Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 135, No. 1. Whole No. 821, January 2010

A Fish Story by Ronald Levitsky

Ronald Levitsky recently retired from a long career teaching middle school social studies. He’s putting his extra time to use returning to his writing. In the 1990s, the Chicago-area author produced six mystery novels, all published to strong reviews. (See 1994’s The Innocence That Kills, a Nate Rosen legal mystery from Scribner.) His new story for us, his first since 1989, is set in the Dominican Republic, where he once taught school.

Far in the distance, it winked under the sinking sun like a rich man’s gold tooth. Shifting carefully so as not to capsize the rowboat, Javier shaded his eyes and watched it glint again, then hold. A boat maybe, or a trick of his tired eyes. The light vanished. He remembered what his grandmother had told him as a boy. A light in the water was a ghost. Flashing once, it was an omen from the dead. But to linger as it had; that was something different. Not an omen, but an invitation.

There had been a storm out at sea. The waves continued to grow, pushing and pulling the boat like a tug toy. Javier tried adjusting his heavy body as a counterweight. A sudden gust of wind, the salt spray slapping his face, made him put down his fishing rod, grab the oars, and row for shore.

The invitation did not take long to arrive. Knocking on Javier’s door early the next morning, Rivera reported what had happened, then waited as Javier fumbled into his uniform. They stopped for coffee and those soft rolls dripping with butter at the Pasteleria de Mertha. No need to rush for the dead. Pawing at yet another grease stain on his shirt, Javier struggled to his feet, sighing almost as loudly as the chair. Ten minutes later they arrived at the pier. Slender palms swayed in the wind, and a new collection of driftwood had piled onto shore from last night’s waves.

The yacht was long and sleek. It had run aground, the front end digging like a plow deep into the sand, while the rear waddled under the lapping water. It tilted on its port side as if to offer its name, Island Girl, painted on the starboard. The kind of craft that Javier, as a boy working at the pier, had cleaned and repaired. The yacht was forty feet long, with a cabin of deeply polished oak and brass railings. The main sail had been lowered and reefed around the long boom. The jib, a smaller sail in front, had also been secured.

Rivera said, “The old Haitian Petain found the boat around seven this morning. Tied it up tight, took care of the sails, then went on board. That’s when he saw her. He ran to the station and just stood there until I opened up at eight. I thought maybe he was drunk or a little crazy, but then he took me back here and... well, you’ll see.”

Rivera had left a rickety ladder jammed against the hull. After scampering up, he helped Javier climb on board. Because of the way the yacht listed, everything was on an angle, like an amusement park’s funhouse.

Javier eyed the two sets of deep-sea tackle laid carelessly below the tiller, their lines tangled. They would probably cost a police sergeant like him a year’s salary.

The two men walked carefully on the slippery deck into the navigation station, where a sleeping bag had been unrolled onto the floor. A few T-shirts and jeans were bundled in a corner. Javier went through the pile and found an American passport belonging to a Jeffrey Cassidy, age thirty-two, with a Miami address.

They returned to the deck. A long oak cutting board lay on the port side, where a fish had recently been gutted. Scales and bones framed the board, on which rested a two-pronged fork, its handle also of oak.

A series of black scuff marks trailed along the railing for about ten feet. They started, stopped, and meandered in a crazy fashion. Javier followed the trail, when suddenly the wind kicked up and the boom swung toward him.

“Watch it, Hugo!” Rivera shouted, grabbing the boom and tying it back in place. Then he said, “The body’s below deck.”

Rivera scampered down a narrow stairway.

The boat shifted under a wave, and Javier stumbled on the stairs, tearing one of the railings from the wall and almost stepping on the body. It lay facedown on the thick blue carpet of the main salon.

“A real beauty,” Rivera said.

She had long black curly hair and cocoa-colored skin. Probably a Dominican like them. Although she was small — maybe 120 pounds — the green pullover and gray sweat pants couldn’t hide her buxom figure. She wore sneakers — one shoe red and the other black.

Javier bent on one knee and gently brushed away the woman’s hair to see her face. Rivera was right. She was beautiful, probably in her early twenties. Her eyes, almond-shaped, gave her an Asian cast.

“What do you think killed her?” Rivera asked. “Can’t see any marks or blood.”

Javier studied the girl’s body, lifted then gently lowered her head and shoulders. No marks were visible. He considered undressing her, but it seemed indecent. The coroner could do that at the mortuary.

He felt the back of her skull, which was slightly damp. “There’s a bump here on the right side.”

“You think maybe she tripped and fell — that’s how she died?”

“The bruising would be on the other side, on her forehead where she hit the floor.”

