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

ready to make like a lawyer. But I had a minor traffic accident and spent two hours here at the Hall. Meanwhile, she found my purse and sent Kandi—I mean Carol—to take it to my apartment. When the cops finally let me go, I came home and found the body.”
    “What about the note?”
    I explained. He whistled. “So they really think they’ve got me.”
    “That’s not nearly so damaging as the fingerprint. Parker, you must have touched the statue sometime at my house.”
    “I suppose I did, but I honestly can’t remember. My God, I've even considered the idea that I
did
kill her. I don’t know—turned into Mr. Hyde or something.”
    “Is that why you won’t take the polygraph?”
    “You think I’m being silly about that.”
    “Yes. Will you reconsider?”
    “I’ll think about it.”
    “I’d better go. Is there anything else I can do? Have the police notified your parents?”
    “They’ve told them about Carol, yes, but not about me. They’ll be trying to get me. Could you possibly give them a call?”
    “Sure,” I said, and took the number. We kissed, and I left with a promise to come back the next day.
    On the way home, I considered the situation. I wasn’t lying when I told Parker I believed him, but I was emotionally involved. I
wanted
to believe him. That wouldn’t do for a lawyer. If I were going to convince the police or, God forbid, a jury, I’d have to use some sort of evidence besides his lifelong record of good character. Solid citizens are always killing their relatives on a moment’s notice.
    Martinez’s idea about the note was plain crazy. Surely a jury would see that, but I didn’t want the case to get that far, and I didn’t see any chance of talking Martinez out of his own cockamamie theory.
    The fingerprint was damned good evidence for the cops, but of course I didn’t know who else’s fingerprints were on that sculpture. Mine were, probably. And maybe the real murderer’s as well. Or maybe he had worn the rubber gloves. That didn’t make sense, though, if it was a crime of passion. More likely he had wiped it.
    The base of the sculpture had had blood on it. That meant the murderer must have picked it up by the head to use it as a bludgeon. He might, then, have wiped only the head. If Parker had touched the sculpture somewhere round the middle, his print might have escaped the murderer’s ministrations. I’d have to ask Martinez where the print was found.
    Something else was bothering me, too. The times didn’t seem right. If Parker left the bar at 11:30 to go back to Elena’s, he must have gotten there just before twelve. Midnight would be the traditional time for a practical joke like the raid, so that fit.
    I’d called Elena’s at a little after one, and she’d already sent Kandi to my apartment. Parker wasn’t seen going in until 1:45. Kandi must have been there long before that, and presumably Parker didn’t know where she was going. The police theory was that he’d followed her there, so why not go in when she did? There were holes in that, of course; Martinez could argue that he sat in the car getting up his nerve, or that he and Kandi had talked outside, then she went in, and Parker followed later. I once heard a D. A. get around the holes in his theory by saying, “We don’t know who made the unidentified fingerprints; we don’t know why the defendant called the police instead of fleeing. We’ll probably never know.” And he still got a conviction. Still, the times were a good place to start. I made a mental note to call Elena.
    I let my mind go blank and concentrated on my driving, but something nagged at me. Something about the idea that Parker followed Kandi. What was it? I thought for a minute and it came clear. I didn’t know who knew where Kandi was going. If only Elena did, then
someone
must have followed her—someone other than Parker. Or, as Mickey suggested, Elena killed her, having no problem about where to find her. I needed to find out