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

already arrived, parked, and fetched up at my doorstep with a bag of groceries, a six-pack of beer, and a wok, which he was wearing on his head. God knows what my escort thought. I sent her away: “There’s my boyfriend. I’ll be all right now.” She looked decidedly skeptical.
    “Confucius say she who keep cook waiting get knuckle sandwich for dinner.”
    “I’ve already had one.”
    “Wha?” Usually Rob is more articulate than this, but he was reacting not only to what I said but, by now, to my general bedragglement and decelerated gait.
    “I got mugged.”
    Still not putting things together, he searched my face for bruises.
    “Okay, maybe it wasn’t really a knuckle sandwich; more like a deluxe club—prompt delivery at the rear.”
    He blinked, but caught on in a split second that no one would mug a person by smacking her bottom: “Back of the head?”
    I nodded, realizing for the first time how much I wanted to cry.
    Having finally got the lay of the land, Rob went quickly into action. He dumped his six-pack and his bag of groceries on the sidewalk, covered the distance between us in two swift paces, and took me in his arms. Very tender and comforting; exactly the thing to do if he’d only remembered to remove the wok. This time I saw the blow coming, but I wasn’t fast enough to dodge it. The most sickening clang rang through the streets as metal hit forehead. It hurt like the most ingenious torture of hell, but I was sort of grateful it happened: If a person got mugged and then got argued with about it and then her boyfriend mugged her again with a free-swinging wok on his head, surely she was entitled to cry. The tears started to form into great luxurious drops, and I let them slide impenitently into the open.
    Despite Rob’s exotic cooking skills, hot and sour soup was about all I could manage, but I was glad to have it and gladder still to have Rob with me that night. He was the one person in the world I could talk to about my worst fear—that Les had seen the ad and responded to it. At least he hadn’t followed me all the way home, so he didn’t yet know where I lived. But he knew far too much about the route I took to and from work.
    “Maybe,” said Rob, “you can get police protection.”
    “Are you crazy? Even regular people on the street didn’t want to believe someone really hit me. Martinez would probably accuse me of sapping myself.”
    “You’ve got to get it on the record.”
    I sighed and picked up the phone. A mere forty-five minutes later a pair of polite young cops turned up, took the report, acted properly concerned, and said they’d be sure to tell Martinez all about it. It was almost enough to restore my faith in the police department, but as long as Martinez worked there I’d have to consider it only a cut above the
Ton-Ton Macoute
.
    After the nice cops left, Rob and I settled down to the serious business of reconciliation, but I’m afraid there was a small hitch—I had to tell him I had a headache.
    * * *
     
    Dad called early the next morning: “Any response from the ad?”
    “Not yet, but it’s going to run a week. I still have high hopes.”
    “I’m starting to have second thoughts. I don’t think you should have used your name.”
    “But if I hadn’t, Les could find out who placed the ad just by calling the phone number.”
    “You could have used a box number.”
    “I thought of that, but anyone likely to know Les or Miranda might not be able to write.”
    “Maybe we should have used my number.”
    “Don’t worry, Dad, I can take care of myself.” I spoke with fingers crossed.
    After I’d hung up, Kruzick came in: “Somebody finally answered your ad.”
    “No!”
    “Two somebodies. One left a message, one wouldn’t.”
    “Men or women?”
    “Women.” He handed over a message slip: The caller was a Barbara Fuller.
    I dialed. “Ms. Fuller, this is Rebecca Schwartz returning your call.”
    “Who? Leath, stop that. Gina!”
    “You called about my ad.”
    “Oh, yes. Gina, nooo! I thought I might be able to help about Les Mathison. You’re not the only one who’s looking for him, you know. Someone came by the house the other day.”
    “The house?”
    “Leath, leave your sister alone! He used to live upstairs from me.”
    “I see. The person who came by—was it a woman? Late twenties, dark, about five feet five?”
    “Uh-huh. A little on the chunky side.”
    “Do you live on Twelfth Avenue, by any chance?”
    “Ouch.