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

Sober, she had a down-to-earth way about her. “I didn’t think about confronting anybody. I don’t think I was thinking at all. I just got a six-pack and got under a blanket on the floor of his car, in the back. He drove somewhere and parked. When he got out, I saw we were in the Castro District—you know, where all the gays are.”
    The spectators tittered, as if to say they might live in the boonies, but everyone knew the Castro.
    “What did you do then?”
    “I got out and followed him. He went to a place called the Yellow Parrot. A gay place.”
    “What did you think?”
    “Objection!”
    “Your Honor,” I said, “I’m trying to establish the witness’s state of mind.”
    “Overruled.”
    “Thank you. What did you think, Ms. Waring?”
    “I thought he was gay. I thought, ‘Well, this explains everything. No wonder he doesn’t want me.’”
    “Did you notice anything odd about his appearance?”
    “He was wearing a fake beard and a cowboy hat.”
    “What did you do when he went into the bar?”
    “I bought another six-pack and went back to the car and drank some more. After a while, I heard Les get in with another man.”
    “Did you actually see Les?”
    “Oh, yes. I was on the floor on the passenger’s side. So I peeked out from under the blanket and saw him. I tried to see the other man, but I couldn’t.”
    “What were they talking about?”
    “Animals.”
    “Animals?”
    “The other guy was talking about living on a ranch. Les had grown up on one, so they were talking about animals. It was real boring.”
    “Can you remember any more of what they were saying?”
    “Uh-uh. I fell asleep. This real loud noise woke me up. Like a gunshot. I was scared, but Les was still driving—”
    “You heard the noise while the car was in motion?”
    “Uh-huh. Like I said, Les was still driving, so I figured everything was okay.”
    “Did you think the noise came from inside the car?”
    “Honey, I was skunk-drunk. I didn’t think anything.”
    It took the judge a good five minutes to quiet the courtroom. “What happened next?”
    “I don’t know. I fell asleep. When I woke up, the car was parked at the foot of Mount Davidson. I was just beginning to come around when I heard a noise—a crash, kind of. I got out of the car and went to see what it was. When I got to the top of the hill, I saw that man on the cross—and you trying to climb up a ladder to get at him. I thought, ‘This is a murder. I better make a citizen’s arrest.’ ” Once again the courtroom broke up. Miranda’s credibility was wearing thin.
    “It didn’t occur to you when you heard a noise like a gunshot that that might be a murder?”
    She thought about it: “The honest truth is, I don’t know. I think it went through my mind, but I was on a bender.”
    “You were more sober when you woke up?”
    “Not so’s you’d notice.” She waited for the laughter to die down again. “But I was definitely more sober after you chased me down that hill, and the police fired at us.”
    “I think they were firing at me, actually.” This time I got a laugh. “Where did you go after you ran down the hill?”
    “I had just enough money to take a bus back home—I mean back to the Tenderloin. But I was afraid to go back to the hotel.”
    “You never went back?”
    “No.”
    “Did you ever see Les again?”
    She looked down at her lap, as she had when I’d asked the question before, and once again answered without meeting my eyes. “No.”
    Suddenly I didn’t believe her.

21
     
    The things she’d said and the way she’d said them began to come back to me. Rob and I had had only about an hour with Miranda at my place, and there hadn’t been any time to think, to reflect, to analyze. I felt the way I had the night before when Mean-Mouth walked in on me—suddenly unfrozen, thoughts coming in an avalanche. I had an inkling of what I was about to do and I was terrified. I was about to ignore the first rule of being a trial lawyer: Never ask a question you don’t know the answer to. It was simply not done, and yet I couldn’t stop myself. Once again I was a victim of adrenaline, perhaps; Kruzick says it happens to stage actors. If Dad had been there I would have had the sense to shut up, but on two hours of sleep, after everything I’d been through, I couldn’t put on the brakes.
    I started out with a safe question, one I’d asked before. “Why didn’t you go to the police?”
    Miranda fidgeted. “I