Near the woman’s head was a bunched towel, still damp. A few feet away rested a broken Champagne bottle; some liquid had pooled inside its cracked base. Javier scanned the salon. Just past the woman’s body, two plush leather chairs stood on either side of a table and, past them, a bar ran the length of the room. Scattered about were several empty rum and beer bottles, a half-dozen glasses, trays filled with cigarette butts, plates caked with fish bones and greasy potatoes.

Rivera said, “You should see the rest of the boat. What rich people do to beautiful things.”

Along a narrow hallway lay an overturned ice tray, surrounded by a puddle of water. They entered the galley, filthy with dishes piled in the sink. A large plastic bag overflowed with garbage and smelled of fish. The silverware drawer had also fallen onto the floor. The cupboard contained tins of sardines, smoked oysters, soups, and a box of crackers.

The stateroom smelled like a whorehouse — all perfume and liquor and sweat. The king-size bed hadn’t been made. More half-empty glasses on the floor; some had spilled, leaving dark stains on the carpet.

Rivera examined the one long closet. “Two sets of clothing — his and hers. Wait a minute.” He rummaged around the men’s shoes. “Two different sizes.” He looked up. “Jackets, too. Looks like this group of men’s clothing” — he pointed to several sport shirts and slacks — “is maybe two or three sizes bigger than the ones beside it.”

Javier said, “The sleeping bag up in the navigation room. There were two men along with the dead woman — one above and one below deck with her. Go through the rest of the boat and see what you can find.”

The bed creaked as Javier leaned against the headboard. A hundred-dollar bill, U.S. currency, lay half off the pillow; a fifty balanced between headboard and pillow. He stared at the money, then slipped the fifty into his pocket. Brushing his right hand against the crumpled blanket, he felt a sting. His hand had been nicked by a thin shard of glass. He carefully placed the glass in a wastebasket.

Near the wastebasket were a large satchel and a plastic bag with the logo of a shoe store in the capital. He looked through the satchel, which was filled mostly with women’s clothing. A few men’s shirts and a pair of slacks, all of which belonged to the smaller man, had been randomly stuffed among the woman’s garments.

He shook the plastic bag’s contents onto the bed. American currency rained down amid bits of broken glass. Fifties and hundreds, totaling nearly three thousand dollars. There was a Dominican driver’s license, issued in Santo Domingo, to an Esmeralda Hernandez. The photo matched the dead woman.

There were also packets of photographs dated various times during the last month and taken in places that included Santo Domingo, as well as some of the northern beaches. Most of the photos featured variations of three people — Esmeralda and two men in their mid thirties, one bigger than the other. The taller man matched the passport photo of Jeff Cassidy, but it was the other man who looked familiar. A single framed photo, its glass completely broken, showed a close-up of the dead woman hugging him. Rivera returned. “Nothing else, Hugo. My God, look at all that money!”

Javier took two one-hundred-dollar bills. He gave one to his companion and put the second into his pocket.

“But Hugo — all that money.”

“What have I always told you?”

“But—”

“Tell me.”

Rivera slowly nodded. “It’s easy to miss a loaf of bread, but nobody misses a crumb.”

Javier began to put everything back into the satchel and plastic bag.

Rivera asked, “Did you find anything else?”

“Remember a few years back in the playoffs, when Sammy Sosa struck out in the ninth inning of the last game?”

“Yeah, that pitcher had a wicked curveball, like a gate swinging shut. What was his name?”

Javier handed him the framed photograph. “Benny Cassidy.”

He watched Rivera staring wide-eyed at the photo and knew what he was thinking. This was going to be bad.

As expected, after he notified the capital of what they’d found, Javier was ordered to do nothing until a Captain Murillo arrived to take charge of the investigation. That was fine with Javier, who leaned over his desk and greedily ate the locrio, sardines, and rice his wife had dropped off for lunch. Captain Murillo was flying in within the hour, which meant no nap this afternoon. Javier pushed away the empty plate and sighed heavily. Why did the yacht have to run aground in his town?

“Hugo!” Rivera shouted before running into the station. “We found him!”

“Who?”

Rivera gestured toward the door. Cucho walked in with a sandy-haired man, tall and big-boned, his freckled skin deeply tanned. His beer belly pushed against a pair of cutoff blue jeans, and his punch-colored shirt was stained with grease and something darker — something that made Javier narrow his eyes.

The man looked dazed and walked with a limp. He leaned against the doorframe, as if he couldn’t take another step.

