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

sitting in the dining room, you could see through a large open doorway to the bar. Idly, I looked that way. A man I recognized stared back. It was Frank, the fellow I’d met at Elena’s who’d wanted to call me Becky and negotiate an illegal transaction. He’d obviously been watching me.
    Seeing his chance, he left the bar and came over to my table.
    “Hi,” he said. “I nearly didn’t recognize you. But everybody knows Jeannette von Phister. Since you’re with her, I figured you had to be the lovely Rebecca, looking wholesome instead of exotic. That’s quite a trick you’ve got. Not unappealing at all.”
    I gave him my standard freeze line: a haughty “What can I do for you?” But I forgot it might sound different coming from a supposed prostitute than from a lawyer. He seemed to take it for an invitation: “I thought we might continue the conversation we started last night.”
    That was my cue to ’fess up to being a clean-living American girl. But for the second time that day I failed a test of character. Somehow it just seemed easier not to, especially since Jeannette was on her way back from the ladies’ room. I flicked my eyes in her direction. “Perhaps,” I said, “some other time.”
    “I’d like that,” he said. “Maybe we could do a little business. I’ve been looking for someone like you.”
    He produced a business card and laid it on the table. It read “High-Life Escort Service” and gave a phone number. That was all. “Just ask for Frank,” said Frank, nodding briefly to Jeannette as he walked away.
    “Who is that man?” I asked her when she sat down again.
    “Never saw him before in my life. I thought you knew him.”
    “He was at Elena’s party last night.” I looked at my watch. “I’d better go if I’m going to watch myself on television. Just one last question about Kandi. What was the name of that escort service she worked for?”
    “I don’t know. The Top Hat or something. No—I’ve got it. The High Life.”

Chapter Eleven
     
    I debated calling a taxi to take me home, but decided that was silly. It was only a few blocks, and the November air would do me good. Anyway, I was wearing my invincible black leather jacket ($250 at Saks). A walk would be a good opportunity to digest not only petrale, but information as well.
    As I saw it, I had discovered three possible motives for killing Kandi. George, whoever he was, had been double-crossed by Kandi and had actually threatened her. And one of his agents had been at the party. Or maybe Frank was actually George. No matter what Jeannette said, I imagined pimps, even high-class ones, might be dangerous. Maybe George felt he’d had to knock Kandi off to keep the rest of his women in line. Or maybe he’d just argued with her and lost his temper. Or maybe she’d stolen something from him and he was trying to get it back.
    Or maybe he was in love with her: you always hurt the one you love.
    Then there were the two clients who’d mysteriously cut themselves off from the lubricious ministrations of the co-op. If Kandi was blackmailing them, she was probably using some object as a threat, something to prove she had enjoyed an illicit liaison with the blackmailee. Letters were the usual thing, but I’d never heard of anyone writing incriminating letters to a prostitute. Still, you never know about people’s sexual whims; look at Senator Handley’s preferences.
    It didn’t have to be letters, though. Just some personal object: maybe an inexpensive and easily identifiable pen, a photograph—perhaps of the wife and kids themselves—lifted from the client’s wallet, or some other piece of identification; even a driver’s license. Who knew? Maybe a pair of silk monogrammed boxer shorts. I stopped myself. Now that really
was
ridiculous. Anyone would miss his undershorts.
    Whatever it was, perhaps one or the other of the influential johns had some reason to think Kandi had it with her that night and had killed her for it and then searched my apartment until he found it. But the problem was that he apparently
had
found it. That got me no closer to knowing what it was, which got me no closer to knowing where to look for it. I would just have to ask Elena for the clients’ names, that was all, and see if I got any brilliant ideas when I had them.
    Just to make sure I didn’t overlook anything, I tried to think whether Jeannette had said anything that suggested a motive for either herself or Elena. But I was damned