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

home. Art was starting to lose control of his face. He knew he couldn’t cry in front of us, but the effort of control was turning his pretty features into a strained-looking mask.
    A car skidded and stopped outside. “This one,” someone shouted. A someone Rob and I knew. It was the all-too-familiar voice of Martinez, the last person I wanted to see—or wanted Art to see—right then. Rob and I looked at each other, to see if we were in agreement. We were.
    Rob spoke quickly to Art: “The cops are outside. Is there a back stairway?”
    Art shook his head, pale.
    I said, “Let’s go up a floor”
    It worked beautifully. We went up, listened till we heard Martinez and Curry go into Lou’s room, then crept down and out the door. Silently, we drove back to Art’s.
    “I’ve got to phone in,” said Rob. “Can I use your phone?”
    “You’re not gonna put nothin’ in about Lou, are you?”
    “Of course not.”
    “The phone’s in the bedroom.” Art pointed, rather with pride, I thought. I saw what Rob meant about the
Chronicle
having an odd effect on people. Even though his brother was in only slightly less trouble than Custer at Little Big Horn, there was something in Art that felt important about being part of a news story. He was treating Rob with a kind of proprietary respect, as if he had caught a Bigfoot and tamed it; as if he had in his very own living room a kind of legendary monster which at the moment was eating out of his hand and might roll over on command; or might rip him to shreds instead.
    Bigfoot went into the bedroom. “If the cops come,” I told Art, “you don’t have to talk to them.”
    The big eyes took on plate proportions. “I don’t?”
    “Absolutely not. But call me if they give you any trouble.” I gave him one of my cards. It was an odd thing to do—in a way it had an ambulance-chasing feel to it—but I knew Art didn’t know enough about lawyer ethics to take it any other way than the way I meant it. I liked this kid; if you want to know the whole sordid truth, I was having almost uncontrollable maternal feelings for him. I didn’t want Martinez and Curry taking advantage of him; I wanted Art to know he had a friend.

6
     
    Is Rob Burns there?” Cheeky question to ask in an 8 A.M. phone call. It was about a nine o’clock press conference at the Hall of Justice. Martinez was working on Saturday, which meant Rob was, too—but not all day, in his case. We could definitely still go to Calistoga. He wouldn’t have to write a story about the press conference because there was no Sunday
Chronicle
. There was only a hybrid
Chronicle-Examiner
to which each daily contributed certain sections; the main news section belonged to the
Examiner
. So Rob could read all about it there; he needn’t go to the press conference at all. But he was going because he couldn’t help himself.
    “Come with me,” he said. “We’ll leave from there for Calistoga.”
    I wanted to go like I wanted turnips for breakfast, but it made sense—if enduring Martinez at any hour of any day could be said to make sense. He spoke to the media—Rob, an
Examiner
woman, and four sleepy-looking broadcast types—in the second-floor pressroom. An informal setting, to say the least, cluttered and paper-littered.
    “A toxic substance,” he said, “apparently caused the illnesses of eleven persons who were rushed to San Francisco General last night from Pier 39. The substance…”
    “What was the toxic substance?”
    “The substance was apparently ingested by these persons at the Full Fathom Five restaurant as a result of…”
    “Oh, come on, Inspector—how could eleven people…”
    “… as a result of eating contaminated food.”
    “What was
in
the food, Inspector?”
    “That is not known at this time.”
    “But what does it
do
to you?”
    “I do not have those details at this time.”
    “Hey, how is everybody, anyhow?”
    “This morning six of the victims from Full Fathom Five are in satisfactory condition; four are still in serious condition and…”
    “Wait a minute, that’s only ten.”
    “…and one man has died.”
    The dead man was Brewster Baskett, seventy-seven, of Winnemucca, Nevada. He and his wife, Hallie, had been visiting a son and daughter-in-law in the City. Brewster had caught the flu on their first weekend in town, had gone to bed for a few days, and had just gotten up the day before. The jaunt to Full Fathom Five was his first outing after his illness. Hallie