Beside Javier now, Rivera bent down and whispered, “It’s Benny Cassidy’s brother. Oswaldo at the gas station saw him walk by about an hour ago. He looked drunk from the way he was staggering along. Fifteen minutes later, Cucho, on his regular patrol, stopped by for a Coke. Oswaldo tells him about the gringo, so Cucho checks it out. Picks him up about another kilometer or so down the road. Guy’s just standing there swaying back and forth like a giant scarecrow in the wind. Doesn’t say nothing. Cucho calls me. I recognize him right away from the passport we found on the boat.” Rivera reached into his pants pocket. “Here’s his wallet.”

Javier examined the contents. A Miami driver’s license in the name of Jeffrey Cassidy. The equivalent of two hundred American dollars in pesos, as well as a half-dozen credit cards, only one of which was in Jeff Cassidy’s name. The others belonged to his brother Benny.

As a boy, Javier had learned English while working on the boats and at the American hotel down the beach. Knowing the language helped him a great deal in his work, especially with tourists or suspects like the man before him.

“Mr. Cassidy,” he said, “please sit down.”

Rivera crossed to where Cassidy stood and motioned him to a chair. The gringo stared vacantly for a long time, then slowly sank into it.

Rivera brought him a glass of water, which he swallowed in three gulps. He stared at Javier, then asked, “Where’s my brother?”

“Don’t you know?”

He shook his head.

“The woman, Esmeralda Hernandez — do you know how she died?”

As if slapped, Cassidy sat up straight. “My brother... where’s my brother?”

“We have not seen him. What happened?”

“I don’t know. I was sleeping... I had too much to drink and was sleeping it off.”

“When was this?”

“Yesterday afternoon. About two, I guess. Benny had caught a fish.”

Javier couldn’t help but ask, “What kind of fish?”

“I don’t know much about fishing — that’s Benny’s thing. Its head was kind of olive green with yellow sides. Had to be this big.”

He raised his hand parallel to his knee.

Javier sighed. A dorado. How he wished that just once he could fish in a boat like Cassidy’s and catch a dorado.

Jeff Cassidy continued, “Benny cleaned and cooked it. Took it into the salon. We ate a lot.”

“‘We’?”

“Me and Benny.”

“What about the woman?”

“Esme... she wasn’t hungry. Said she had a headache. She’d been up on deck sunning herself, and it got windy. Boat was really rocking, so she went into the stateroom to lie down. Like I said, I drank too much. I stretched out on the sofa in the salon and fell asleep. Slept a long time. When I woke up, it was dark. A light was on above the bar. Clock said around five a.m. I could feel we were drifting. I started to get up then... then I tripped over Esme. She was just lying there. At first I thought she was sleeping. I touched her. She was cold. I knew she was dead.”

He shook his head hard.

Javier asked, “What did you do next?”

“I just sat there for a while. I was kind of numb. Even though I knew Esme was dead, I kept waiting for her to get up. All of a sudden, there was this big jolt; I almost fell out of my seat. The boat had run aground. I started calling for Benny. Then I looked all over the boat for him, but he was gone. I got scared and jumped overboard.”

“Did you take anything with you?”

“No. Only my wallet. It was in my back pocket.”

“Why didn’t you take your passport?”

“I didn’t think of it.”

“How much cash in dollars did your brother keep on board?”

Cassidy scratched his head. “I’m not sure — a few thousand, I guess. Look, do you know where Benny is?”

“No. Do you have any idea where he could have gone?”

“Why would I be asking you if I knew? A guy just doesn’t suddenly disappear.”

“Your wallet had several credit cards belonging to your brother.”

“Benny never liked dealing with waitresses and hotel clerks. I handled that. He was used to other people doing things for him.”

“Such as?”

“You know — like if he got into a fight and messed up the place, I took care of the damages.”

“How fortunate he had you to help him.”

The gringo started to say something, then stopped.

“Mr. Cassidy, that stain on your shirt. What is it?”

“I don’t know. Probably just grease from something I ate.”

“I think it’s blood. We’ll have to examine it.”

“Okay, so maybe it’s Benny’s. Yesterday morning we threw a few punches at each other. So he bled a little on me. No big deal.”

“Is that how you scraped your knuckles?”

Cassidy rubbed his right hand over his left. “Yeah, guess so.”

“What was the fight about?”

“Nothing — I don’t remember.”

“The woman — she was very beautiful. Was she a whore you two picked up?”

“Don’t talk that way about her! Esme was something special.”

“How would you know? She was your brother’s.”

His face reddened. “I met her first. It was in a clothing store where she worked. That’s where I bought this shirt. We went out a couple times and hit it off good. But, of course, Esme wanted to meet my brother. All the girls wanted to meet Benny, the All Star.”

