Allyn Allyn - Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine. Vol. 135, No. 1. Whole No. 821, January 2010

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.