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

and she got there before I did. By the time I got home, she was dead. Someone bashed her with my Don Quixote sculpture.”
    “Thank God it wasn’t you!”
    “The police don’t seem to think it was a burglary. My house was ransacked, but nothing was missing.”
    “So why ransack it?”
    “To make it look like a burglary, I guess. Or maybe because the murderer thought Kandi—the dead woman—had brought something that he wanted.”
    “What? I’m not following.”
    “Can I talk to Daddy? I’d like to tell him, too.”
    “He had to run an errand. I’ll tell him. Listen, should we call off the party?” My parents’ thirtieth wedding anniversary party was scheduled for the next day. Sunday.
    “What, are you crazy?” I said. “
I’m
not dead.”
    “But, darling, you’re upset. Party or no party, my children come first.”
    “Mom, I’ll have a great time. Everyone’ll want to talk to me because I’ll be notorious.”
    “You sure? It’s not too late.”
    “Positive. Listen, I’ve got to go home and put my house back together.”
    “You’re not going back to the place alone?”
    “Mickey will drive me. I’ll have her come in and make sure no one’s there.”
    “You’re not under suspicion, are you, dear?”
    “No, Mom. They’ve arrested a friend of mine. I’m his lawyer.” Once that was out, I had to tell her the whole story, and I believe she was more upset by my going to a party at a bordello than she was about the murder.
    Not being able to fit into any of Mickey’s jeans, I had to wear my silver blouse and black skirt back to my house. I looked as grubby as I felt. I contemplated a shower and then a blitz of my house, but I knew the blitz would have to wait until I’d seen Parker.
    Mickey didn’t want to go in with me, because it meant taking me to my car, then driving all the way back to Telegraph Hill. But I needed her to help me move furniture. That Flokati rug had cost me $150 on sale at Macy’s and I wasn’t about to throw it out; I planned to wash the bloodstains out in the bathtub.
    We found the place in worse disarray than the night before, if that was possible. But I didn’t let myself think about it. Mickey and I heaved the sofas and coffee table off the rug, and I gathered it up while she ran some cold water. Then she left me alone.
    I added detergent and left the rug to soak while I called Judge Rinaldo. “I’m sorry, Miss Schwartz,” he said. “Martinez and Curry are dead against bail for your client. They’ve got witnesses and fingerprints.”
    “Yes, but he’s not a flight risk.”
    “They say he’s in such a depressed state he might try suicide.”
    “Bull—” I stopped myself just in time. “I mean, nonsense! I talked to him this morning.”
    “I’m sorry,” the judge repeated. “You’ll have a bail hearing if he’s charged.” He hung up.
    It was no more than I expected. The bit about suicide disturbed me, though. I hadn’t thought Parker was that upset, but then he had rather unreasonably refused to take the polygraph test. Unreasonably if he were innocent, that is. I had to assume he was innocent, so why not take the test? Was he really so upset he just wasn’t thinking straight? Could be; I would be if I were in his shoes. But so upset he was suicidal?
    I hoped to God not. And not only on his account—I wanted a man I didn’t have to mother.
    I went back to the rug. A little scrubbing and the blood came out pretty easily, but the feathers were something else again. Even after I’d gotten bored picking them off, you could hardly see the difference. So I decided to vacuum it when it was dry, and addressed myself to the hard part of the task: wringing the damn thing out.
    Then I bathed, put on a white silk shirt, gray flannel slacks, and a coral necklace. That was good enough for a Saturday at the Hall of Justice.

Chapter Nine
     
    The Hall of Justice was eerily quiet. I took the elevator to City Prison and asked to see my client. The cops showed us into an interview room about the size of my bathroom, painted in two shades of blue. Two ugly shades. It was furnished with a table and two chairs.
    As soon as they left us alone, we kissed and held each other for a long time. Parker’s eyes were red, either from crying or lack of sleep. Maybe both.
    “No bail?” he asked, sitting down.
    I shook my head. “I’m sorry. Martinez and Curry told the judge you might be suicidal.”
    “Christ, I just might be.” He waved his hand in a