Tourist Trap (Rebecca Schwartz #3) (A Rebecca Schwartz Mystery) (The Rebecca Schwartz Series) Page 14

  My hostess cleared a place for me on the tattered sofa and took a seat herself in an armchair that would have made Goodwill turn up its nose—not because it was old and sprung, but because there were stains on it in places where one would have to be an acrobat to get in position for landing a spill. Mrs. Pritchett barely fit into it; she was shaped like a fluffed-up pillow, and she was the color of one you might find in a hospital—dead white.

  Her hair also was white and tightly permed, but scrupulously clean. Her apricot dress, which was meant to have a waist but didn’t, looked fine as well. One of her stockings, however, looked like a cat’s cradle, revealing random longish leg hairs and stark white patches of skin. It had been stretched to its limit, I imagined, by legs the shape and thickness of Doric columns. I thought a lot of her health problems might be traced to her weight, but in one sense the extra fat had served her well—her face was unwrinkled and rather pretty. It was also nicely made up (though a bit heavy on the blusher). She was an odd combination of fastidiousness and utter decay.

  The apartment was not only a monument to hoarding, it was made doubly oppressive by heavy drapes drawn over all the windows. I was sure if you patted one gently you’d raise enough dust for a desert khamsin. Yet, as my eyes became adjusted to the dark, I could see vestiges of Mrs. Pritchett’s tidy side. A religious statue of a madonna and child stood on a starched doily, the colors of the statue glowing unnaturally in that room, unencumbered by the gunk of the bottles and vials. While a filthy pink bedspread had been thrown over the sofa—apparently to improve it—Mrs. Pritchett’s chair had pinned to it three old-fashioned antimacassars, only one of which was slightly stained and none of which had the grayish look of months or years without laundering.

  I sat on the very edge of the sofa, hoping she wouldn’t notice and be offended. “You know both Les and Miranda, I gather.” As I said it, I had the unpleasant notion that they might live in the building—might even be there right now. I began to think I shouldn’t have come alone.

  “They used to live here.”

  I breathed easier. “Together?”

  “Separate floors. Though she spent a lot of time in his room, if you know what I mean. But it didn’t mean no more than a hill o’ beans to him.”

  “What didn’t?”

  “She didn’t. Her bein’ there. Now she—she was in love with him. If a woman who spends three quarters of her time staggerin’ from drink can love anybody.”

  “But he didn’t reciprocate.”

  “If that means did he have any feelin’ for her, I guess not. Not too much, anyway. Had a pet name for her, though.”

  “He did?”

  “Miranda Warning. And she called him Les Ismore.”

  “Izzmore?”

  She chuckled. “I didn’t get it either at first. Meant Les is more—kind of cute, huh?”

  I would have been touched at the thought of two derelicts who still had enough spark to make puns if one of them hadn’t been a multiple murderer. “It sounds like they were pretty tight.”

  “Uh-uh. Not so long as one of ’em was him. He wasn’t tight with nobody.”

  “A loner?”

  “That ain’t the half of it. Mean bastard.”

  “Mean how?”

  “Oh—just sullen. He’d as soon snap at you as say hello. Sometimes wouldn’t speak at all.” She shifted in her chair, grimaced, and bent down to rub her leg. “Ow. Hope it ain’t the phlebitis comin’ back.”

  “Did you ever think he might be homosexual?”

  “Him?” She hooted. “Not likely. Why’d you ask?”

  I’d asked because if he were the Trapper, Miranda had followed him to the Yellow Parrot, but really the question was just for form’s sake. I thought he’d picked a gay man as a victim because he’d make an easy first target—drinking, maybe drunk, and eager to trust. “I just wondered,” I said. “Because he didn’t respond to Miranda, I guess.”

  She gave another little hoot. “You ever seen Miranda? I ain’t sayin’ she wouldn’t be right pretty if she’d fix herself up, but she was usually too drunk to comb her hair. That ain’t all, though. He just didn’t have it in him. Real grim—seemed kind of preoccupied, like he was some executive instead of an unemployed laborer.”

