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

that lane and followed suit, fighting down the urge to give the other driver the finger. Sure, he was a jerk who’d have let Mickey give birth right in the Volvo, but after all, the whole thing
was
my fault.
    It was a good thing I let him off, too, because I hit another red light at the corner, and he could have caught up with us and killed us if he’d wanted to. I swore and Mickey kept cowering until we got on the freeway at Gough Street and I got in the fast lane and gunned that little gray mother, a good fifteen minutes from takeoff.
    Amelio’s was in North Beach, nestled on Powell Street just south of Washington Square. The senator could have already been there if he’d had any better luck than we had. But he wouldn’t be, I told myself. What was the point?
    “What I don’t understand,” said Mickey, “is how he can kill Stacy now that Elena knows he was asking about her. I mean, doesn’t he have to kill her to cover his tracks?”
    I’d thought of that too. “He’s not going to get the chance,” I said. “He doesn’t know we know what he’s up to, and if Stacy gets it, I’ve got an idea the police will listen to me for once.”
    “Yes, but unless he’s gone completely mad, surely he wouldn’t take the risk. It doesn’t make sense, Rebecca. And neither does the other part, really. He’s always been a decent politician. Unless he’s in some terrible financial difficulty, why would he sell out to the mob?”
    “Dammit, Mickey, we just saw him feeding Elena a cockamamie story. What kind of proof do you want?”
    “I don’t say you’re wrong,” she said in a hurt voice. “I just don’t understand
why
, that’s all.”
    “Power corrupts,” I snapped, aware that it was a facile answer, but I was tired out from thinking too much. I’d have to worry about that part later.
    Mickey didn’t answer, and we were silent as we fetched up at the Broadway exit and began fighting our way through the North Beach traffic. It was much too slow going for my peace of mind, so I turned right on Sansome and went to Union, so as to approach from the north. We turned off Union Street onto Powell, and I pulled up kitty-corner to the restaurant. I couldn’t get directly across the street because of the parking garage there that’s always debouching cars at unsafe speeds, but it didn’t matter; we had a clear view of Amelio’s. Stacy wasn’t outside.
    “I’ll have to go in and get her,” I said. “Take the wheel, and be ready to scratch off when we come out.”
    “We’re in that big a hurry?”
    I nodded. “I think so, yes.”
    “I’m not sure I can handle your car.” She had a point. When the Volvo gets temperamental, no one but me can figure out how to coax it into submission. “Okay, you go,” I said.
    “But she doesn’t know me. Elena told her to wait for
you
, remember?”
    “Damn! Okay, here—take my driver’s license for proof you’re with me.” I fumbled for it and described Stacy briefly.
    “If she has any doubts, just have her peek out the door and I’ll wave.”
    “Okay.” She darted across the street, slender and lithe in her jeans.
    I waited about five minutes, clenching my teeth and every now and then taking my hands off the steering wheel and wiping them on my pants. I also kept glancing at my watch, which is how I know how long I waited. I don’t have to tell you how long it felt like.
    Mickey and Stacy came out looking like a couple of old-fashioned butch-femme lesbians having a lover’s quarrel, the way they were dressed—Stacy was in some sort of floaty white dress—and the way Mickey was practically dragging her kicking and screaming. Stacy looked briefly my way, and I waved as promised, but that didn’t seem to relieve her mind any. Apparently, the problem wasn’t whether the right person was calling for her; she didn’t seem to want to be called for at all. I figured it had something to do with the hundred bucks she stood to lose by cutting the date short, and shifted into drive as they started across the street.
    As I glanced back up from the gearshift, a Mercedes whipped out of the parking lot, heading right for them.
    I made no decision, or if I did, I don’t remember it. All I remember is stomping the accelerator flush with the floor, and then a godawful crunch as I hit the Mercedes broadside.
    I couldn’t see if the driver was the senator, or if Mickey and Stacy were safe. I don’t remember seeing anything at all. All I really know about what