Rebecca Schwartz 05 - Other People's Skeletons

mean, I don’t even know you.”
    “I meant my name.”
    “Mine’s Rebecca Schwartz,” I said, and stuck out my hand, which she ignored. “I’m here about my law partner, Chris Nicholson.”
    “Don’t know him.”
    “It’s a woman. I think you were with her last night. On Larkin Street, at Rosalie’s.” Damn. I’d been so flustered I hadn’t even gotten Rosalie’s last name.
    “Oh, Chris. The new kid. Has something happened to her?”
    “Well, in a way. The police think she was involved in an accident on her way to Rosalie’s. I’m wondering if you can remember what time she got there.”
    “I don’t know. She was already there when I arrived.”
    “What time was that?”
    She shrugged. “About eight-twenty, maybe. Who knows?”
    I felt little drops of sweat pop out at my hairline. “It could be important.”
    She held up her left arm, which was bare at the wrist. “Do you see a watch? I don’t know what I don’t know.”
    “Rosalie said Chris got to her house last.”
    “Oh, Rosalie. She’s brilliant, but crazy. Chris was there when I got there. I’d never seen her before. How was I not going to notice someone who looks like Big Bird?”
    I was deeply offended. Chris is six feet tall and does have a long nose, but she also has long fingers and long legs— everything about her is long, and in fact, she’s quite elegant. Only a truly mean-spirited person could describe her as looking like Big Bird. Having had quite enough of Moonblood Seacrystal, I left in a huff.
    It was a huff brought on not only by the Big Bird remark, but by frustration born of fear— so far Chris didn’t begin to have an alibi. If Martinez started interviewing these characters, he was going to think he’d ended up in Conviction Heaven.
    But maybe he wouldn’t. No doubt the witnesses were wrong about the plate, and there wasn’t going to be any evidence on Chris’s car. Everything would be fine. I decided it had been noble of me to go knocking on doors first thing in the morning but probably precipitous. I’d just call the office and see how things were going.
    “Alan; give me Chris.”
    “She’s not coming in till after lunch. What’s going on with you two, anyway? I’ve been so busy canceling appointments I haven’t had time to do my nails, let alone watch the soaps.”
    “Has anyone a wee bit unusual dropped by?”
    “Funny you should ask. Those cop friends of yours— Martinez and Curry— were here asking for Chris. Just left, matter of fact.”
    Quickly I called Chris. “Listen, you might want to make yourself scarce. Kruzick says Martinez and Curry are looking for you. You probably have about fifteen minutes to get out of there.”
    “I’m out of here, but could we get together this afternoon? I’m fed up with this shit.”
    “What shit?”
    “My goddamn secret life.”
    I tried to keep my voice level, as if she said that sort of thing all the time. “Actually, I have afternoon appointments— how about lunch?”
    “Great.”
    We agreed on one o’clock, and I went off to see Ivan Shensky.
    I probably shouldn’t have, I guess— Rosalie had told me he was a night worker— but I had no mercy where Chris was concerned. Shensky lived on Twin Peaks, in a flavorless, colorless apartment building with a fabulous view no doubt, but I never got to see it. On about the nineteenth ring of his bell, he ambled down to see what manner of sadist had come calling.
    His hair was rumpled; he’d pulled on a pair of Chi pants and a T-shirt.
    “I’m really sorry,” I began, not wanting to give him a chance to yell at me, but he didn’t seem angry, merely puzzled. “I wouldn’t have come unless it was as important as it is. I’m Chris Nicholson’s attorney and—”
    “Who?”
    “Chris Nicholson. From the group at Rosalie’s.”
    “Oh, yeah. Raiders of the Lost Art.”
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “Sure. Tall woman. Looks like a model.”
    “Thank you for that.”
    “What? Are you her mother or something?”
    “I meant for the confirmation. I just talked to another member of your group who made an unkind remark about her.”
    “Oh, Moonblood. She’d be a lot happier if she’d just call herself Susie or Kathy or something. She’s so busy being defensive about her name she’s got a permanent chip on the shoulder.”
    I liked Ivan. Not only wasn’t he mad at me for getting him out of bed, but he seemed a kind-hearted person. He was a shortish guy, and slight, with narrow shoulders and