  “Like he had work to do?”

  “Yep. Didn’t, though. Took odd jobs, but spent most of his time in his room—or sometimes Miranda’s. But mostly his.”

  “Did they move out together?”

  “That’s what I don’t know. Both of ’em just disappeared. Didn’t say they were going, just left. That’s why I have to collect the rent in advance. If I didn’t, see, half the bums in the place’d stick me for it.

  “This building was my Daddy’s. It ain’t much, but it’s all he left me. He left home when I was eight or nine, didn’t hear a word out of him till one day some lawyer called—forty years later it was—said my daddy’d left me a buildin’ in San Francisco. I come all the way from North Ca’lina for this.” She looked disgusted.

  “We was always dirt poor, so at least it was somethin’. He owned other buildin’s, though, the old buzzard. But he got married again, left ’em to his second family.”

  I was gettin’ interested in spite of myself: “He was a bigamist?”

  “Damn sure was.”

  “You didn’t contest the will?”

  She shrugged. “Didn’t know how.”

  With an effort, I got back to the matter at hand. “When did Les and Miranda leave?”

  “Don’t know exactly. Could have been gone for a week or so, maybe more, by the time I realized nobody was livin’ in Les’s. So I checked Miranda’s—she was gone, too. That’s how come I don’t know if they left together. Maybe he left first and she went to try and find him. Ain’t no way to tell.”

  “When was it?”

  She jumped. “Ow.” This time she rubbed her arm. “Got shootin’ pains. I got to get me some rest.”

  I was starting to think she wasn’t going to be able to tell me what I needed to know. If she didn’t, I certainly wasn’t going to give her the money; but I wanted all the information I could get. I repeated my question: “Can you remember when you noticed they were missing?”

  Her bland face got cagey. “Why do you want to know all this stuff, anyway?”

  “I think they might have information about a case I’m working on.”

  “What kind of case?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t say. I just need to talk to them.”

  “You got the money?”

  “Yes. Do you know where they are?”

  “I’m pretty sure.”

  “A hundred dollars is a lot of money for pretty sure.”

  She pouted. “I got to buy me some med’cine.”

  We finally struck a deal: fifty bucks for the tips on each one’s whereabouts, and the other fifty if the tips panned out.

  “I know where Les is from.” She looked as self-satisfied as a sitting hen. “He’s got family there.”

  I was disappointed in spite of myself. “You think he went to Turlock?”

  “Oh. You already know.”

  “I know where he’s from. Why do you think he went there?”

  “Just a hunch.” But she didn’t have a poker face; she knew I wasn’t going to go for it. She kind of crumpled around the eyes and then said, “I think I’m gonna have an attack. Could you get me a glass of water, please?”

  I would gladly have paid fifty dollars just to avoid going into her kitchen.

  “How about Miranda?”

  “She’ll be with him.”

  “I’ll tell you what, Mrs. Pritchett. I’ll give you thirty-five dollars if you can remember when you first noticed Miranda and Les were missing.”

  “I just don’t know how I’m gon’ pay for my med’cine. The doctor said I couldn’t afford another attack; said if it happened again, might be the last time.”

  “Fifty, then.”

  She cheered up. “That’ll be just fine.”
r />   “It’s coming back to you?”

  “Did I say I forgot? I couldn’t of forgot. ’Cause I was just back from Mass, wearin’ my new Easter dress, and Juney Carmichael, she comes in, says, ‘Oh, Miz Pritchett, what a pretty dress,’ and then she says, “There’s a terrible stink comin’ out of Les’s room.’”

  “It was Easter, then?”

  “No, the Sunday after. See, I was took so bad on Easter, I couldn’t hardly hold my head up, much less get up and go to Mass.”

  “What did you find when you went in?”

  “Nothin’. Just some garbage—leftover pizza and a carton of milk and such. That’s what was makin’ the stink.”

