Read Online Tourist Trap (Rebecca Schwartz #3) (A Rebecca Schwartz Mystery) (The Rebecca Schwartz Series) by Julie Smith - Free Book Online Page B

got hurt because we made the wrong decision.”
    My stomach contracted into a hard little knot. “I keep thinking about the poor old man who died. And his family. Rob, please don’t…”
    I stopped myself in midsentence.
    “Don’t what?”
    “Nothing. Don’t be a stranger. I’m sorry you can’t make lunch. I’ll miss you.”
    I hung up, thanking my stars I’d caught myself. I’d been about to tell Rob, don’t get involved, don’t expose yourself, stay out of this horrible thing; exactly—precisely—the way my mother had spoken to me on more than one occasion. Was it just habit—the habit of hearing it over and over—that made me want to say that? Fear was my mother’s M.O.—was I catching it? I hoped not. I hoped this was an exception to the way I looked at life and not the start of a fear habit of my own, because I hated the way it felt. I was frightened for Rob and frightened for myself and frightened for all the poor souls from Cincinnati who wanted a look at the Golden Gate Bridge in spring, and frightened for anyone who might be mistaken for a tourist or who might be near a tourist attraction next time the Trapper struck. After all, plenty of our landmarks were part of our everyday life.
    No doubt I could have worked myself up to a terrifying neurotic frenzy, but a distraction presented itself. Jeff Simon phoned and asked me to dinner. Of course I declined, but it did no good.
    “Look, I just enjoy your company. That’s all. I know you’re seeing someone—I even know his name and what he does, since you talked endlessly about him last night.”
    “I don’t think I—”
    “But I’m up here for a week on business. Taking a deposition—you’re one of the few women I know who even understand the word—and I’m lonely, all right? I want to be with somebody intelligent and have a nice dinner. That’s absolutely all, I promise.”
    “Rob might—” Rob might call. But then he might not. I had a right to do what I wanted with my evenings, without feeling I had to wait by the phone like some Valley Girl with styling mousse for brains. Things with Rob were definitely shaky; and I liked Jeff Simon. Maybe I owed it to myself to get to know him. “Okay,” I said. “Eight o’clock.”
    “I’ll pick you up at your place.”
    I looked at my watch. I had a deposition of my own to take in half an hour.

8
     
    I didn’t get home till seven, but that was still plenty of time to feed the fish, shower, and change clothes. With a little time left over to talk on the phone if anyone happened to call. But Rob didn’t.
    Very well then. I applied some unaccustomed violet eye shadow. But to what end I didn’t know—in the hope, I guess, of getting a little male admiration from whatever quarter I could.
    My attire for the evening was nouveau court jester—black pants that fit like tights, topped with a giant silver-gray sweater. In my case, the sweater had to be Godzilla-sized to cover telltale top-of-thigh bulge. In truth, being five feet five and a hundred twenty-five pounds, I was a bit on the short, rounded side for the medieval look, but I’d bought the outfit after seeing Chris in one like it. Being six feet tall and three-quarters leg, she pulled it off spectacularly. Oh, well. I’d gotten the entire costume, mohair sweater and all, at a January sale for eighty dollars. How could I go wrong?
    Jeff didn’t seem to think I had. He was quite mannerly about it, sweeping his eyes face to foot most discreetly, but nonetheless sweeping them. He turned from my person to my pad. “Ah, a reader. Hardly anyone is anymore.”
    “All my friends read.”
    He shook his head. “I can’t find anyone who does. I moved out from New York two years ago and I’m still suffering culture shock.”
    “Can’t find anyone to read the Sunday
Times
with?”
    “You understand!”
    “I ought to—I’ve been out with enough New Yorkers.”
    “Oh. You seem like one of us. I mean—intelligent.”
    “I was born and