“She slept with him, while you slept alone in the navigation room. I understand why you felt like hitting him. He had the woman and you—”

“No, you got it all wrong. The fight wasn’t about anything. Look, we were stuck on this boat for four days out fishing. It got on both our nerves. We got into some argument — I don’t even remember what it was about. He called me an idiot, and I said something back, and he hit me, so I slugged him. That’s just the way we always play.”

“You call it playing?”

For a moment, Cassidy smiled. Then his face turned gray, and he began to sweat. “You see the way I walk, with a limp? You know how good a pitcher my brother is. Well, I was better. I was a lefty like Koufax, and they said my fastball rose just like his.” He made a sweeping motion with his left arm. “Of course, that was in college. That was before my brother and I were in a pickup game of basketball, when we both went for a rebound and Benny came down full on my knee. Doesn’t matter how fast you throw, if you got no pivot foot. You understand?”

“All these years, he is an All-Star pitcher, and you — you are his brother. You are taller, but his shadow is much bigger. Yes?”

“Like I said, that’s the way we play.”

Looking at Cassidy’s sneakers, Javier asked, “The last time you saw your brother, what was he wearing on his feet?”

“Benny always wore sandals on board. Why?”

“In the stateroom, it looked like the woman was packing.”

“We were planning to tie in at Santo Domingo the next day. Maybe Esme was getting ready.”

“Getting ready to do what? To simply go ashore with you both, or to leave your brother?”

The two men stared at each other for a long time. Finally, Javier motioned for Rivera to follow him outside.

Blinking back the sunlight, he said, “Get Cassidy something to eat. Then go over to Rosi’s store and buy him a shirt. Don’t spend too much. Take his — they’ll want to analyze the stain. And call the capital — let them know we’ve located Benny Cassidy’s brother. I’ll see you later.”

“Where are you going, Hugo?”

“Home to shave and put on a new uniform.”

Two hours later, a small parade exited the puddle jumper that landed from the capital. First two Dominicans, followed by three gringos — all in suits — and finally a police captain. Although Javier was the only one there to greet them, the officer looked past him, as if seeking someone of greater importance. Short and thin, he tapped his right hand against his thigh as if it held a riding crop. His black hair, shiny from gel, was combed straight back, which intensified the arch of his eyebrows. He had a thin moustache, like the vaqueros in the Mexican cowboy movies Javier had loved as a boy.

“I’m Captain Murillo. Are you in charge?”

“Yes, sir. Sergeant Hugo Javier.”

Nodding at the tallest gringo, Murillo added, “This is Agent Wellman of the United States FBI The other two men, his colleagues, are forensic experts who will be assisting my two technicians. They will examine the body and identify any evidence. Afterwards, the body will be sent to Santo Domingo for further examination.”

The tall American stepped forward and gave Javier a firm handshake. “Hello. I’m Tom Wellman.”

He was in his mid thirties — much younger than the other two agents. Blond, broad-shouldered, and tan, he looked more like a soap opera star than a policeman. The only thing that marred his image was a slight tic in his left cheek. It disappeared when he smiled.

“Thank you for your assistance,” Wellman said, his Spanish surprisingly good. “I’m based in Miami. When we learned about the death of Miss Hernandez, and that two Americans might be involved, especially a high-profile sports figure like Benny Cassidy, we wanted to conduct an investigation as quickly as possible. Once the press gets hold of this, things can start getting out of hand.”

“No need to involve Javier in the details,” Murillo said, walking past them. “We need to go to the boat immediately.”

Javier chauffeured Murillo and Wellman, while Rivera drove the others. The captain wanted a full report. Javier described where the woman had been discovered and the subsequent search of the yacht.

“You didn’t touch anything,” Murillo said. “You know we have experts. We don’t want anything to happen like in that O. J. Simpson case. Right, Señor Wellman?”

“I’m sure Sergeant Javier is a professional.”

“And this brother of Benny Cassidy?”

Javier explained how his men had taken Jeff Cassidy into custody, then summarized the interrogation.

Murillo said, “You were told on the phone to do nothing until I arrived. I hope you haven’t put this Cassidy on his guard.” To Wellman, “You see what we’re up against with these locals.”

When they arrived at the pier, Murillo spoke to the men in Rivera’s squad car. “Wait here until Señor Wellman and I examine the crime scene. Javier, lead the way.”

Cucho, who was guarding the yacht, saluted as they approached.

Embarrassed, Javier struggled up the small ladder. He braced himself against the railing as the two men quickly followed.

“Be careful,” he warned, “the tilt — easy to slide.”

