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

indecision, so I knew I’d made her happy.
    Hanging up, I called Rob again. Again no answer. I knew from experience that Rob could take care of himself; but there was a serial killer on the loose —one who knew Rob, who might have followed him from the
Chronicle
to—where? Some dark cul-de-sac. The Trapper had said “never mind” why he hadn’t called Rob. Suddenly the words took on a new and ominous meaning. Maybe it was pure fear—like my mother’s—or maybe it was that combined with the events of the day. I don’t know. But suddenly I was sobbing in a most un-Superwomanly fashion. And in walked Jeff Simon.

17
     
    “My poor baby.” He came around the desk and patted me. I was too humiliated to do anything but continue sobbing. “You’re getting killed in court.”
    He maneuvered me into first a standing position and then a hug, so that I was quite literally giving his three-piece suit a saltwater bath. “Your nice clothes.”
    While it wasn’t unpleasant to be held, I felt that using Jeff’s shoulder wasn’t ethical under the circumstances. I tried to get away, but apparently he’d decided to sacrifice haberdashery for gallantry. “Don’t worry about the suit. I’ve got a great cleaner in L.A. that doesn’t charge any more than the monthly payment on a Porsche.”
    “This is only making me feel worse.”
    “From the newspaper story I thought you’d be suicidal.”
    “What newspaper story?”
    “In the
LA Times
.”
    “Oh, no!” I hadn’t even seen that one.
    “You must feel really ganged up on. And knowing your client’s guilty has to be about as galling as anything I can imagine. Having to defend scum like that! You’re too fine a person for it, Rebecca.”
    In normal circumstances, I would have been furious with him, but I was so worked up about Rob I was quickly forgetting my embarrassment and also the fact that Jeff—as Jeff—was there at all. He could have been my shrink or my mom or a Phidian sculpture or an eight-foot poster of Boy George and all I’d have been aware of was a sounding board. “I’m so worried about Rob.”
    “Rob! You mean that newspaper hack?”
    “Oh, Jeff—I’m afraid the Trapper’s killed him.”
    “But your client’s the Trapper. Isn’t he?”
    “Of course not. Les Mathison is. He just called and said something awful.”
    “Let me get this straight. The Trapper isn’t your client, but he happens to be a friend of yours, anyway?”
    “No. But I found out who he is and he called me. And Rob’s disappeared.”
    “I’m sure you know that most missing persons are walkaways.”
    “Oh, Jeff. What if he’s hurt?” I really meant “dead,” but I couldn’t bring myself to say the word.
    “I thought you’d be upset about your case.”
    “Jeff, aren’t you listening? The Trapper might have killed Rob.”
    “I was going to surprise you. I flew to San Jose, but court wasn’t in session and I had to rent a car to get up here.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    “Sorry! Not half as sorry as I am.” He stepped back from me. “I thought you’d be glad to see me.”
    “I’m sorry.” I hadn’t the wit not to repeat myself. “I guess the timing wasn’t right.”
    “With everyone against you like this, and such a weak case and all—and that D.A.’s really doing a terrific job—”
    “Shut up!” I’m afraid I spoke a little more loudly than necessary. But by now I’d begun to notice him as Jeff again and the fury I hadn’t felt before had worked its way to the surface—that and a new batch.
    “Rebecca, there’s no need to raise your voice. I assure you my intentions were perfectly benign.”
    I said again, “I’m sorry.” Back in the same old rut.
    “I’m sure you’re not really a bad person—even an ungrateful person—just the sort who cracks under pressure. Maybe you’re not as strong as I thought you were. So I misjudged you—it’s my loss. I thought you were somebody I could really have a relationship with. All this time I’ve been thinking about you—I couldn’t get you out of my mind. I should have known when I heard you were defending this guy that I’d gotten stars in my eyes. That should have been a clue.”
    “A clue to what?”
    “Even before that—when I found out you were dating that newspaper guy—I should have realized that underneath the Superwoman image you’re really just another California loser.”
    “What did you say?”
    “Listen, don’t take it personally. It’s this state—it does