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

Yeah.” I found a Diet Coke and paid for it. Then I cracked it open and began to sip.
    “That’s all you want?”
    “Miranda’s my best friend.” I reached in the Sportsac for a five-dollar bill. “She hasn’t been around lately. I’m a little worried about her.” I handed over the five.
    She took it, folded it, and placed it safely in her pocket. “Honey, you wasting your money. I wouldn’t remember no white girl. All look alike to me.”
    “All look alike? You think I look like, say, Dolly Parton?”
    “Dolly Parton?” She laughed. “Dolly Parton? You ain’t even in the same class.”
    “So we don’t all look alike.”
    “Sure you do. Just some’s ugly and some’s halfway fit to look at.”
    “Wait a minute. I didn’t pay five dollars to be insulted.” She laughed again, evilly. “Sure you did, honey. You’re a loser, just like everybody else comes in here.”
    I left, internally questioning the wisdom of our brilliant disguises. “Any luck?” asked Chris.
    “She didn’t like my demographics. On the other hand, she was a greedy old trout—if she’d had any information, I think she’d have sold it. Here’s the thing—assuming Miranda’s alive and trying to stay out of the line of fire, she wouldn’t go to her old haunts.”
    “True. Let’s branch out.”
    Chris did the talking next time. While I was standing outside, a kid who looked about twelve sauntered by, casually grabbed the Sportsac, and tugged. With his free hand he hit me in the stomach. I shoved him in the chest, learning in the process he was a she and well over twelve. The effect of the blow was to dislodge the bag, still firmly in the girl’s hand, and give her a slight advantage. She tugged again, pulling me over on top of her. We were rolling on the sidewalk before Chris could catch on and race out the door. A crowd started to gather. Chris shouted at the kid: “Jackie, you let go of that lady’s bag right now. If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a hundred times—” As she spoke she picked the kid up by the arm and began to shake her loose. “Now get on home!” The kid took off as if pursued by a SWAT team; I had a feeling Chris had unwittingly done a fair imitation of the girl’s mother. Amid good-natured chuckles, the crowd dispersed. “Nice neighborhood,” I said.
    “I’m starting to like it.” Chris was so pleased with herself she was practically ready to move in.
    As for me, I wasn’t sure I could take the excitement. And I was nearly crazy with worry. But we were left almost completely alone for the next hour or so—unless you count the man who propositioned Chris with a handful of hundred-dollar bills. Or the store owner who mistook me for a customer who owed him sixty dollars. That was no fun; after about fifteen minutes of shouting—fifteen minutes we couldn’t afford—Chris finally sighed and said, “Tell him the truth.”
    It was a crowded store so I spoke in a whisper: “I don’t even live in the neighborhood. Here’s my driver’s license.”
    The guy didn’t take the hint. “Rebecca Schwartz,” he shouted. “Oh sure. Anyone can pick a pocket. Or write a bad check, either. Sure you’re Rebecca Schwartz of Green Street. Yeah, and I’m Perry Mason.”
    I was astounded, and not a little appalled that he was shouting my name up and down Leavenworth Street. “You know who I am.” Still whispering.
    Now he whispered, too. “Yeah. I know who you are. You’re Marilyn Martin who hasn’t been in here for four months and for good reason. You picked the wrong pocket, you know that? Because Rebecca Schwartz happens to be somebody I just read about in the
Chronicle
. She’s going to be mighty interested to know who has her license. I’m calling her first thing in the morning. I’m calling the cops right now.” Chris shouted, “Run, Rebecca!” and blocked his way. “Get her!” the guy yelled. I ran out of the store and halfway down the block, but not a single person followed. I figured the guy wasn’t too popular even in his own neighborhood. I waited for Chris, wondering if our cover was blown. But Les no doubt had about as many friends as the store owner; unless he’d actually been in the store, we were probably all right.
    By now, though, it was 1:15. The bars would close at 2:00 and so would everything else. After that, there’d be nothing to do—no way to help Rob, no hope. I was frankly terrified; we still had ten or twelve more stores to cover.
    A lot of