Murillo walked up and down the deck, stopping occasionally to stare at the scuff marks. As the wind kicked up, the boom rattled, straining against its ropes. Thank God Rivera had secured it earlier.

Murillo led them to the navigation room and stared at the bed roll where Jeff Cassidy had slept. Then they went downstairs.

“Was the handrail broken like this?” Murillo asked.

Javier’s face grew warm. “No, sir, I broke it when I went down to look at the body.”

“Idiot.”

Once in the salon, Javier hung back while the other two men examined Esme Hernandez’s body.

As Murillo turned the woman’s head, Javier said, “Her hair was wet when we found her. So was the towel.”

Murillo said to Wellman, “Feel the lump on the back of her head. The broken Champagne bottle over there. A wet towel by the body. Someone must have been chilling the bottle in ice, then used it as a weapon to kill the woman.”

“Certainly possible,” the American agreed.

After surveying the rest of the salon, they walked to the stateroom, Javier trailing behind.

Looking at the one-hundred-dollar bill on the pillow, Murillo asked, “That was there when you entered the stateroom?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“How much ended up in your pocket?”

“Nothing, sir. I swear.”

“Of course you do.”

Murillo checked the satchel of clothing, then reached into the plastic bag.

Javier said, “Careful, sir. There’s a broken frame inside. I put a piece of glass in the wastebasket. You might wish to examine—”

“Did you break this too, like the railing?”

“No, sir, I found it that way. The photograph—”

“Idiot,” Murillo muttered again.

All the while, Agent Wellman remained silent, jotting his observations into a notebook. He glanced at Javier, and his face broke into a tic.

They went through the rest of the yacht quickly.

After disembarking, Murillo instructed his two technicians to cooperate with the pair Wellman had brought. The woman’s body would be autopsied in Santo Domingo, where all evidence would also be analyzed.

“Now,” Murillo said, his right hand striking his thigh, “let us go see Mr. Cassidy.”

They arrived at the police station to find Cassidy sitting at Javier’s desk and drinking an El Presidente, one of the local beers. An empty beer bottle stood on the desk beside him. The gringo was wearing a cheap shirt with hula dancers, tight at the shoulders, that Rivera had bought for him.

Murillo and Wellman sat across from him, while again Javier stood behind the two men. Murillo conducted the interview, his English nearly as good as Javier’s. Cassidy concentrated on his beer, answering in grunts or a few words. He revealed nothing new.

As the interview was ending, there was a scuffling, then banging, against the door and someone cursing. The door burst open, and Rivera was pushed inside by a large woman in a heavy black dress. She stared down at them defiantly, her large breasts heaving from struggling with the policemen. The thick black curls, the almond-shaped eyes — Javier knew at once that she was the dead woman’s mother.

“What’s the meaning of this!” Murillo demanded. Yet, even he withered under the woman’s stare.

“Who did this to my daughter?!” she demanded.

“If you are the victim’s mother, my office in Santo Domingo notified you as quickly as possible as a courtesy. You have my condolences, but you have no right to interfere—”

“What happened to my daughter?”

Javier helped Rivera restrain her and, when Murillo ordered her removal, pulled the woman from the room. Once outside, Javier stroked her shoulders. Her anger avalanched into tears of grief, and soon he was rocking her in his arms.

They walked to the hearse that was preparing to go to the capital. The body was in a special bag used for victims of crime. Javier unzipped the bag to reveal Esme’s face. She seemed asleep. Her mother fell to her knees, sobbing, as Javier closed the bag.

“Would you like to ride back with your daughter?”

Muffling her sobs, the woman shook her head. “I... I couldn’t bear it.”

Javier took her to the café across the street. He made her sip an espresso and waited until she had stopped crying.

“You are very kind,” she said. “Not like most policemen.”

“I’m sorry about your daughter. Do you feel like answering a few questions?”

“Questions to help punish the bastard who murdered my child? Yes, anything to help. The gringo in the police station. Is he the one?”

“We don’t know.”

“But he is the baseball player — Benny Cassidy, the one who promised to marry my daughter.”

“We don’t know where Benny Cassidy is. That’s his brother.”

She clicked her tongue in contempt. “His brother — ‘Slave’ is what Esme called him.”

“She talked of both men?”

“No, mostly just about this man Benny. She met him about a month ago in a bar in Santo Domingo. You must understand. Esme was a good girl. A little wild sometimes, but good at heart. She took up with this baseball player. Well, what do you expect? Here’s a girl who works in a clothing store, and this big-shot gringo comes along. I tried to warn her, but she said he was different. She went with him on his yacht and called me whenever they reached a town. She kept on saying how good they got along. Then, about a week ago, she said they talked about getting married. She was so excited.”