  “And Miranda’s room?”

  “Funny thing. She didn’t take nothin’ with her. Didn’t have very much—just a old sleepin’ bag and some clothes. I give ’em to Juney.”

  “Can I talk to Juney?”

  “She died of an overdose last week.” Mrs. Pritchett crossed herself.

  I decided to walk back for the air, which gave me time to turn the whole conversation over in my mind. But there wasn’t much of substance. The only things I’d really learned were that Les and Miranda knew each other, and that they’d probably disappeared sometime during the week after Sanchez was killed. That helped to confirm what I already knew—that Les was the Trapper. But I wasn’t at all sure that was worth fifty dollars.

  When I got back to the office, I found a cold burger on my desk and a note from Kruzick: “Had to go home. Mickey had a miscarriage.”

  15

  Without even taking time to dump the burger, I dashed out to get a cab, this time to go to North Beach for my car. I never thought of calling to ask if I should come—I knew my duty as a sister. But when I got to Mickey and Alan’s I had to ring the bell several times before getting an answer. Mickey finally came to the door, looking very drawn and red around the eyes. “Oh, Rebecca.”

  I hugged her. “I’m so sorry.”

  “I’m okay. Come in.”

  “Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

  “I’m fine now. It happened this morning—I didn’t want to make a big deal about it.”

  As we went in, I could smell spaghetti cooking—one of Mickey’s favorite childhood foods, and still her preference over any fancy pasta the food mavens came up with. It made me shake with hunger. “Alan’s cooking,” said Mickey. “It’s how he shows affection.” Without asking me to sit down, she continued walking toward the kitchen, expecting me, apparently, to follow. I did, hoping I didn’t faint before we got there.

  Though Mickey’s red face meant she’d been crying, she was now quite composed, if sad and subdued. Kruzick, on the other hand, sobbed as he stirred, big sloppy tears splashing onto his T-shirt. Instantly, I realized Mickey hadn’t meant me to follow; she was simply so distracted she’d forgotten to tell me not to.

  Not seeming to notice me at all, Kruzick put his arms around Mickey, held her like a child hanging on to its teddy bear, and said thank God she was all right, he didn’t know what he’d do if he lost her, and more, I suppose, in that vein, but I wouldn’t know because I backed out discreetly.

  For a few uncomfortable minutes I waited, but Mickey didn’t join me. Finally I left a note saying I’d been in the neighborhood and had just dropped in to be sure she was all right, but really couldn’t stay, I was awfully sorry.

  I stopped for a burger on Geary Boulevard and found I had more than that to chew over. For the first time I was starting to see what Mickey saw in Kruzick, and that was such an unaccustomed sensation I felt giddy. Underneath all that showy schmuckiness, he actually had a human feeling or two. I might be wrong, but I’d gotten the preposterous idea he really loved her. When I thought about it, the evidence had been there all the time—he didn’t cheat on her; he wanted to marry her; in his own weird way, he was even there when she needed him. Which was more, I thought, than could sometimes be said of Rob. With the utmost chagrin, I realized that I was actually jealous of someone who called Alan Kruzick sweetheart. I nearly choked on my burger.

  And then, after another couple of bites, I developed a human feeling or two of my own—equally foreign ones. I started to be happy for Mickey; and to develop the slightest little shreds of affection for Kruzick himself. Unbelievable, but there it was. I was ashamed to think it had taken a miscarriage to come to this.

  When I got home, there was a call from Mickey. Returning it, I found her still slightly depressed, but philosophical: “I think I wasn’t ready to have a baby. I mean if I wasn’t ready for marriage, what was I thinking?”

  “I sort of wondered that myself.”

  “But you know what? There’s a good side to all of this.”

  “Don’t tell me. It’s brought you and Alan closer together.”

  “You think that’s a stupid cliché.”

  “Actually,” I said, “I don’t. I’m glad.” I never had more trouble getting two words out, but I meant them.

