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

$25,000 to a whorehouse?”
    “No,” I answered truthfully. “I don’t see why anyone would.”
    I hung up, discouraged. Chris had her chin cupped in her hands. “No luck?”
    I shook my head and stared into my coffee cup. I guess I must have done it for quite a while without realizing time was slipping by.
    “Say, Rebecca—” said Chris.
    Something about her tone made me look up. “Yes?”
    “You seem kind of distracted. I mean I know you nearly got killed last night, and your client’s about to be charged with murder, but you are exhibiting aberrant behavior. For you, the normal reaction to all that is to shut yourself up with some music, not come into my office and stare into your coffee cup like a crystal-gazer.”
    I sighed. She was right, and I hadn’t realized it myself till then. I was trying to keep something at the edge of my consciousness and not succeeding very well. It was Uncle Walter, the only person I knew who actually had access to $25,000 and had known Kandi.
    “Anything you want to tell old Chris?”
    Yes, but I couldn’t. That’s how bad I was. I was still trying to think of an answer when the phone rang.
    It was Rob Burns. “Hi, kid. How’s your face?”
    “Purple, thanks. I’m glad you called.”
    “Jaycocks has made bail.”
    “So? Do you think he’ll come after me again?”
    “Of course not. I just thought you’d want to know. Want to have lunch?”
    “Sure.” I was surprised how very much the idea pleased me. “I’ve got some things to tell you.”
    “Exclusively?”
    “Can’t. But I’ll tell you first.”
    “No good. The electronic parasites—also known as the broadcast media—can use it right away.”
    “I’ll make it up to you,” I said. And then thought: Whoops, Rebecca, why’d you say that?
    “Done. I’ll pick you up at noon.”
    Chris was smiling when I hung up. “Whoever that was, you like him. Good. You need a new peach blossom.”
    “What about Parker?”
    “I don’t like you consorting with the criminal element.”
    I threw a pencil at her.
    “But seriously, folks,” she said, “how are we going to get him out of jail?”
    “I’ll tell you how. I’m going to tell every reporter in town about the money, starting with the peach blossom on the phone.”

Chapter Eighteen
     
    Her fine long nose quivered at the end. Chris didn’t know it, but that was something that happened when she was upset. “What good will that do?” she asked, controlling herself.
    “At best, make the cops realize they’ve made a terrible mistake by charging my client. At worst, just embarrass them.”
    “It’s childish, Rebecca. And possibly unprofessional.”
    “Maybe, but mostly you don’t like it because it goes against your genteel southern grain. You can’t turn me into a lady, you know.”
    She let her gentility show. “Fuckin’ A. Do your worst.”
    I went back into my own office and sat back down at my big ugly oak desk. It’s an odd thing about that office, by the way; nothing could be more different from my apartment. It’s cozy, lined with law books and hung with photos of my family. Not my style at all, but a warm little world I love.
    There was still an hour and a half before Rob would be there, so I started making phone calls. It was true I’d told Rob I’d tell him my news first, but he’d said that was no good, so I figured all bets were off.
    I’d done two phone interviews and set up an afternoon taping with a TV station when Stacy arrived. This time she wasn’t the little-girl fantasy she’d been at the FDO party, and she wasn’t the hard-looking child who drank sherry with Elena and me. She was well dressed, nicely made up, and looked at least twenty. She knocked lightly, almost shyly, I thought, on the sill of my open office door.
    “Rebecca?”
    “Stacy. Chris told me you called.”
    “I’ve been calling for two days. What happened to your face?”
    Involuntarily, my hand went to my bruised right cheek. I’d forgotten about it. “Sit down,” I said, and she did. “You didn’t happen to call shortly before midnight last night, did you?”
    “I did, yes. About eleven forty-five.”
    “No kidding! Well, shake, pal—you saved me from a fate worse than death. Possibly from death.” She took my extended hand, puzzled. I told her how the phone call had interrupted a rape in progress and then I told her what had happened to my face and asked what I could do for her.
    “I’m sorry I was such a bitch the other