The mother couldn’t help but smile.

“You believed her?”

The smile faded, and the woman shrugged. “Men promise women anything to get what they want. Maybe it was true. Maybe Esme just wanted to believe it was true.”

“And if it wasn’t true? If this Cassidy was only toying with her? What would your daughter have done?”

“She was my daughter. What do you think she would have done?”

Javier watched the woman’s dark eyes smolder. He had no doubt what Esme’s reaction would have been.

He said, “Jeff Cassidy says that he went out with your daughter first. That his brother took Esme away from him.”

“I don’t know about that. Like I said before, Esme called him the Slave. Said he did everything for his brother. She and Benny would make fun of him even to his face. A big man like that — she said he just took it. You think he killed my daughter?”

“We don’t know yet.”

“You find out who did it.” She took a knife from the table. “Then leave him to me. I’ll cut his heart out. Just like he did to me.”

The three men had dinner at the American resort, located a few miles outside of town, where Murillo and Wellman were staying. Murillo had only brought Javier along at the FBI agent’s request. They sat at a table under a canopy that overlooked a series of pools, water glimmering like the stones of a turquoise necklace. But Javier was concentrating on his plate. He had never been permitted to eat here as a guest and didn’t know what to choose first. The buffet had so much of everything. His left hand kept drifting to his right wrist, to stop the fork from moving so quickly. He didn’t want to embarrass himself in front of Murillo, but the roast turkey was so good and the candied yams so sweet.

Murillo lit a small cigar, leaned back, and puffed contentedly while explaining his theory to the American.

“An old story, really. Benny Cassidy gets tired of the woman, tells her they’re through. He’ll drop her off at the next port. She goes crying downstairs to pack — you see the mess she made. Cassidy’s brother Jeff takes on the role of protector. The two brothers become angry, and things get out of hand. They fight over how Benny treated the woman. Jeff kills his brother — he admits to a fight — then throws the body overboard.”

“And the woman?” Wellman asked.

“What did Javier tell us about his interview with the dead woman’s mother? How Esmeralda had nothing but contempt for Jeff. What a surprise it must have been for him — after he had killed his brother for her. Maybe she cursed him, or threatened to tell the police, or maybe she tried to blackmail him. You saw the broken Champagne bottle near her body. He must have hit her with it, killing her too. Then he panicked, went over the side, and tried to run away.”

“It’s possible,” Wellman said, “but Cassidy hasn’t confessed yet, and it may be difficult to convict him just on the evidence we have.”

“Too bad it’s not the old days. When my father was an officer for Trujillo, there were ways to make a man confess quickly.” He grinned. “Of course, that was before our glorious democracy. Still, his brother’s blood is on his shirt. I’m sure we’ll find his fingerprints on the Champagne bottle as well. That will be enough. You agree?”

The FBI agent’s face betrayed a tic. “What you say is certainly possible, but I’m not convinced.”

Taking a long drag on his cigar, Murillo released the smoke slowly. He wasn’t used to being contradicted. “You have another theory?”

“A few things bother me. For example, where’s Benny’s passport? And why would Jeff leave his own passport and all that cash we found in the stateroom? He’d need the money, especially since he’d know any credit card he used would be traced.”

“As I said, he panicked after killing the woman. His only thought was to run away as quickly as possible.”

Wellman shook his head.

Murillo’s growing flush betrayed his anger. “What, then, is your theory?”

“I think Jeff Cassidy is telling the truth, that he slept through what happened. I think you’re right about Benny giving the woman her walking papers. But after packing, she decided to give him a piece of her mind. They got into a fight, and Benny killed her. The reason his passport is missing is that he took it and a pile of cash, then slipped over the side for shore. He left his brother to be caught, to clean up his mess, just like he always had. I think deep inside Jeff knows that’s what happened.”

Murillo shrugged. “Well, Señor Wellman, we shall see.”

“What do you think, Sergeant Javier?”

The spoon, balancing a dollop of chocolate pudding, was halfway to his mouth. Javier froze, feeling the way he had, years before, when his teacher asked him for the homework he hadn’t done.

“Javier’s not paid to think,” Murillo said, stubbing out his cigar. “The preliminary report from the forensic team in Santo Domingo should arrive sometime tomorrow. If it says what I think it will, we’ll take Jeff Cassidy with us to the capital. He may be more willing to tell the truth when sitting in a real jail. Javier, you can go. Inform me immediately when the report arrives. Señor Wellman, let us sit by the pool. The women’s swimwear is very becoming this season. Don’t you agree?”

