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

thing. There’s been a lot of mob activity lately.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “I can’t be specific yet. Just a lot of pushing and shoving, kind of establishing territory. I don’t really know what it’s all about, but I can’t help wondering if they’re trying to move in on prostitution in the area. It’s all independent now, as you know.”
    “So what does that have to do with this?”
    “That’s what I wanted to ask you. Is it possible Kandi was somehow involved with them and got in too deep?”
    Now that was an idea. But I discarded it after a few moments’ thought. “I don’t see how. This wasn’t what you’d call your ‘execution-style’ murder. Remember, she was bludgeoned to death. The cops might not have told you, but my apartment was ransacked as well. That doesn’t smack of mob work.”
    “Sure doesn’t. Well, you can’t blame a guy for trying. I’m glad I got to meet you, anyway. I hope it isn’t for the last time.”
    He closed his notebook and left with a wave.

Chapter Ten
     
    When I’d come back from Mickey’s earlier that day, I’d been so hopped up on coffee and so much looking forward to getting out of those horrid clothes that I must have had a false sense of well-being. Now, as I entered my ravaged apartment, waves of despondency engulfed me like a soggy towel. You know how I feel about my apartment. It was violated. It was raped and pillaged. And so I felt that I was.
    But I am a naturally sanguine person, and that is no accident. I work at it. I learned a long time ago that the best cure for melancholy is action. Clawing frantically at the soggy towel, I pawed through my albums until I found one of Strauss waltzes, a proven nostrum for whatever-ails-you. I put it on, got into jeans, and put the place back together.
    Practically everything had been thrown off the shelf in the hall closet, and the drawers there and in my bureau had been rummaged, though not too badly. The same went for the kitchen. As I worked, I saw that my initial impression had been right; it was really a very cursory job of ransacking. But it was logical. It was the sort of quick blitz you might have made if you were really looking for something, rather than trying to prove somebody’d been looking for something. No mirrors were broken for dramatic effect; nothing was knocked over for no reason at all. I was more convinced than ever that it was a genuine search.
    After I’d satisfied my rage for order, I applied Spic ‘N Span to the fingerprint powder, and it worked nicely.
    I had to work up to calling Parker’s parents. Nobody wants to tell perfect strangers their son is in jail for killing his sister. So I called Chris instead. She never listens to the radio, and anyway, I wouldn’t want her to hear about the murder that way. Halfway through my narrative, she bummed a cigarette from Larry, breaking a six-month-old vow.
    She thought the impromptu press conference was a bad move, but promised to watch it anyhow.
    I called my dad to see what he thought. My mom answered: “Rebecca, thank God! Your father wants to talk to you. Are you all right, darling?”
    I said I was, and Daddy came on the phone. “My daughter, the celebrity,” he said. “Your name’s all over the radio.”
    “Not as much as it’s going to be. Daddy, did Mom tell you they’ve arrested a suspect? And that I’m his lawyer?”
    “Yes.” His voice was serious. “Are you sure you can handle it?”
    “I think so. Listen, here’s what I did. When I got home, every reporter in town was here. So I denounced the police department and made emotional protestations of my client’s innocence. Do you think I went too far?”
    He laughed—deep, rumbling, appreciative guffaws. “What’s the harm? The worst that could happen is the D.A. could claim prejudice and ask for a change of venue if the case gets to trial. But what’s the big deal? You’re doing fine,
bubee
. You’re your father’s daughter.”
    “You’ll watch, won’t you?”
    “Sure. Six o’clock?”
    “I don’t think so. More likely eleven.”
    There were no more ways to put it off, so I called Parker’s folks. The cops had told them about Carol; this was for Parker. His mother answered.
    She didn’t interrupt me as I identified myself as Parker’s lawyer, explaining the position, and assured her there was nothing to worry about, the police didn’t have a decent case, and I was sure he’d be released. “I see,” she said. Her voice trickled