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

calls, and wishing I were in the Bahamas when Alan came in to announce a Mr. Mike Lewis. As he did so, the phone rang. And as Mr. Lewis had no appointment, I elected to answer it first. It is hardly rude to keep someone waiting who is lucky to find you in in the first place.
    “Rebecca, listen, I’ve been thinking over what you said—about not seeing each other for a while.”
    “Rob?”
    “Who else aren’t you seeing for a while?”
    “Rob. I can’t talk to you now.”
    But he didn’t hear me—he was listening to an assistant editor calling his name—I could hear him over the wire. “Oops, sorry. I’ve got another call. Call you right back, okay?” Not okay. Absolutely not; a perfect example of why I wanted the trial separation—good God, I sounded as if we were married. Well, this was a perfect example of why we probably never would be—he couldn’t even beg forgiveness without his stupid job interrupting. Of course, I probably wouldn’t even have called him in the first place during my own office hours, but I had time for him afterward, and he didn’t always have time for me. So what was I doing sitting waiting for the phone to ring again when I could be cleaning up details, tying up loose ends, returning my own calls, and seeing Mr. Mike Lewis? Certainly not making an important feminist statement. The phone rang.
    “It was him.”
    My stomach did a little flip-flop. “The Trapper?”
    “Yes. He said he nobbled the runaway cable car.”
    “But of course he’d claim he did it. If he didn’t do it, he gets a free one.”
    “He said it wasn’t easy, but it was worth it.”
    “I don’t feel well.”
    “He told me exactly how he did it, Rebecca. I’ve got to call the MUNI to make sure it was done the way he said it was, but it sounded all too plausible.”
    “Still. Anyone who knows anything about cable cars could probably figure out what has to happen to cause a runaway.”
    “I asked him a couple of control questions.”
    “Such as?”
    “What did he say in the postscript to the second note?”
    “And?”
    “He knew about the mussels in the men’s room.”
    “Oh.” It sounded all too convincing. “What was the other question?”
    “Miranda Warning’s real name.”
    “And?”
    “It’s Waring. Miranda Waring—how do you like that?”
    “He really does know her?”
    “Seemed to. Though I admit he sounded pretty surprised when I sprung her on him.”
    “Oh, Rob.” I couldn’t keep the dismay out of my voice. “What’s wrong?”
    “He probably didn’t know she was in the car when he killed Sanchez. Now what choice does he have? He’ll kill her.”
    “I never thought of that.”
    “He seemed to get awfully upset when I mentioned Miranda. Now that I think of it.” He sounded properly sobered.
    “Oh, Rob,” I said again, afraid to say too much; I didn’t want to lose my temper so early in the day.
    Rob said, “Wait a minute! It’s okay—she’s safe.”
    “How so?”
    “His motive for killing her would be to conceal his identity, right?”
    “Yes, but he’s killed for less a few times already.”
    “He told me his name.”
    “The Trapper told you his name?”
    “Uh-huh.”
    “And you didn’t tell me?”
    “I just hadn’t gotten to it yet.”
    “Well?”
    “Lou Zimbardo.”
    I was disgusted. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. The Trapper knows that’s who the cops are looking for. Everybody who reads the paper does. Why
wouldn’t
he say that’s who he is?” I rang off without waiting for an answer and began searching my purse for tissues; I felt another good cry coming on. But I’d hardly tuned up when Alan came back in: “Mr. Lewis is getting impatient.”
    “Oh, screw him. He should have called for an appointment.”
    “He’s with a guy says he knows you. They wanted me to give you his name.”
    “Oh, hell. Who is he?” I blew my nose and started rifling my purse again, this time for makeup to repair the damage. “Ow.” I’d stuck my finger on one of the fangs Rob and I had bought at the Pier 39 magic shop. When would I remember to clean out my purse?
    “Art Zimbardo, if that means anything.” He turned and sauntered out. Even Kruzick had to know the cops were looking for Art’s brother Lou; he was pretending to be cool.
    When I felt reasonably presentable, I went out, made a big show of greeting Art, and quickly took him back into my office, making sure I didn’t give him an opening to introduce Mr. Lewis first. Because I had a