The following afternoon Javier received the forensic report via fax. Skimming the pages, he couldn’t help but smile.

“What’s so funny?” Rivera asked.

“Take this right over to Captain Murillo. It will put him in a good mood, and we’ll be rid of him soon.”

“Thanks for meeting me, Sergeant.”

Javier shifted from one foot to the other while squinting through a slanting sun into the shadows under the building’s thatched roof. Wellman sat on a rickety chair at a small wooden table where Javier had often played dominos. He was drinking an El Presidente.

“Great beer you people have. Can I get you one?”

Javier sat opposite him. A folder lay open on the table. It was the forensic report.

“I didn’t call you away from your dinner, did I?”

“No, señor. I was just getting off work.”

“Then perhaps you’ll join me. I had lunch here today. The food’s not as fancy as what’s at the resort, but I like it much better. What do you call that chicken stew?”

“Sancocho.”

“Is that all right? Waiter!”

They were halfway through the meal, and their second beer, when Wellman said, “Captain Murillo wanted us to leave with the prisoner this evening, but I persuaded him to wait until tomorrow morning.”

“Why?

“Yesterday I asked you a question at dinner. Our good captain wouldn’t let you answer. I’d still like to hear that answer.”

“I had nothing to say.”

The tic moved in Wellman’s cheek. “I think you have a lot to say. You must’ve read this report before sending it over to me. What do you think?”

“No disrespect, señor, but I think I should follow orders.”

Wellman tapped the folder. “Murillo was right about the blood on Jeff Cassidy’s shirt. It matched his brother’s blood type. In a week or two, DNA testing will make it a definite match.”

“Jeff Cassidy has admitted getting into a fight with his brother.”

“The preliminary autopsy showed that the woman was hit hard in the head. She hemorrhaged badly. Fingerprints on the broken Champagne bottle matched Jeff’s. It could’ve been the murder weapon.”

Javier said, “Or just a bottle of Champagne he’d carried from the bar. I think maybe you left out the most important evidence.”

“What’s that?”

“What the woman had for dinner.”

Wellman thumbed through the file. “It was... sardines.” He stared at Javier, who returned to his plate.

They finished their meal in silence. Javier had a third beer, then a fourth. The alcohol put him into a good mood. He was happy to be soon rid of Murillo, and he liked the American.

After paying the check, Wellman said, “How about we walk this off?”

Tucking the folder under his arm, he led Javier onto a strip of road that was nothing more than beaten-down sand. They headed toward the resort, Javier a little tipsy, but after a quarter-mile the American turned toward the beach. The waning sun flared over the horizon, making the pinks and greens of the shacks even more vibrant.

Wellman narrowed his eyes against the glare. “I saw colors like this at a Gauguin exhibit once in D.C., but never in real life. I bet Gauguin would’ve liked it here. Don’t you think?”

“If he was a fisherman. Do you fish, señor?”

“No, but I’ve been thinking about learning.”

“You should. There’s nothing like it.”

“I understand it’s pretty relaxing. You need that in a job like ours. So, you don’t think Murillo’s right about the murder?”

“Captain Murillo didn’t come all the way from the capital not to arrest an American. That’s a big fish for someone like him.”

“And me?”

“Americans are always after the bigger fish — the one that got away.”

“You mean Jeff Cassidy’s brother, Benny. The All Star.”

Javier paused in front of one of the shacks. A chicken pecked at some feed near his feet. An old black woman smoking a pipe sat rocking on the porch.

“This house used to belong to Pablo Orestes. On Friday nights, after getting paid, he’d come home drunk from some bar and beat his wife Rosa. She’d run screaming down the street until one of my men would arrest Pablo. Most of Saturday he would sleep it off in jail, then we’d let him go. Next Friday night the same thing would happen. Then one Friday night nothing happened. No screaming. I remember Rivera saying that Pablo had finally found God.”

“Is that what happened?”

“In a way. After Pablo started on her as usual, Rosa grabbed a frying pan and beat him to death.”

They continued walking along the beach and down to the yacht. Wellman went first, then helped pull Javier aboard. Shadows from the mast lay across the deck like another dead body.

Javier pointed to the scuff marks on the deck. “Someone was dragging a body.”

“So you think Murillo was right about Jeff killing his brother, throwing the body overboard, then murdering Esme as well?”

“The body was Benny’s — his sandals with rubber soles would make marks like those, but look how crazy they go. This way and that. Jeff is a strong man. He would have dragged his brother in a straight line and dumped the body overboard. Besides, Esme was struck on the back side of her skull, on the right. From that angle, a right-handed man must have hit her from behind. Jeff is left-handed. He didn’t kill either one of them. I believe, like you, that he was asleep.”

