Dead In The Water (Rebecca Schwartz Mystery #4) (The Rebecca Schwartz Series)

peach—you're supposed to be resting.”
    “Well, something’s come up. I need a judge in Monterey.”
    Quickly I sketched in the details. I could almost see Chris as I talked, stroking her long, gorgeous nose with a long, elegant finger, her face a symphony of sympathy; the project was close to futile, and she knew it as well as I did. Judges hardly ever overrule each other.
    As she well knew, judges don’t list themselves in the phone book. And not only that, with a problem like I had, I’d do well not just to pick one at random, but to arrive with an introduction. Chris said she’d phone around to find out if we knew anybody who knew anybody. But her tone said she thought Marty’d better say good-bye to her weekend plans. The back door slammed. “Keil? Are you all right, baby?”
    “I’m not a baby.” He spoke not at all defiantly, simply stating a fact.
    “I’m sorry. Can I make you some breakfast?”
    “That’s okay. I’ll do it.” He started rummaging about the kitchen.
    Again, the doorbell rang. And the telephone at the same time. Keil answered the phone and began speaking in low tones, making it unnecessary to ask for whom the other bell tolled.
    The man on the front steps was in a truly rotten mood. “I’ve been honking for the last five minutes.”
    “We were in the back of the house.” I stared at him, unnerved, feeling like a kid who’d been reprimanded. “Uh—Esperanza’s watching TV. None of us heard you.”
    “TV! She’s not supposed to watch TV!”
    Without a trace of a warning, tears arrived in my eyes and overflowed. I was crying like a kid in front of a perfect stranger—and the perfect part, from what I could see, was an apt description, at least of his physique.
    “I didn’t know that,” I said, like the five-year-old I felt. “How could I know that?”
    “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. It’s okay. She does it all the time, anyway. It’s no big deal. Really.”
    Wiping tears with my bare hand, I said, “Come in. I’ll get Esperanza,” and left before I could further humiliate myself.
    When I returned, the stranger had composed himself enough to be civil. He said, “I’m Julio Soto.”
    “Rebecca Schwartz. Sorry it didn’t work out with the kids.”
    “Is Marty home? I need to ask her something.”
    “I’m afraid not. Shall I have her call you?”
    “No, it’s okay. I’ll call her later today.”
    “No, you won’t.” It was Libby. The three of us turned to find her sitting at the top of the stairs, now dressed in shorts, no trace of tears on her face. “My mom’s in jail. She got framed for killing Sadie.” She turned and ran.
    Julio’s tanned face registered shock. “Sadie!”
    Esperanza crumpled—sat on the floor, face contorted, knees drawn up, unable to speak. It was like a sitting version of the fetal position. I dropped to my knees. “Honey, are you all right?”
    She swiveled her head, panicky, not wanting to deal with someone she didn’t know. Julio scooped her up. She whispered, “Daddy, what did she mean?”
    “I don’t know.” He looked at me, seeking confirmation.
    I nodded. “Sadie Swedlow was killed last night.”
    Julio hugged Esperanza to him as if she were a large teddy bear. Bewilderment and trouble spread over his face, making him look about her age. I’m a sucker for vulnerable men and have more than once gotten in trouble trying to take care of them. I tried to disconnect emotionally. Esperanza sobbed softly into Julio’s chest.
    Julio said, “I saw a lot of hoopla in front of the aquarium.”
    “Yes. The police sealed it off. You knew Sadie?”
    “She was my boss.”
    “And Esperanza?”
    “They were close. Kids like Sadie. I mean, they liked her. I can’t believe she’s dead.”
    “She isn’t, Daddy! Sadie can’t be dead!” Esperanza wailed it out. She formed fists and started to beat on his chest.
    “We’d better go,” he said, but over Esperanza’s shoulder, he mouthed, “What happened?”
    Silently I formed the word, “Murdered.”
    He blinked, shocked, but nodded to show he understood. “Can I call you about this?”
    I nodded. That would be fine. I wasn’t interested in married men, and therefore, there wouldn’t be a problem.
    As he headed out the door, he said, “Are you a neighbor?”
    “I’m from San Francisco. I’m Marty’s lawyer.” At the mention of the word “lawyer,” he pursed his lips. He probably knew, along with most of Monterey, the details of Marty's busted