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

no one would blink. But I decided against that. It would look too calculating.
    The TV and radio folks arranged themselves in a half moon around me, shoving a thicket of microphones as close as they could. A few poor souls way in the back looked sadly out of date with their pencils and pads: old-timey newspaper reporters.
    “Miss Schwartz,” said a deep broadcast-voice I vaguely recognized, “could you tell us in your own words what happened last night?”
    I told them very concisely that I’d been to a party, had to leave suddenly to run an errand for the hostess—who later found my purse and sent Kandi home with it—and that I’d found the body when I got home.
    I left out the part about the accident and being detained at the Hall, because they might like the irony too much: the idea that if I’d been home, maybe Kandi wouldn’t have been killed or maybe I would have. Even though it was a Saturday and there wouldn’t be much news to compete with the murder, I wanted to make sure I got to say the important stuff; I didn’t need my client’s innocence competing with real-life human drama.
    “How well did you know Carol Phillips?” asked the deep voice.
    “I just met her last night, but I know her brother quite well.”
    “Parker Phillips? The man they’ve arrested?”
    “Yes. I’m his lawyer.”
    “So you don’t believe he killed his sister.”
    “Certainly not. After a very sloppy and cursory investigation, the police have developed a case that depends on coincidence and exotic flights of imagination. In their haste to make an arrest, they’ve overlooked several important factors that I am now investigating myself.”
    “Will you tell us what those factors are?”
    “The identity of the murderer, for one.”
    “Does that mean you know?”
    “I didn’t say that.”
    “Do you think Phillips will be charged?”
    “That depends on whether the district attorney will be able to look at the facts coolly and methodically, or whether he will succumb to the hysteria that seems to pervade the San Francisco Police Department.”
    “Thank you, Miss Schwartz.”
    Now that it was over, I had second thoughts. Ninety-nine out of a hundred lawyers would have gone the “no comment” route. But my dad always said that the most important ingredient for being a good lawyer was a generous portion of ham. I didn’t see that I’d done any harm, anyway; I’d twitted the cops, and maybe I’d be giving the murderer a flutter—he’d be sure to watch the news.
    As I fumbled for my keys, one of the pad-and-pencil fellows ambled up. I’d noticed him already. He wasn’t exactly handsome, but he had fabulous electric blue eyes and a quality of vitality, of energy about him that attracted me. He said he was Rob Burns from the
Chronicle
. Instantly, I was on my guard. “Can I see your press card?”
    He grinned. “Sure. You know, you’re only the second person who’s ever asked me that. Journalism ain’t what it used to be.”
    The card looked okay. “I don’t understand,” I said. “The
Chronicle
doesn’t publish on Sundays. Why aren’t you out hiking on Mount Tam or something?”
    “Aren’t you clever! We
don’t
work on Saturdays. I heard about the murder on the radio and called the city editor for a special dispensation. I knew I’d have to work on it tomorrow—for Monday’s paper—so I didn’t want to take a chance on missing you. You’re the lawyer for HYENA, aren’t you?” I didn’t deny it.
    “I’ve seen you around. You were great on the Margaret Blythe Show. I’ve, uh, I’ve wanted to meet you for a long time.” It’s true that I’m a sucker for flattery, but lest you get the idea that I’m just a plain sucker, let me emphasize that he said it almost shyly. Delivery counts for a lot. I thought there was a good chance he might turn into an ally, so I didn’t fight the initial attraction I’d felt.
    “I’ve kind of had the illicit-sex beat lately,” he continued. “In fact,