Death Turns A Trick (Rebecca Schwartz #1) (A Rebecca Schwartz Mystery) (The Rebecca Schwartz Series) by Julie Smith Page A

I’ve covered some of your press conferences, and I covered the Strumpets’ Strut. When I heard a Carol Phillips was found dead in the apartment of a Rebecca Schwartz, I remembered somebody I’d met at the, uh, Strut. Kandi Phillips. Now no one is named Kandi; it’s the same woman, isn’t it?”
    “AKA,” I said.
    “San Francisco State student with an unconventional way of paying her tuition.”
    “You’re not going to use that?”
    “She didn’t have a rap sheet. I’ve already checked.”
    “It’s against the law for the cops to give out that information…”
    “Or for me to receive it.” The blue eyes were deliciously naughty. “But they did, and I did, and since she’s never been arrested, I don’t see how I can say the lovely Kandi was a hooker, unless…”
    “Unless you want me to sue your ass.”
    “I’m not particular. I’d like anything you did with my ass.”
    “Do you have everything you need, Mr. Burns?”
    “Rob. There’s only one thing. There’s been a lot of mob activity lately.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “I can’t be specific yet. Just a lot of pushing and shoving, kind of establishing territory. I don’t really know what it’s all about, but I can’t help wondering if they’re trying to move in on prostitution in the area. It’s all independent now, as you know.”
    “So what does that have to do with this?”
    “That’s what I wanted to ask you. Is it possible Kandi was somehow involved with them and got in too deep?”
    Now that was an idea. But I discarded it after a few moments’ thought. “I don’t see how. This wasn’t what you’d call your ‘execution-style’ murder. Remember, she was bludgeoned to death. The cops might not have told you, but my apartment was ransacked as well. That doesn’t smack of mob work.”
    “Sure doesn’t. Well, you can’t blame a guy for trying. I’m glad I got to meet you, anyway. I hope it isn’t for the last time.”
    He closed his notebook and left with a wave.

Chapter Ten
     
    When I’d come back from Mickey’s earlier that day, I’d been so hopped up on coffee and so much looking forward to getting out of those horrid clothes that I must have had a false sense of well-being. Now, as I entered my ravaged apartment, waves of despondency engulfed me like a soggy towel. You know how I feel about my apartment. It was violated. It was raped and pillaged. And so I felt that I was.
    But I am a naturally sanguine person, and that is no accident. I work at it. I learned a long time ago that the best cure for melancholy is action. Clawing frantically at the soggy towel, I pawed through my albums until I found one of Strauss waltzes, a proven nostrum for whatever-ails-you. I put it on, got into jeans, and put the place back together.
    Practically everything had been thrown off the shelf in the hall closet, and the drawers there and in my bureau had been rummaged, though not too badly. The same went for the kitchen. As I worked, I saw that my initial impression had been right; it was really a very cursory job of ransacking. But it was logical. It was the sort of quick blitz you might have made if you were really looking for something, rather than trying to prove somebody’d been looking for something. No mirrors were broken for dramatic effect; nothing was knocked over for no reason at all. I was more convinced than ever that it was a genuine search.
    After I’d satisfied my rage for order, I applied Spic ‘N Span to the fingerprint powder, and it worked nicely.
    I had to work up to calling Parker’s parents. Nobody wants to tell perfect strangers their son is in jail for killing his sister. So I called Chris instead. She never listens to the radio, and anyway, I wouldn’t want her to hear about the murder that way. Halfway through my narrative, she bummed a cigarette from Larry, breaking a six-month-old vow.
    She thought the impromptu press conference was a bad move, but promised to watch it anyhow.
    I called my dad to