  * * *

  Dad and I made a deal: With his advice, I’d prepare Lou’s case, and he’d help me try it. The change of venue was easy—there wasn’t a judge in San Francisco who could be convinced he’d get a fair trial there. The case was put on the calendar in San Jose.

  During pretrial skirmishing, I got to know the enemy a little—and she was me. Or so much like me it was eerie. Deputy District Attorney Liz Hughes was trying the case for the people. Liz was about my height—though maybe a little thinner—only a couple of years older, and a fellow graduate of Boalt Hall of Law. She dressed conservatively, but behaved in any way at all that might help her win her case. (Any ethical way, that is—I didn’t know a thing against Liz, so far as her integrity went, and neither did anyone else.) But she’d cajole, bully, lose her temper, possibly even cry to sway judge or jury. Any lawyer might, of course, but Liz put so much energy into her court appearances she was downright colorful. I’m not at all sure that could fairly be said about me, but I will say there was one person who said it, regularly and ruefully—my mother. So in certain ways I identified with Liz.

  But I was also a little awed and intimidated by her—much more so than if she’d been a man my age. She had a reputation as a hotshot, and her record supported it—since she’d been in homicide, she’d never failed to get a conviction. That had a depressing effect, but Dad told me a tale that came out of the sixties, when so-called political trials were crowding the calendars.

  Members of a certain radical group, who’d allegedly engaged in a shootout with police, came to one of Dad’s celebrated colleagues. “We need a lawyer like Perry Mason,” they said. “You good as Perry?”

  “I’m better,” said the distinguished counselor. “His clients were innocent.”

  No doubt the defendants in Liz’s other cases had been guilty. But I was only momentarily cheered. No matter how much I believed my client innocent, I knew Liz had the better case.

  I ended up hiring an investigator, after all. He went up to Turlock and ascertained that Les’s mom wasn’t lying—Les wasn’t there and nobody’d seen him in what Chris would call a month of pigballs. He combed the Tenderloin for Les and Miranda, drinking in sleazy bars and even offering bribes, for all I knew. And he got nothing. Dad and I asked for continuance after continuance, but finally there was no longer any point to it. After ten months, the case came to trial.

  I should explain something. Lou was on trial for two murders only—that of Jack Sanchez, the gay man on the cross, and of Brewster Baskett, the old man who’d died of poisoning at Full Fathom Five. The police had no physical evidence in the cable car case, and none except the explosives manual to connect him with the elevator crash—since there was no note in either incident, they didn’t feel they could sell either one to a jury.

  But they had something very good indeed in the Sanchez murder—the gun that had killed him, found in my client’s room. It was probably enough to tie the two fairly circumstantial cases together. And Liz had another ace up her sleeve, one she timed for maximum flusteri
ng effect. During the break right after jury selection, a D.A.’s investigator handed me a subpoena ordering me to take the stand against my own client.

  If Lou hadn’t been my client, I might have expected to be a witness, but under the circumstances, I couldn’t possibly testify. It was a blatant conflict of interest. Surely no judge would permit it (except one, I worried, emotionally overcome by the horror of a serial killing). We had a judge with a far-flung reputation for being hard on defendants. But I felt confident he would see reason. Right was on my side.

  “Requiring me to testify,” I argued, “stands in complete contradiction of the ethical rules promulgated by the State Bar of California. When I became a lawyer, I took an oath to zealously represent my client to the best of my ability, and testifying for the prosecution would be in unthinkable violation of that oath.” I lowered my voice here: “Futhermore, Judge, more important than all that legal gobbledegook, think about it. How would it look to the jury?” I put all the passion I had into the last seven words.

  Liz was ready, of course. She argued that I hadn’t yet met my client at the time I discovered the body, and that therefore there was no actual conflict of interest; that I was only there to testify to the crime scene, that it would be different if my client had been seen running from that scene, and also that, if I felt the way I did, knowing I might be called, I should never have taken the case in the first place.