Wellman shook his head. “Then who?”

“Jeff said Esme went to her room when the two brothers ate the dorado, then he went to sleep. The sardines in her stomach prove that she woke up and ate later, taking a tin from the galley. I think that she and Benny got into a fight when he told her she was crazy to think he was going to marry her. You see over there?” He nodded at the cutting board and fork. “You see what’s missing?”

Wellman stared for a few seconds, then said, “The knife.”

“A gutting knife would be long and sharp and easy for a woman to use. I think she stuck it in him, as fast as Rosa Orestes hit her husband with a frying pan. Then she struggled with his body, dragging it this way and that, until she was able to dump it overboard along with the knife.”

“Then who killed her?”

Javier rested a hand on the long boom of the mast. “It was windy that night. I was out in a boat myself and felt those waves. As she dumped the body, the boom must’ve swung over and hit her on the head. It didn’t kill her then, but it started the hemorrhage. That explains what we found downstairs. She broke the framed photograph of her with Benny — that made sense, given the way he’d treated her. So did throwing his passport overboard, to make it seem like he had run out on her.”

“Benny running out on her — that would have been too unbelievable.”

“To somebody clear-headed, but to someone in Esme’s state... Look at everything else she did.”

“You mean the way she packed.”

“Yes. Leaving money behind, and Benny’s clothes mixed in with hers. The blow to the head was making her confused. She put on one red sneaker and one black. She went to the refrigerator to get ice for her head, wrapping the ice in a towel. That’s the wet towel we found beside her head — it wasn’t from the Champagne bottle. Confused, she dropped the ice tray, still half full, in the hallway. Maybe she went into the salon to wake Jeff to get her to a doctor. Maybe she didn’t even know where she was and just stumbled downstairs and died. The hemorrhaging in her brain finally killed her.”

Wellman said, “So when Jeff woke up, he probably didn’t know what to think. He saw the dead woman and figured his brother had left him holding the bag. So he panicked and ran, just like he said he did.” Wellman shook his head. “I’ve got to hand it to you, Sergeant... Sergeant?”

Walking aft, Javier sat beside the tiller, eyed the deep-sea tackle at his feet, and sighed. He felt the weight of an imaginary rod hooking a giant dorado, fighting it alone surrounded by the ocean. He closed his eyes; the motion of the evening tide almost made him believe he was there.

Wellman’s hand was on his shoulder, and the American said, “We need to tell Captain Murillo about your theory.”

So far out into the ocean. Just him and the dorado and the sun glinting hard off the waves. He didn’t want to come back, but policemen always had to do their duty.

His eyes blinked open. “Murillo won’t believe that a local woman was the murderer. Where’s the big fish? No, señor. Besides, he’ll never admit that he was wrong and a simple sergeant was right.”

“Not such a simple sergeant.”

Javier stood and stared out at the sea. “Tell him the idea was yours. Then at least he’ll have to take it seriously.”

“I couldn’t. That’s not right.”

Perhaps it was the alcohol, but Javier finally felt free to speak his mind. “You Americans always say how much you care about what’s right. Yet you helped that bastard Trujillo rule our country for thirty years.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“Not so long for someone like Murillo. You saw how he smiled while he talked about the old days when his father, working for Trujillo, used to torture innocent people. Not so long for some of us. Not so long for Esmeralda Hernandez. If your Benny Cassidy had cared so much about what was right, he wouldn’t have treated her like a whore. And she wouldn’t have killed him.”

Javier massaged his eyes. “I’m sorry, señor, I think maybe I’m a little drunk.”

“You’ve got a right to speak your mind. I still don’t feel right about taking credit for solving the case.”

“What choice do you have, if you want to see justice done? Besides, the medical examiner’s final report should confirm that Esme died from a slow hemorrhage.”

And so it did. Captain Murillo was not convinced that Esmeralda Hernandez was a murderess, but there was not enough evidence to hold Jeff Cassidy. On the day of his release, the American took the next flight to Miami. For nearly a month, the Dominican government, with technical assistance from the United States, searched the coastline for Benny Cassidy’s remains. Although the body was not recovered, the FBI closed its file on the case, giving a commendation to the agent in charge.

Six months later, Wellman took his vacation in the Dominican Republic. He invited a friend to go deep-sea fishing. And on a day when the sun glinted like flint off the ocean, he watched as Javier showed him how to reel in a dorado.

Copyright © 2010 Ronald Levitsky