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

went back to the Hall of Justice. After a while, he called and told Martinez something, and Martinez asked me if I’d ever touched that funny statue you have on the coffee table.”
    “I suppose you know that was the murder weapon.”
    “I do now, anyway. I said I couldn’t remember touching it.”
    “But, Parker, you must have. Sometime in my apartment.”
    “I just can’t remember it. But I must have, because they found one of my prints on it. They told me that, and I still couldn’t remember, and the next thing I knew they advised me of my rights and brought me down here.”
    The more miserable he sounded, the stronger I felt, and I didn’t like it. Florence Nightingale Schwartz was back in business.
    “Okay, Parker, two things. First, tell them you’ll take the polygraph.”
    “No!”
    “Why not?”
    “I don’t believe in it. I don’t like it. It’s an invasion of privacy.”
    “But they’re holding you for murder.”
    “Can’t you get me out on bail?”
    “That’s the other thing. I’m horribly afraid you’re going to have to spend the weekend in jail; they can hold you without charging you till Monday, and if they do charge you, they don’t have to arraign you till Tuesday. I’m not at all sure I can get you out before then.”
    “But you’ll try?”
    “Of course. I’ll have to call a judge at home. I’ll do that, and then I’ll come over to City Prison as soon as I can. Try to take it easy, okay?”
    “Thanks, Rebecca.”
    It was seven o’clock—I’d never get Parker bailed out if I called a judge at that hour. Mickey had gone back to bed, and I had no alarm to set, so I just lay down again, hoping I’d wake up about nine.
    I did, mostly because Alan was playing the stereo in the bedroom.
    Since I had no idea what judge was on call for the weekend, I called the cops and flung myself on the mercy of the desk sergeant. Luckily, I got a nice one; he said it was Judge Rinaldo.
    I extolled Parker’s virtues at some length for Rinaldo’s benefit, but he said he’d have to call homicide and get back to me.
    Depressed, I knocked on the bedroom door to beg for one of Mickey’s robes. Mickey had gone out for a minute, so Alan made the loan. Then he hovered while I made coffee. Instead of helping with the coffee, he offered conversation that made my teeth itch:
    “What’s it like to find a stiff in your living room?”
    “She was a human being, Alan.”
    “Now she’s a piece of meat.”
    “Haven’t you got any compassion?”
    “Not for some doxie I never met. I’m saving it all for my poor, traumatized, old-maid sister-in-law. Must have been kind of tough on you, huh?”
    Alan’s all right, really. It’s just that he has trouble remembering he’s not on stage all the time. If you don’t watch him, he does bits, like the tough-guy routine he was affecting this morning. Also, he has no sense of responsibility and will probably never make a decent living. But he’s got a good heart, deep down. That and a lot of curly hair.
    I said it wasn’t exactly uplifting, finding Kandi, but I wasn’t his sister-in-law.
    “Did your new boyfriend do it?”
    “How do I know?”
    “Well, I hope not. I was kind of hoping you’d marry him. Then your sister wouldn’t have to worry about you anymore.”
    “Worry about me? She’s living in sin with Mr. Putz and she should worry about me?”
    “You’ll get used to me in thirty or forty years.”
    “I’ll brain you first,” I said, and instantly wished I hadn’t. It brought back a mental picture I could do without.
    Alan picked up a cast-iron pan and held it out. “Here. No time like the present. Come on, get it over with. Face it, Rebecca, you’ve been wanting to for two years.”
    He stretched out his arms, practically begging for it, and looked at the ceiling. “‘Ay, but to die and go we know not where,’” he said, “‘To lie in cold obstruction and to rot…’”
    I took the pan and lifted it in what I hoped was a