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

bored-looking cops turned his way. “Schwartzy here’s the lawyer for the Trapper so guess what she tries to pull?” Tears were starting to run down his cheeks. Apparently, he was just realizing he could dine out on my story for weeks. “She says the Trapper called her constant companion, Rob Burns—”
    “Rob and I haven’t even spoken—”
    “And she just happened to intercept the call.”
    Franklin: “You gotta be kiddin’.”
    Hunt: “Some people’ll do anything.”
    Curry: “I never yet met a lawyer told the truth twice in the same day.”
    There had to be ways around this. I could call Martinez’s superior. I could repeat the whole preposterous conversation to Rob and let him write a story about it that would make Martinez sorry he ever tangled with the likes of Rebecca Schwartz. I could get my dad to—I stopped in mid-thought.
    None of the above. I couldn’t turn to Rob or Dad. I could call Martinez’s superior, but not till tomorrow. I had to handle Martinez myself, and now. My hands itched for my purse or briefcase.
    I said, “Inspector Martinez, I don’t even understand what the message meant. I’m just telling you what I heard.”
    “You mean what your client told you to say.”
    “My client? My client’s in jail—how could he have done this?”
    “You ever heard of a timing device? Let me tell you something, Miss Schwartz. Elevators are serviced every week, but the servicemen go into the shaft only every two weeks. So he could have set it two weeks ago. And God knows how many more booby traps he’s left around. Let me tell you something else. That crash was caused by two charges—one that severed the hoist cables and one that severed the governor cable that should have stopped the car. You know how an elevator works? If the hoists are severed, the governor pulls up wedges underneath it called safeties, and the safeties stop the fall. As it happens, I’ve spent the evening with elevator specialists, who tell me the one thing your client probably didn’t know: It’s practically impossible to kill somebody in a falling elevator. So maybe nobody’s going to die as a result of this, but it won’t be because your client didn’t try. By the way, guess what explosive was used at the Bonanza Inn?”
    “How should I know?”
    “You seem to know quite a lot. Plastic explosive, Miss Schwartz. Just like your client told you. Remember that little book on explosives we found in Lou’s room? There’s a big fat chapter on how to make Plastique. Another thing—didn’t you notice the Trapper doesn’t ask for money? And he writes instead of phones? Next time get the M.O. right, okay?”
    “He phoned about the cable car.”
    “I am just about at the end of my patience!” He was bellowing. “You try it once and it doesn’t work and now you try it again. Do you think I’m a complete fool?”
    I said, “What I think is quite beside the point, Inspector Martinez. The simple fact is that you have blown this case. You may get a conviction, but I’m telling you right now that Lou Zimbardo is an innocent man. Not only is my client not the Trapper, but I know who is.”
    “Yeah? Who?” Martinez was only too happy to play, probably thinking I’d say something like, “I’m not at liberty to disclose that information at this point in time.”
    Instead I said, “Les Mathison.”
    “Who?”
    “Inspector Hunt, are you listening? Franklin? Curry? The Trapper is Les Mathison.”
    Martinez: “Who the hell is Les Mathison?”
    Franklin: “What’s she talking about?”
    Hunt: “What the hell does she know, anyway?”
    Curry: “Where is he?”
    “Good night, gentlemen,” I said, reaching, with perfect cool, for my two bags. Whether they’d taken me seriously or not, they were too bewildered to toss out any more insults. I’d gotten them off my back, but it was a complicated thing I’d done. It might actually start Martinez’s pea-sized brain in motion; maybe he’d run some checks on Les, get interested, perhaps even find him.
    Before it was too late, I got hold of myself. I was so flushed with victory I’d forgotten whom I was dealing with. Martinez would do something intelligent when the Bay Bridge started galloping like Gertie. In the meantime, he’d ignore the Les theory just because it was mine. I wondered if I’d hurt my client by baiting him. But surely not. The D.A., not Martinez, would decide whether or not to investigate Les—that is, he would if I ever got enough