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

interviewed when Fish sauntered up and passed the time with him. But knowing that didn’t keep me from wanting to kill the little dope—along with Charlie Fish.
    The story was as good a reason as I’d ever seen for admonishing jurors not to read papers. I knew Fish was jealous of Rob and desperate to make his reputation, but I still didn’t see how this could have happened. Where was Rob, anyhow? He didn’t answer his phone, and it was too early to be on the road to San Jose.
    He wasn’t in the courtroom that morning, but there was a much worse problem—neither was Dad. Everybody but me seemed to know why—even Lou. He looked concerned this morning, not stony at all: “Have you heard anything about your dad?”
    “No. Why?”
    “You don’t know about the crash on the bridge?”
    Like the Rebecca in Fish’s story, I showed no emotion as I spoke; but my hands were as cold as whatever nasty little thing was beating in Fish’s chest: “What crash?”
    “Eight or ten cars piled up; there’s a huge tie-up.”
    I asked for a recess.
    I knew I should call Mom; she might even be able to reassure me—maybe Dad had heard about the tie-up on the radio and hadn’t tried to take the Golden Gate Bridge. Most likely, he was still stuck on a bridge approach, probably walking around and schmoozing with the other trapped commuters. But there was always the chance he’d been in the wreck; Mom would think that, too, and we’d feed on each other’s paranoia. The only thing I could do to keep myself from feeling utterly helpless was go to the bridge and find out for myself.
    But traffic was backed up for miles on the San Francisco side as well as the Marin approach; I was stuck for forty-five minutes.
    Cursing my own stupidity, I went back to my office, having lost the whole morning; it was now nearly 11:30. I was about to call Mom, bracing myself for gnashings and wringings, when the phone rang. It seemed to be a bad connection; the caller sounded as if he were whispering. I said: “Could you speak up a little? I can’t hear you.”
    The whisper was very distinct now.
“This is The Trapper.”
I couldn’t believe it. How dare the Trapper call me? And at a time like this!
    “Why are you calling
me?
” I knew what I sounded like, and even as I talked to a serial killer, I mentally reminded myself that lawyers do not whine.
    “Never mind that. I did the bridge.”
    “You did the bridge.”
    “The accident. On the Golden Gate Bridge.”
    “The bridge!” Now I was getting the hang of it. Of course; what could be more of a tourist attraction than the bridge? I said, “Les, listen to me. I know who you are.”
    “You don’t know who I am.”
    “You’re Les Mathison from Turlock; you were in the 4-H Club.”
    “Pay attention. I drove north on the bridge and picked out a car going south to San Francisco—a green 1984 Mercedes. It was easy. I just threw a rock at the windshield. The driver lost control and hit his brakes. Cars started piling up in both lanes, but I was already clear. Tell Burns. And tell him I need a million dollars.”
    “A million dollars for what?”
    “To make me stop.”
    “Les, I’m speaking as a lawyer; turn yourself in. You’ll get off on diminished capacity; I promise—look at Dan White.”
    “Listen to me, Rebecca. I want a million dollars.”
    “But Rob hasn’t got a million dollars.”
    “Just get this in the paper, that’s all. I’ll call back about how to get it to me.”
    He hung up. Quickly, I dialed Rob’s number. But I got only the egregious Charlie Fish. “Charlie! Where’s Rob?” I was horrified to hear that I had only half a voice.
    “Who is this?”
    “Rebecca Schwartz.”
    “Oh. Rob’s not here. He’s taken a week’s leave of absence.”
    “What?” I was shocked into letting a human toad know my boyfriend hadn’t even told me his plans.
    “He didn’t tell you? He got pulled off the story.” If I ever heard triumph in a person’s voice, I was hearing crowing now. I’d happily have belted him if he’d been in the same room. He continued in the same crowing tone: “The city editor said he had a conflict of interest. I can see his line of reasoning, can’t you?”
    “So you’re on the story now?”
    “Uh-huh.”
    “Well, there’s been a development. The Trapper just called me. He said he caused the accident on the bridge.”
    “How do you know it was the Trapper?”
    “I—uh—he told me how he did it.”
    “So?”
    “So
what
,