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

already terrorizing the city? Or was Rob the one doing the terrorizing?
    Okay, no more excuses; I called him. And ended up leaving a message, naturally, because naturally he wasn’t there. Is anyone ever there when you have to work up the nerve to call?
    I continued to call throughout the day and continued not getting him. “ ‘Night,” Alan said as I left. “Don’t get Trapped.” Driving home, I thought the streets looked a little empty, as if people expected to be picked off by snipers. That was the way the Zebra had worked; the Trapper, I thought, was a lot more subtle.
    Scarlatti got me through the night and if I ever needed him, it was then. Because Rob didn’t call.
    His story Wednesday morning was a collage of interviews with members of the terrified public. The headline: “Fear Stalks the City’s Streets!”

9
     
    “Darling! Thank God you’re all right.”
    “Mom—how was Israel? Aren’t you back early?”
    “Early! Of course I’m back early—how could I stay away knowing the kind of danger you and your sister were in?”
    “Mom, I think you’re exaggerating—how’s Dad?”
    “Exaggerating! You’re a fine person to talk about exaggerating.”
    “I exaggerate?”
    “No, not you, darling. Rob. That Rob of yours.”
    “Oh. You mean in the paper.”
    “Of course in the paper, darling. Haven’t you read yours this morning?”
    “But, Mom, if Rob’s exaggerating, you could have stayed in Israel.”
    “I certainly couldn’t have. It’s just
because
he’s exaggerating that your father and I had to come back. Because you’re close to him, darling. Everyone who’s close to him will be in the worst danger of all.”
    “Why would the Trapper want to hurt Rob? Rob’s making him famous.” The minute I said it I knew I shouldn’t have.
    Sure enough, Mom said: “Rebecca, do you really think you should be going out with that sort of person?”
    That was far too tough a question at the moment, so I asked again, “How’s Dad?”
    “Tired. Very tired. And I’m not sure he’s over the shock—”
    Dad came on the line then. “I’m certainly not, Beck. The minute we leave town you start going to Christian services.” He was teasing me, but he took me off-guard.
    “You know about that?”
    “Sure. You’re famous in Tel Aviv.”
    “Oh, Dad, come on. You just went through your back
Chronicles
and found the Easter sunrise story.” (It had to be. Because if I were famous in Tel Aviv for discovering bodies at Easter services, Mom would have mentioned that first.)
    “It must have been pretty awful.”
    “The worst part was getting the usual VIP treatment from Martinez and Curry.”
    “I can’t understand it. I always get along fine with the cops.”
    “Listen, Dad. I’m going to be late if I don’t get going. Maybe I could come over this weekend and see your slides.”
    “Okay, Beck. You take care.”
    Dad was definitely jumpy. He had twice called me “Beck,” which he knows I tolerate only from him and only at times of stress. Well, why shouldn’t he be jumpy? After all, fear stalked the city’s streets.
    I could have walked to work, but I didn’t. I certainly didn’t want to be out there with fear rampaging. I wasn’t the only one. Hardly anyone was jogging. A few people were walking, but they were mostly men. So far, of course, the Trapper had killed only men, but women were used to feeling vulnerable, I supposed. It was funny how odd the streets looked without the usual floods of women in jogging shoes and business suits. And traffic? Like a snarl of barbed wire.
    “His nibs would like you to call,” said my properly respectful secretary when I walked in.
    “Surely you don’t mean the mayor; you would have said her nibs.”
    “Very good, Ms. Boss. Maybe you should have been a detective.”
    “Alan. Who wants me to call?”
    “Why, our town’s man of the moment, unless you count Mr. Trapper himself. Mr. Rob Burns of the
Chronicle
actually dialed the humble number of drab, insignificant Rebecca Schwartz.”
    I drew back my right foot, thinking not of a simple toe-in-the-shin, but something along the lines of the moves you see in kung fu films. But then I noticed I was wearing my new red Joan and David shoes (purchased, needless to say, for half the usual $120). If they’d been black or gray, I would have gone ahead with it, but Kruzick wasn’t worth wrecking a pair of red shoes over.
    “Hardly drab,” said Chris, breezing in. “Nice shoes.”
    “Thank