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

evidence to go to him.
    Needless to say, the more tender moments of my reunion with Rob had to be postponed. So I perused the
Chronicle
alone the next morning, and could certainly have used a warm hug when I saw the headline: “Elevator Disaster—Police Fear Trapper Booby Trap.” Martinez had been careful not to libel my client, but he had told the press that the bombs had been set using a timing device, and that police were investigating the possibility that they were set by Lou Zimbardo, the Trapper suspect, before he was incarcerated; and he did say that police were checking other hotel elevators for bombs, thus renewing the famous climate of fear. It was also going to be a climate of vengeance—I figured Lou had about as much of a chance of getting a fair trial in San Francisco as Martinez had of getting into MENSA.
    A sidebar by Charlie Fish, a young hot dog who was bucking to replace Rob as star reporter, explained how the bombs were set: Someone went into the machine room and lined the opening where the cables go through to the elevator with plastic explosives; he then put another charge in the case over the governor. Timing devices were found for both bombs, but the demolitions experts couldn’t be sure when they’d been set.
    The casualty count was twelve injured, three seriously; no one dead, thank God.
    Nowhere in either story was the Trapper’s phone call to me mentioned. I was thinking about bursting into unlawyer like tears when the doorbell rang—Rob, with coffee and croissants. I wasn’t hungry. Rob said, “I hope you’re not mad; I did something I’m not sure about.”
    I had a feeling I knew what it was, but was prevented from asking by an urgently ringing phone. I picked it up, resigned: “Hi, Mom.”
    “Are you psychic, darling?”
    “Just a good guess.”
    “Have you seen the
Chronicle?
”
    “I’m afraid so.”
    “Whose side is that Rob on, anyway?”
    “He’s just doing his job, Mom.”
    “He didn’t have to make it sound like your client set those bombs.”
    “I don’t think he meant to, Mom. He was just quoting the cops.”
    “He could have left that stuff out.”
    “I wish, Mom, but reporters have to report.”
    “There’s no such thing as objectivity.”
    “Well, they try for it.”
    “You’d think he could help you out a little.”
    “I’ve got to run, Mom. Call you back, okay?”
    Rob had finished his croissant and was working on mine. I said, “Mom thinks you could have made my client look better.” That was kind of an odd position I was in, just then. Defending modern journalism.”
    “Listen, I did something that might not be ethical; I’m all mixed up about it.”
    “I noticed you didn’t mention the Trapper’s call. Is that what you mean?”
    He spoke softly, so that I had to strain to hear. “Yeah, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I mean, I know if the defense lawyer had been anyone else, I would have—and thereby made him or her a laughingstock. But I couldn’t do it to you.”
    “You could have asked me how I felt about it.” I was just trying that on for size—more or less playing the devil’s advocate—because I didn’t really know how I felt about it. In a way, I wanted it made public. It was true, dammit—the real Trapper had called and was still on the loose and I thought people should know. On the other hand, I knew they wouldn’t believe it—coming from me—and that indeed reporting the phone call would have made both my client and me look bad.
    Rob said, “I could have asked you, but it wouldn’t have been fair; figuring out what to do was up to me. Involving you would only have made you an accessory to a possible breach of ethics. Actually, a certain breach of ethics, except for the fact that the call was meant for me. Yes, you’re my girlfriend, and yes, that’s why I suppressed it; but no other defense lawyer in the world would be put in the position of appearing a horse’s ass by my failure to take my own phone call.”
    I didn’t say anything, trying to digest what he was saying. “Rebecca, I’m sorry I asked you to take the call—it was unforgivably stupid.”
    “Oh, don’t be silly. It seemed like the right thing to do at the time. Listen, thanks for doing what you did; I’m sure it was the right thing.”
    But I wasn’t sure and neither was he. Maybe there just wasn’t a right answer to the question.
    Rob finished off my croissant. “I’ve got to run. Can I see you tomorrow?”
    “How about