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

“Why aren’t you glad to see me?”
    He reached out for one of my hands. “Darling, I’m always glad to see you. I’m just worried about you, that’s all. You should see a doctor about that face.”
    “I’m glad that’s all it is. I thought you were depressed.”
    He shrugged. “Emh.”
    “Uncle Walter, we’ve got to talk about some things.”
    His face crumpled into that hurt, panicked look I’ve seen on men’s faces when I have disappointed them; when I have said something they didn’t want to hear and they know I will say more and they would do anything to stop the words from coming. Somehow, the face becomes triangular, and still as a death mask, but it has another quality; a hunted, trapped, don’t-hurt-me look. I hated seeing that look on Uncle Walter’s face, and I wanted to make it go away. That look had caused me to stay with men I meant to leave and to do free work for clients whose cases were hopeless, but this time I knew I had to finish what I’d started.
    “Uncle, I have to know. You knew Kandi, didn’t you?”
    “How would I know a girl like that?”
    “A girl like what?”
    He shrugged again. “A sweet young thing—a girl young enough to be my daughter.” The papers hadn’t said she was a prostitute, but Uncle Walter didn’t fall into my trap.
    I had another card up my sleeve, though. I spoke softly. “Uncle Walter, the papers never said what her nickname was.”
    “Your mother told me.”
    “I don’t think I ever mentioned it to Mom.”
    “You must have. She knew.”
    Playing this painful little game was not getting either of us anywhere. “Mom told me she saw Kandi here,” I said. “And that isn’t all, I’m afraid. One of Kandi’s—um—colleagues told me she’d seen you with her. Several times. I already know, so—”
    I swear to God I saw tears in his eyes. That may mean nothing to you, because you don’t know him, but the idea of my uncle Walter crying is about as believable as the Lincoln Memorial standing up and reeling off the Gettysburg Address.
    “Darling, do you think your uncle Walter would kill somebody in your living room?”
    “Oh, Uncle Walter, I’m so sorry. Of course not.” I walked around the desk to hug him, but he turned away from me. “Uncle Walter—”
    “Darling, I’m late for an appointment.” He raised his wrist, and again I saw the white skin where his watch should have been.
    Quickly, I circled his wrist with my fingers and rubbed the white space gently. “She stole your watch, didn’t she, Uncle Walter, as proof that she knew you? And then made you give her money to keep anyone from finding out.”
    He wheeled around to face me, his eyes angry now. “No! No! I never—” He was shouting, and I guess he suddenly realized it. “I mean I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said in a normal voice.
    If people really writhe in discomfort, I guess that’s what I did. Every muscle in my body, and especially those in my face, seemed to be working at cross purposes, twitching in opposite directions.
    “Oh, Uncle Walter, I hate this!” It came out a banshee wail. “Look, the police have probably found the watch with her things, and it’s inscribed and probably has your fingerprints on it. They could—”
    “Rebecca, you’re too upset to talk. I’m calling your mother.” All those twitchy muscles had finally given way, and I was actually shaking, but Uncle Walter was back in control. He picked up the phone.
    “Uncle Walter, please, please—” I was begging now, and I realized how afraid for him I actually was. “Please tell me what you were doing Friday night.” It came out as horrifyingly bald and bare as that.
    Uncle Walter replaced the telephone receiver. He looked at me with eyes the color of his $500 silver-gray suit, eyes that reminded me of the Pacific on a winter day—cold and deep and unknowable. “Go, Rebecca. Get out of my office,” he said in a voice that matched his eyes.
    I did, fast. The man I was talking to wasn’t my uncle Walter who used to buy me raspberry ice cream cones, and I wanted out of there. My throat felt tight the way it does when I want to cry but can’t.
    I got in the car and tried to think while I warmed it up. He was furious like I’d never seen him. Like I’d never seen any man. I should have known he was capable of that—a person doesn’t get as rich and successful as Uncle Walter by buying ice cream cones for his nieces—but it was a side of him I’d