Tourist Trap (Rebecca Schwartz #3) (A Rebecca Schwartz Mystery) (The Rebecca Schwartz Series)

mother.
    “Rob?” The voice sounded genuinely puzzled. “I think you’ve got the wrong apartment.”
    “No.” Rob spoke urgently. “You’re Art Zimbardo, aren’t you? It’s important.”
    “Important? It’s not about Lou, is it?”
    “I’m afraid it is.”
    Zimbardo buzzed us in without another word. The hallway was dim; the carpet on the wide, no-longer-grand stairs smelled of feet. As we started to climb, Rob said, “Listen, Rebecca, just withhold judgment a few minutes, okay? I know I lied, but being from the
Chronicle
has a strange effect.”
    He knew me well enough to know I hadn’t liked the lie, and I could see he was sheepish about it himself. But I thought he must know what he was doing if he said so; if I didn’t withhold judgment, at least I held my tongue.
    The kid who opened the door had on jockey shorts; his eyes widened, horrified, when he saw the two of us. “Excuse me. Just a minute. Oh, man.” And he shut the door again.
    I relaxed. I hadn’t known exactly what we were getting into, and still didn’t, but it didn’t look as if we were about to enter the den of a mass poisoner.
    The kid came back, dressed and shamefaced: “I didn’t know you were bringing a lady.” His eyes were nearly black, and they smoldered at Rob. The kid was resentful and angry, maybe about me, maybe something else.
    He led us into his living room, obviously furnished by the management. The black plastic of the sectional sofa was torn, the beige carpet hopelessly stained. A fifties Danish-style blond-veneered end table held a dime-store plaster lamp, its paper shade still in cellophane.
    “I’m from the
Chronicle
,” said Rob, and told Zimbardo our names.
    “The
Chronicle?
” Rob fired his first questions fast, not giving the lad time to think.
    “Do you work at a restaurant at Pier 39?”
    “Sure. Full Fathom Five—I’m a waiter.”
    “Were you there tonight?”
    “No. It’s my night off. Say, what is this? You said it was about Lou.”
    Rob told him what had happened. I watched Zimbardo as he took it in. He was very young, no more than nineteen or twenty, I thought, and would never have a weight problem. He was short, but well muscled, and lean as a fish. He had curly hair, lovely full lips, and those big, black, resentful eyes, coaster-sized, sad and pleading. They made him look deprived and rather desperate, like a child who’s forgotten his lunch box. When Rob got to the words I’d overheard near the police car, the kid crumpled onto the sofa. “Oh, man.” He held his face. “Oh, man. Lou was there, man. He was there.”
    “Is Lou your brother?” I asked.
    The kid only nodded, didn’t speak for a moment. Then: “I gotta get to him. You guys have a car?”
    “Yes. But why don’t you call?”
    “He’s got no phone. Just a room over on Jones Street. I offered to let him stay here, but he wouldn’t—said he needed privacy after being in the joint.”
    “Your brother’s been in prison?”
    He nodded. “Rob, listen, he didn’t do it, man. No way he’d do it. Can you put that in the
Chronicle?
”
    Rob said, “Shouldn’t we go find him?”
    “I think he might need a lawyer. I think I better get him a lawyer.” He was putting on a cheap vinyl jacket, made to look like leather but succeeding hardly more than the sofa had. “Rebecca’s a lawyer.”
    “Yeah? You a lawyer, Rebecca?”
    “Uh-huh.”
    We went quickly down the stairs and out to the car. It was only a few blocks to the flophouse to which Art directed us, but this was no time to walk. “But why,” I said when we were settled, “does Lou need a lawyer? It’s you who works at the restaurant—why would Lou have been there?”
    Art looked glum. “I got him a job in the kitchen. Tonight was his third night.”
    “Oh. Well, maybe he’s still there. We should try to call him.”
    “No, man. He ain’t there. There’s cops around, Lou ain’t.” His voice shook a little and I thought his shoulders did, too, under the mock-tough jacket.
    Seeing Lou’s room, I thought he’d have done better to move in with Art, privacy or no. Surely his last cell couldn’t have been much smaller. This one contained only a single metal bed with sloping mattress, nightstand, chest, and plain, hard chair. Not a single personal possession in sight except a beat-up TV. I opened a drawer of the chest to assure myself the place was occupied, and was surprised to find socks. Lou hadn’t moved out, it appeared, but he wasn’t