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

that.”
    “Will you be co-counsel?”
    “I thought you’d never ask.”
    Dad loved a good fight, but he hated to lose. If he was willing to be co-counsel, maybe that meant something. “Do you think we have a chance?”
    He gave me one of the glasses of white wine the bartender had just handed to him. “Want me to be honest with you?”
    “I’m not sure.”
    “Well, I’m going to be.”
    “I’m ready.”
    “Frankly, no. We haven’t a chance.”
    “Then why do you want a piece of it?”
    “Because it’s too much for you.”
    “Too much for me!”
    “Now, calm down. I don’t mean you can’t handle it—the legal aspects of it, I mean. You can handle it as well as I can.”
    “That’s not true and you know it. You’re one of the best criminal lawyers in the country. I’m not quite in that exalted class.”
    “Very well, then. You can handle it as well as any lawyer in the city except me.”
    We both laughed, but I was feeling tense. “What did you mean when you said it was too much for me?”
    “I meant emotionally. I’m sorry, Beck, but I don’t see a way to win this thing. You’re not ready to lose a case like this; it could break your confidence as a trial lawyer. If you lose, I don’t want you going down alone. I want you to see that no one could have won.”
    “You’re treating me like a child.”
    “I was afraid you’d feel that way. But it isn’t that. I’d do the same for any talented young lawyer.”
    “You would?”
    “I have. Remember Jude Morgan? The Oliver George case? Jude had sort of been my protégé for a while. When that case came up I didn’t think he could win it. So I offered my services.”
    The maître d’ came along and showed us to our table. As we were settling ourselves, I pondered what Dad was saying. “You mean,” I said, “you decided to take the fall for him?”
    “Exactly that. I could afford to do it without losing faith in myself; he wasn’t ready for that big a defeat.” Dad buttered a piece of sourdough, contriving to get his tie in the way so that it ended up with a tiny grease spot on it; poor grooming was his trademark.
    “But you won that case.”
    “So we did,” he admitted modestly. “But you know what? It was Jude’s work that really did it; in the end, it turned out he didn’t really need me at all. When we started working, though, I didn’t have any more hope for it than I have for your case.”
    “I’m feeling a little better.”
    “Shall we work on a change of venue?”
    “That’ll be a start, anyway. But I can’t help thinking the only real answer is to find the real Trapper.”
    “You know how your mother hates it when you play detective.”
    “Oh, stop.” I brought him up to date on Les.
    Dad attacked his petrale, brow furrowed. Finally, he said, “Why don’t you call his mother back? Maybe she’ll give you the names of friends who might know where he is.”
    “Okay. But I get the feeling she’s tried everything she knows to find him.”
    “Can you think of anyone at all who might know him?”
    “Only Miranda Warning—I mean, Waring. But she’s as elusive as he is.”
    “A couple of needles in haystacks.”
    “I’ve got a feeling it might be the same haystack—maybe the Tenderloin. But you might as well try to find someone in Chinatown.”
    “Why don’t you advertise?”
    “What?” A bite of fish fell off my fork. I had the sort of feeling you’d get if you said, “My shoes keep falling off,” and someone answered, “Try tying them.”
    “Place a classified ad,” said Dad, as if I hadn’t caught on. “Maybe offer a reward.”
    He’d certainly been right—obviously I needed an experienced co-counsel. Probably the day would come when my car wouldn’t start and I’d need advice to turn on the ignition.
    I hurried back to the office to call the
Chronicle
before the 2:00 P.M. deadline, composing the ad in my mind: “$100 reward for information about the whereabouts of Les Mathison or Miranda Waring.” No. Fifty dollars ought to do it.
    After I’d made the deadline, I called Les’s mother; she couldn’t give me any names, but promised once again to send me a religious tract.
    The ad ran the next morning, and I got ready for work with all the hope in the world. Which was quickly dispelled by the time I hit the streets. They were all but deserted. Once again fear stalked, in the wake of the Bonanza Inn bombing. I thought of going back for my car, but decided against it—it was a