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

that—can’t you?” He looked straight at me with those light brown eyes, and I won’t pretend I was entirely unmoved. I think perhaps I blushed, because suddenly he got very flustered, tripping all over himself with excuse me’s and I-didn’t-mean-it-that-ways. Which naturally caused both Chris and Bob practically to roll on the floor. Unnerved as much by their merriment as by Jeff’s blatant flirting, I stayed a polite fifteen minutes after the coffee arrived, and beat a cowardly retreat. I wasn’t used to being out on my own; it felt so good it made me nervous.
    But if I thought I was getting away that easily, I was quite mistaken—Jeff insisted on walking me to my car, keeping up a running commentary on what a pleasure it was to meet another lawyer, and how very difficult it was to meet Jewish girls (why, I couldn’t imagine—I could have introduced him to fifteen or twenty), and how very nice it would be to see me again. I stuck my hand out when we got to the Volvo, just in case; obediently he took it, kissing me gently even as he shook it, leaving me thinking Rob wasn’t the only shrimp in the bay. And hating myself for thinking it. But dammit, Rob
had
deserted me.
    The deserter phoned the next morning, about the time I’d finished reading my Sunday Exonicle (combined
Examiner
and
Chronicle
), learning that it was now official: The police were seeking kitchen worker Lou Zimbardo in connection with the Pier 39 poisonings. Rob’s voice was the croak of a beaten man, but I managed to control my sympathy for a moment or two: “Oh, Rob, how are you? Did you have a nice time alone?”
    “Not too good, to tell you the truth. Things didn’t work out quite like I hoped.”
    “Oh?”
    “I got mugged.”
    End of control: “Mugged! Are you hurt? Is anything broken? Oh, pussycat! Please say you’re okay!”
    “I’m okay.” But he sounded so pathetic I had to fight back tears.
    “You sound awful.”
    “My jaw’s swollen. They hit me a little.”
    “Oh, Rob! I’ll bring you some soup.”
    “Soup!” He whooped. “You sound like your mom.”
    “I didn’t mean chicken soup,” I said, very dignified. “I had in mind some thick and nourishing split pea. In the event of a concussion or broken leg, of course, I’d have offered to grill you a steak. But I thought with a bruised jaw you might not feel like chewing.”
    “I don’t. But I don’t feel like sipping either, thanks. I’m sorry I teased you.”
    “It’s okay. Or will be if you tell me what happened.”
    “I guess I’d better. I sort of lied yesterday.”
    “Oh.” Ouch.
    “It wasn’t that I had to be alone, exactly. I had some work to do.”
    “Is that all? Why didn’t you tell me?”
    “Because I knew you wouldn’t approve. See, I think Miranda Warning is the key to this whole Trapper thing; so I went to find her.”
    “How did you know where to look?”
    “I didn’t. I just went to the Tenderloin and asked around—remember, we thought she must live there?”
    “Did you get anywhere?”
    “Mugged.”
    “Poor baby.”
    “Stupid baby.”
    “No sign of Miranda?”
    “Not a trace.”
    “You’re sure I can’t bring you something?”
    “Positive. I’m about to break the world’s indoor snoring record. How about lunch tomorrow?”
    I didn’t like it at all—I wanted to see him desperately, to make sure he wasn’t maimed or disfigured, or if he was, to tell him I didn’t care, I’d love him anyway. But I realized that this time he probably very much wanted to be alone; I could certainly sympathize. “Okay,” I said. “Lunch by all means.”
    But it wasn’t to be. I’d hardly gotten to the office on Monday when he phoned. “I got another note.”
    “From the Trapper?”
    “Yes. He’s real, Rebecca—I’m sure of it. Shall I read it to you?”
    “Sure.”
    “
‘Dear Mr. Burns: Ever since 1 came here I’ve had nothing but trouble and now the whole city is going to pay. What would this crummy joint be without tourists? Too bad a few of them have to suffer for the sins of Sodom and Gomorrah! But the more people who stay away, the better off they’ll be in the long run. The ones that don’t come here will thank me. Watch me close this hellhole down!’
It’s signed
‘The Trapper.’
”
    “Ecch. Pretty awful—but he didn’t actually say he did the poisonings.”
    “Listen to the P.S.:
‘By the way, I hope the tourists liked the local mussels. I put the good ones in the cabinet in the men’s