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

security.” I spoke brusquely. I was through being soothing; it wasn’t working anyway. She rallied enough to give me the number.
    When I got back from the information desk, Marty had finally sat down, but she was still shivering. I took off my linen blazer and tried to tuck it around her. “My jacket,” she said.
    “Yes. You can have it for now.”
    She raised her hands, maybe meaning to point, but not succeeding. Her hands fluttered and circled helplessly. And then she pulled herself up from the bottom of her spine, took a deep breath, and spoke coherently. “That’s my jacket in there.”
    “The gray one? Floating?”
    Two guards came. One helped me to get Marty to lie down with her feet elevated, and the other called the police. The young officer who arrived first looked twenty-five and reacted about like Marty. But a few minutes later, the place was crowded—and not only with Monterey’s finest. The night staff crawled out of the woodwork—cleaning workers, late-working aquarists, another guard, and some people in business clothes, maybe from accounting or education. Firemen and paramedics arrived.
    “Rebecca …” She was whispering again.
    “Yes?”
    '“Did you see that thing in her eye?”
    I nodded, wondering what else I could do to calm her—so far as I could see, no one had a pocket flask.
    “I mean, did you get a really good look at it?”
    “No. I looked away. I guess you did, too.”
    “I think it’s my letter opener.”
    My mind went into gear, finally. Her jacket. And now her letter opener. And Sadie had just made off with her husband. I talked fast.
    “Marty, I’m your lawyer. For right now, anyway. You can call someone else when they give you a chance, but—”
    “No. I want you.”
    “Okay. Now, listen. Don’t say a word to the police. Nothing. Except that I’m your lawyer and I’ve advised you not to talk. Not a word. Understand?”
    She nodded, looking dazed, and I went to make a phone call I wished I’d already made.
    I returned to Marty and knelt, about to reiterate the importance of clamming up. “Excuse me,” said someone behind us. “I’m Paula Jacobson from the police department. This is Lloyd Tillman, Detective Lloyd Tillman, I should say. We understand you’re the two who called security.”
    I stood up. “Rebecca Schwartz.”
    Slowly, Marty got up as well. “Marty Whitehead. Is she dead, Officer?”
    Jacobson smiled. “It’s ‘Sergeant,’ technically. But why don’t you call me Paula? Maybe we could talk a few minutes while Detective Tillman and Ms. Schwartz—”
    I broke the news. “I’m Ms. Whitehead’s attorney and I’ve advised her not to talk to you. Could we have a few minutes alone, please?”
    Jacobson raised an inquisitive eyebrow. She was tall and striking, someone who wanted to be noticed. But right now she was dressed carelessly in jeans, T-shirt, and white cotton blazer, as if she’d been home doing dishes when she got the call and had rushed out, grabbing the jacket on the fly.
    “All right.” But there was an angry edge to her voice. She was probably in her early thirties. She had longish white-blond hair, split on the ends, black roots showing, olive skin, a long face, and eyebrows plucked to a thin line. A sad look in her dark eyes went with the longish face. Her thighs were mighty; I hadn’t seen it yet, but I was willing to bet her backside matched. A strapping female, and I didn’t trust that sad look she had. Depressed people can turn aggressive.
    Tillman didn’t look much like Mr. Nice Guy himself. He was beefy, even a little porky, a few years older than Jacobson, and he had one of those short, neat beards with no mustache. He hadn’t said a word yet, but his scowl said not to mess with him. I wished we had a choice.
    “Is she dead?” Marty asked again.
    “Who, Marty?” asked Tillman.
    “The woman in the tank.”
    He shrugged. “Who is she?”
    “We were wondering that, too,” I said quickly, hearing an “S” hiss out of Marty.
    “You have no idea?”
    Marty held her tongue. Good.
    Jacobson smiled. “We don’t know if she’s dead. They haven’t got her out of the tank yet.”
    Marty said, “I see.” She was making a nice recovery.
    I led Marty away and sat her on one of the benches. We had to whisper, but too bad—there were some things I had to cover. Fast. “Marty, what’s going on here?”
    “I didn’t kill her.”
    “What else do I need to know?”
    She shrugged. “I don’t know what