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

to Tony Larson’s. I did this not because he is a man and she is a woman, but because he lives next door. I figured no murderer would have the
chutzpah
to sashay out my door with me banging and hollering right outside. If he was there, I’d have him trapped.
    I banged and hollered. Tony came to the door still wrapping some sort of Japanese robe around him that came to about mid-thigh. I had thought he might still be up, since he’s a bartender and the bars don’t close until two. As it turned out, he was and so was his date; they just didn’t have any clothes on.
    Apparently, Tony grasped the urgency of the situation, because he didn’t complain that I’d halted Cupid on his appointed rounds and he didn’t comment on my outfit. He put his arms around me and I let him. Just for a second. Then I got down to business:
    “There’s a dead woman in my apartment.”
    “Christ,” said Tony and started out the door, but I caught him.
    “Wait, Tony. She’s been murdered. I don’t know if anyone’s in there or not. Have you got a gun?”
    “Yeah. Wait here.”
    He went to his hall closet and came back with a hunting rifle. I unlocked my door and we went in, tiptoeing. But we might as well have marched in combat boots, because Tony lost his cool when he saw Kandi.
    “Christ,” he said again.
    “There’s only four places to hide,” I said. “The kitchen, the bedroom closet, the hall closet, and the bathroom. Go over near the piano so you can cover me and the door to the hall while I look in the kitchen.”
    He did, and I stepped gingerly to the kitchen counter and peeped over it. There was no one there. I let him do the rest of the place alone, so I’d be free to sound the alarm if he got into any trouble. He didn’t.
    “There’s no one here,” he reported. “But the rest of the place is pretty well ransacked too. And there’s a pair of rubber kitchen gloves lying on your bed. Come to my house and we’ll call the cops.”
    At Tony’s, a pretty young woman, by now decently clad in jeans and a sweater, was pouring brandy into three snifters. “I could hear you from the bedroom,” she said. “Is everything okay?”
    “No,” I said, reaching gratefully for a snifter, “but at least no one’s there.”
    “Rebecca, this is Marilyn. She’ll show you where the phone is,” said Tony, and he left to put on some clothes.
    Sitting down in a beanbag chair, I let Marilyn bring me the phone. My mother would have been proud of the way I handled it. I dialed “0” and asked for the number of the San Francisco police, and then I dialed the number. “I’d like to report a murder, please,” I said, as calmly as if I were ordering something from Saks.
    The police officer gave me something called “communications,” and I repeated my request.
    They asked me for my name, phone number, and address. I told them I was next door and gave them Tony’s number and address, which was a good thing because they called right back to make sure I wasn’t a crank.
    When that was done, I asked Tony if I could use the bathroom and Marilyn if she had a hairbrush I could borrow. They both said yes.
    Alone, I took off Elena’s turban and my make-up and brushed my hair into its accustomed professional do.
    “That’s better,” Tony said. “You looked like a ten-dollar hooker. Where have you been, anyway?”
    “Playing the piano in a whorehouse.”
    “Okay, be snotty.”
    “Honest. The dead woman worked there.”
    “No kidding? She’s a hooker?”
    “No and yes.”
    “Who killed her?”
    “I don’t know. I got no idea how I’m going to explain any of this to the cops, much less to my mom. Or where I’m going to sleep tonight.” I shivered. “Not over there.”
    “I could give you the key to my apartment,” said Marilyn. “I’m going to stay with Tony.”
    “No thanks. I think I need company. I’d better call my sister.”
    I dialed Mickey’s number in Berkeley. Her nogoodnik boyfriend answered, “Whaddaya want?” But he wasn’t being rude because it was 3 a.m. He always answers like that, the way some people say, “Kelly’s Brickyard.”
    I said, “Mickey. Now.”
    “She ain’t here.”
    “Alan, I am in no mood for jokes. Now.” He put her on.
    “You tell El Creepo,” I said, “that when someone calls at three a.m., it is undoubtedly an emergency and no time to play games.”
    “What emergency?”
    “A lady of doubtful virtue is dead on my Flokati rug, and I would like you to get your