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

was seven o’clock—I’d never get Parker bailed out if I called a judge at that hour. Mickey had gone back to bed, and I had no alarm to set, so I just lay down again, hoping I’d wake up about nine.
    I did, mostly because Alan was playing the stereo in the bedroom.
    Since I had no idea what judge was on call for the weekend, I called the cops and flung myself on the mercy of the desk sergeant. Luckily, I got a nice one; he said it was Judge Rinaldo.
    I extolled Parker’s virtues at some length for Rinaldo’s benefit, but he said he’d have to call homicide and get back to me.
    Depressed, I knocked on the bedroom door to beg for one of Mickey’s robes. Mickey had gone out for a minute, so Alan made the loan. Then he hovered while I made coffee. Instead of helping with the coffee, he offered conversation that made my teeth itch:
    “What’s it like to find a stiff in your living room?”
    “She was a human being, Alan.”
    “Now she’s a piece of meat.”
    “Haven’t you got any compassion?”
    “Not for some doxie I never met. I’m saving it all for my poor, traumatized, old-maid sister-in-law. Must have been kind of tough on you, huh?”
    Alan’s all right, really. It’s just that he has trouble remembering he’s not on stage all the time. If you don’t watch him, he does bits, like the tough-guy routine he was affecting this morning. Also, he has no sense of responsibility and will probably never make a decent living. But he’s got a good heart, deep down. That and a lot of curly hair.
    I said it wasn’t exactly uplifting, finding Kandi, but I wasn’t his sister-in-law.
    “Did your new boyfriend do it?”
    “How do I know?”
    “Well, I hope not. I was kind of hoping you’d marry him. Then your sister wouldn’t have to worry about you anymore.”
    “Worry about me? She’s living in sin with Mr. Putz and she should worry about me?”
    “You’ll get used to me in thirty or forty years.”
    “I’ll brain you first,” I said, and instantly wished I hadn’t. It brought back a mental picture I could do without.
    Alan picked up a cast-iron pan and held it out. “Here. No time like the present. Come on, get it over with. Face it, Rebecca, you’ve been wanting to for two years.”
    He stretched out his arms, practically begging for it, and looked at the ceiling. “‘Ay, but to die and go we know not where,’” he said, “‘To lie in cold obstruction and to rot…’”
    I took the pan and lifted it in what I hoped was a threatening gesture, but I doubt he even noticed, he was so full of himself: “‘This sensible warm motion to become a kneaded clod; and the delighted spirit…’”
    If that had gone on much longer, I probably
would
have killed him, but Mickey saved his life by making a grand entrance with a fragrant paper bag. He shut up, and I lowered the weapon. “I was about to do you a favor,” I said to Mickey.
    Alan sneaked up behind her and nuzzled her ear: “Would you have missed this sensible warm motion?”
    She shook him off. “You children behave. I’ve brought breakfast.” She opened the bag and started arranging croissants on a plate. The pastries were a real extravagance on the kind of budget she and Jerko lived on. It disoriented Alan so much he set the table.
    I poured coffee and orange juice, and Mickey dredged up some butter and strawberry preserves. After a croissant and two cups of coffee, I felt a lot better. Strong enough to talk to Mom and Dad. I would have called them if Mom hadn’t beat me to the punch. The phone rang just about then.
    “Hi, Mom,” said Mickey. “Oh, she’s with us. Certainly she’s all right. I’ll prove it.”
    She passed me the receiver. “Thank God you’re all right, darling,” said Mom. “I called and you weren’t home.”
    “I know, Mom. I’m not at home a lot. I can drive and everything. But just this once, there
is
a little something wrong. I was going to call you before you heard it on the radio, but…”
    “The radio? What, has your house burned down?”
    "No, Mom. Now listen. Someone was killed there.”
    “What, in your building? I knew it wasn’t safe on Telegraph Hill. Just last year they killed a girl in her own bed.”
    “Her husband killed her. Look, this killing was in my apartment.”
    “Your
apartment? Oy. Are you sure you’re all right, darling? I could come right over.”
    “I’m okay. I wasn’t there at the time. I’d left my purse at a party. She—the victim—came to return it,