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

“At this point, I think whether she had a conflict would depend on her emotional state.”
    “How do you mean?”
    “If she felt she had to protect her uncle at her client’s expense, well, yes, she should withdraw from the case. But investigating a murder is not normally a lawyer’s job, and unless she had evidence that the uncle was
actually
the murderer, and not merely a person with a motive, she wouldn’t be obligated to tell the police. In fact, her professional status would
only
be affected if that were the case—I mean if she had hard evidence—or if she felt she couldn’t adequately represent her client.”
    She was right. I could see it instantly. I nodded.
    “Just for the sake of interest,” she asked “what
is
the hypothetical lawyer’s state of mind?”
    “Screw the hypothesis. I’m all right. I can do it. You know what? I love being a lawyer.”
    “Oh, stop dribbling all over yourself.”
    “I do, really. I love the way things fit together so tidily and there’s a reason for everything, except you always have to weigh everything, and it’s like a constant tug-of-war.” “Some say it has nothing to do with justice.”
    “Well, certain specific legal questions don’t, of course; I mean, certain things aren’t
right
, but they
are
the law, and I even like that part of it.”
    “So much that you’re willing to give up smoking marijuana?”
    “Of course not. You have to work to change bad laws, but the code we do have is so manageable and organized and—safe.”
    “Cozy as a flea on a cat in a feather bed,” said Chris. “Want to have lunch?”
    “Can’t. Got a date, as Stacy would say.”
    “Ah, yes. Mr. Pigball of the
Chronicle
. Give him all the news that fits.”
    He wasn’t the only one I had news for, so I got on the phone again and continued my campaign of ruthless media manipulation.
    Rob was a fashionable twenty minutes late. He wore the corduroy jacket reporters seem to consider a uniform, had a bunch of daisies in one hand, and had the other arm in a sling.
    “God, you’re beautiful,” he said, extending the daisies. “I wish they were roses. No, diamonds.”
    “Purple’s one of my best colors,” I said. “What happened to you?”
    “Nothing,” he said. “Voila!” He slipped the arm out of the sling, wiggled the hand to show me it worked, and used it to take my hand and bring it to his lips.
    “Hey, cut it out.” I was annoyed at being fooled. “What’s the point of the sling?”
    “It’s for you, my dear. Misery loves company.”
    Well, sure I laughed. Who could help it? Then I put the daisies in a vase.
    “Listen, this thing you have to tell me,” he said. “It’s top-secret stuff, right?”
    “I’ve already told half your brethren in the broadcast media.”
    “I mean we shouldn’t be overheard talking about it.”
    “I suppose not,” I said, not sure what he was getting at.
    “Good, then we can’t go to a restaurant. Come with me.”
    I did—first to get a bottle of wine, a loaf of sourdough French bread, and two kinds of paté from Marcel and Henri on Union Street, and then to Fort Point for a picnic. Now Fort Point is not a picnic area, but simply a lovely spot almost directly under the Golden Gate Bridge where teenagers go to park and tourists go to look at the view. But we went there to picnic. Rob’s first plan was to spread things out on the hood of his car and climb up on it, but it was too windy for that. We ate in the car.
    It was a gorgeous day for it. Windy, but clear and crisp, so that persons of the leisure class were out on the bay providing a show in their sailboats, and persons of other boating classes were going about their appointed rounds as well. The bridge was right above us, just to the left, and the hills of Marin were right in front of us, making a spectacular background for the folks in the water show. Blame it on the wine, but I got about as relaxed and content as a lawyer with a purple face, a client in jail, and an uncle in trouble can get.
    I told Rob about the money, flinching a little when I got to the part about leaving it home to go to my parents’ party, but he had the decency to say he’d have probably done the same thing himself.
    “Do you think she was killed for the money?” he asked when I was done.
    “Yes. Do you?”
    “I don’t see any other way to interpret it. The question is, where’d she get it and who knew she had it? Oh yeah, and who knew she was going to be at your