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

“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.”