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

tampering with evidence in a murder case?”
    “Oh, Warren, pipe down.” It was Julio Soto’s voice, emanating from the enclosed office. With the place empty as it was, sounds carried beautifully.
    I heard the noise of someone opening drawers and rummaging in them. Remembering my own mission, I looked at the calendar on Marty’s desk. It was still turned to Friday, the night before. Damn her, she’d lied to me—she had had a date the night before. Still keeping both ears open, I started flipping through her calendar, to see if there was a pattern of rendezvous, and if so, how far back it went.
    I heard Warren say, “Sorry. I’m not mad at you. I’m just—a lot’s happened this morning, that’s all. I’m sorry I snapped. But I will have to ask you to stop rifling Sadie’s desk.”
    The rummaging noise stopped. I tried opening Marty’s top drawer, to look for the note, but it stuck. Thinking it might make an awful noise if I forced it, I put it off for a minute. Frankly, I didn’t want to interrupt the conversation a few feet away.
    Julio said, rather nastily, I thought, “What gives you that authority?”
    “I’m acting director.”
    “I beg your pardon? How could that be? The board can’t have had time to meet.”
    “Well, then, make it acting acting director. The president phoned this morning and asked if I’d take care of things until they can meet—which they’re doing this afternoon—to make it official.”
    “You sound very sure of yourself.”
    “He sounded pretty definite. Do you mind if I ask you what you’re looking for?”
    “Oh—uh—something I lent Sadie. Mmm—well, none of your business, Warren. No hard feelings, I hope? And congratulations.”
    “Thanks.”
    There was a pause while I imagined them shaking hands, and then I heard them starting to leave, walking toward me. If I started searching then, they’d almost certainly hear me, and I didn’t think Warren, despite what he’d rashly said over the phone, was going to give me a free hand.
    My purse wasn’t large enough to fit the calendar in. I’d brought a plastic bag for it, but I’d have to get it out and unfold it—there wasn’t time. I tore off the “Friday” leaf of the calendar—there had been other dates, so it wasn’t the ultimate solution, but it was all I could do for now.
    Before I had time to duck out of sight, they were parallel with the cubicle. They stopped—staring straight at me. Julio said, “Rebecca Schwartz, how on earth did you get in?”
    “Charmed a policeman,” I said.
    His companion was around five ten and overweight. He had thin curly hair and wore glasses. For some unfathomable reason, he held up his jeans with a belt sporting a giant buckle that looked like a rodeo prize. Fat under his T-shirt rippled like Jell-O around the edges of the buckle. There was something a little vague about him.
    He said, “You must be a very resourceful person.”
    “And you must be Warren Nowell. I recognize your voice.”
    “What did you need to pick up for Marty?”
    “Just some papers she wanted.”
    “I think I have to reconsider what I told you on the phone.”
    “I was afraid of that.” I shrugged and stepped out.
    The three of us walked as far as the door, but Warren came no farther, making it clear he was escorting us out where we belonged. When Julio and I were alone, I asked how Esperanza was.
    He looked miserable. “Awful. Near-catatonic, to tell you the truth. I don’t know what to do.”
    I must have looked baffled.
    He said, “I’m sort of new at single parenthood.”
    An odd ringing sounded in my ear as I caught his implication. My heart pounded. But these were not the beginnings of tender feelings. Oh, no. Not when I hadn’t even had a chance to mourn Rob yet. Not with Marty cooling her heels in the hoosegow. And certainly not, knowing what I knew. Marty’s calendar for Friday night had said “6:30—J.”
    The pounding was fear. The ringing was a built-in alarm bell.
    “You wouldn’t have time for coffee, would you?”
    “Sure,” I said. Alarm bell be damned.
    I called Chris from the restaurant.
    “Got a name and number for you. Judge Serita Reyes—new on the bench, said to be eminently reasonable. And female. Maybe she has kids and she’ll be sympathetic.”
    “Who knows her?”
    “Bruce—uh—Pigball.”
    “Parton.” Chris had a repertoire of made-up words she used when she couldn’t think of real ones—and she could almost never remember names. But