; I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. It’s criminal if you’re dealing, but it isn’t… it isn’t… selling your body.”

“In a way it is.”

“No. Not like this.”

“I know what you mean. I was just playing devil’s advocate. What time did you leave the bar?”

“I’m not sure, really, but I think it must have been around eleven-thirty. I don’t know what I had in mind. I guess I thought when she saw me she’d be so ashamed she’d, you know, give up her life of crime or something. Anyway, I meant to confront her.”

“And did you?”

“Well, when I got back there, she was dancing with some fat guy. I grabbed her and called her Carol, and I’m sure, I’m just sure there was a look of shock on her face. But she was a real pro,” he said bitterly.

“She wiped it off right away and said, ‘What are you doing here?’, putting me on the defensive. I said it was obvious what she was doing and that she was coming with me. However I thought she’d react, I was wrong. She wasn’t at all contrite. She said, in a pretty snippy way, really, that she was sorry I had to find out, but it was her life and I’d better butt out.”

“Is that all?”

“Just about. I couldn’t believe she was serious, so I started to harangue her again, but those phony cops came in about then. It’s funny. Even after what happened, my only thought was to protect her. I backed her up against a wall so no one could see her, and she let me. The place was bedlam for a while, but then somebody recognized one of the ‘cops’ and people started laughing. Kind of nervously, you know, getting their bearings, but just glad we weren’t all going to jail. Carol must have slipped out from behind me, because the next time I saw her, she was standing with her arm around that fat guy, laughing. As if nothing had happened with me.”

“So what did you do?”

“I wasn’t shocked this time; I was just revolted. But I felt the same as before. I just wanted out. So I left. Somehow I still couldn’t seem to get it through my head that my sister Carol was really a prostitute. A prostitute, and a nasty little job of work at that. With no family feeling, no affection for me. Perfectly happy to parade herself with guys who weren’t fit for her to spit on right in front of her own brother. So I drove to Fort Point, parked, and tried to think. I wasn’t in shape for it, though. Remember, I was still pretty drunk. I fell asleep.

“When I woke up, things seemed a lot more real, somehow. The blind rage was gone, and the shock. I understood the position even if I didn’t like it. My watch said one-fifteen, and I remembered you for the first time in hours. So I went to your house to apologize.”

“Were you still drunk, Parker? Under normal circumstances, I would have been either still at the party or asleep at that hour.”

“I know. And to answer your question, I was pretty well sobered up. I’m afraid it wasn’t the most considerate thing in the world to do. It wasn’t only that I wanted to apologize. I needed someone to talk to.”

“What happened when you got there?”

“Some people let me in the front gate, and I went up to your apartment and knocked. Nobody answered, so I figured you were still at Elena’s, and I certainly wasn’t going back there. I went home and went to bed.”

“When the couple let you in, didn’t you notice a note in the mailbox?”

“That note! What the hell is that all about?”

“Did you see it or not?”

“No. The man had his back against the mailboxes, holding the gate open. I couldn’t see them at all. Look here, the police won’t tell me anything. Martinez seems to think I followed Carol from Elena’s and she let me in. Then there’s something about her going downstairs to leave you a note warning you I was there. Then, according to him, I argued with her, she refused again to give up her… life-style, and I got violent and killed her. Rebecca, I’m not a violent person. You believe me, don’t you?”

“Of course.”

“Well, tell me what the hell is going on, then. What was Carol doing in your apartment? And why weren’t you there? And what the devil is this about a note?”

“When those fake cops came in,” I said, “Elena figured she’d need a lawyer. So when the lights went out, she sneaked me out a back way and told me to drive home, change, and get ready to make like a lawyer. But I had a minor traffic accident and spent two hours here at the Hall. Meanwhile, she found my purse and sent Kandi—I mean Carol—to take it to my apartment. When the cops finally let me go, I came home and found the body.”

“What about the note?”

I explained. He whistled. “So they really think they’ve got me.”

“That’s not nearly so damaging as the fingerprint. Parker, you must have touched the statue sometime at my house.”

“I suppose I did, but I honestly can’t remember. My God, I've even considered the idea that I
did
kill her. I don’t know—turned into Mr. Hyde or something.”

“Is that why you won’t take the polygraph?”

“You think I’m being silly about that.”

“Yes. Will you reconsider?”

“I’ll think about it.”

“I’d better go. Is there anything else I can do? Have the police notified your parents?”

“They’ve told them about Carol, yes, but not about me. They’ll be trying to get me. Could you possibly give them a call?”

“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.