Daiquiri Dock Murder (8 page)

“What do you suppose he wants?” I asked.

Kane had no time to reply. Lyon reached the bow of
The Buccaneer
and stopped.

“Anyone aboard?” he called out.

“Yo!” Kane stepped onto the deck. “How can I help you, detective?”

“Rafa Blue with you?”

Now it was my turn to step forward. “Yes, Sir.” I waited, determined to make Lyon do the talking. Another thing Gram taught me. Few people can stand a silence. They feel an atavistic need to fill it—usually with their own voice. Lyon was no exception this morning.

“Chief Ramsey wants to see you both at the police station.”

“Why?” Kane asked.

“Why both of us?” I asked. “He already talked to me this morning at the hospital.”

“The Chief wants to ask a few more questions. He’s inviting several of Diego Casterano’s friends and acquaintances to attend an informal meeting at his second floor office. He says it won’t last long.”

“Has anyone been arrested?” Kane asked.

Detective Lyon met Kane’s direct gaze. “No arrests have been made at this time. If you’d like, I’ll be glad to drive you to the station. Or if you’d prefer to provide your own transportation, that would be fine, too. Sometime in the near future the chief would like to have access to Ms. Blue’s car. Again, it will only be a routine check because the 9-1-1 call came from her car last night.”

Kane continued to meet Detective Lyon’s gaze, but his words were for me. “What do you want to do, Rafa? Shall we ride with him or shall we provide our own transportation?”

“Let’s go in my car. I have nothing to hide. If the chief wants to inspect the Prius it will be at hand.”

“Fine.” Detective Lyon glanced at his wristwatch. “I’ll see you in Chief Ramsey’s office in about ten minutes.”

“Agreed,” Kane said. “Depending on traffic, of course.”

“Of course.” Lyon turned, leaving us.

Chapter 8

I asked Kane to drive my car because he knows how to make quick work of reaching the police station. It wasn’t that he knew a shortcut or that he goes there often, but he does know how to maneuver the Prius through traffic without hitting mopeds whose drivers have never driven a moped before or RV’s almost wider than our streets. I allow few people to drive my car, never Mother or Cherie, but I don’t worry when Kane’s at the wheel.

Horns blared. Brakes screeched. I braced against the dashboard, feeling myself thrown toward the windshield in spite of my seatbelt. We both choked on diesel fumes when the Bone Island Shuttle cut ahead of us and came within inches of ramming the rear end of a slow-moving Conch Train.

I still sat gritting my teeth when Kane sliced a sharp turn into the driveway of the police station. We narrowly missed hitting a fire truck exiting on a nearby strip of concrete with horns blaring and lights flashing. I gasped, not realizing I’d been holding my breath.

“I hate having to answer questions again. Ramsey and Lyon already questioned me this morning.”

Kane grinned. “Maybe the chief has a crush on you, Rafa. Not every day a tall redhead drops into his lap—figuratively speaking, of course.”

“Be real, Kane.”

Kane arrowed my car into a narrow visitor’s slot. I sighed, admitting to myself that this questioning might be one in a long string of question/answer sessions Ramsey and Lyon pre-planned for suspects. I remembered Lyon saying others would be with us answering questions this morning. I wondered who.

Leaving the car, we approached the buff-colored building on foot, skirted around the coral rock fountain in front of the doorway and stepped inside a small entryway. The police stations I see on TV with their green walls and their tobacco-spit brown floors always give me a stay-out-of-here feeling. Key West’s station offered a more benign look. White tile floor. White walls. White plastic chairs alongside one wall near the elevator. Everything gleamed in a whiteness that contrasted with the dark smell that descended on us like an evil miasma.

After we entered the building, I stepped outside again long enough to grab a deep breath of fresh air. I held it, refusing to fill my lungs with second-hand cigarette and cigar smoke for as long as I could. Kane strode to the elevator and punched a button and in moments we entered a compartment small enough to cause claustrophobia. After listening to the elevator hum until we reached the second floor, we stepped into the hallway. Detective Lyon emerged from a doorway where he’d been waiting and motioned us to join him. With great reluctance, I let myself exhale and breathe again.

Although we had driven here quickly and circumvented several situations that might have delayed us, we were the last to arrive. Everyone stared at us when we entered the room. I hated the ‘bug under a microscope’ feeling. I’m not afraid of snakes, but I always like to see one before it sees me. But why was I comparing these people to bugs and snakes! I knew everyone in the room and none of them had frightened me before. But today Ramsey and Lyon thought one of these people might have murdered Diego. Which one? I hated the idea of being in the same room with a killer.

The group waited, sitting in a semi-circle of straight backed folding chairs arranged in front of a battered oak desk. The fragrance of gardenias permeated the room—a pleasant scent that frequently traveled with Threnody. Did she use eau de cologne to help her pretend the air in Ramsey’s office was smoke free? A good idea. At least nobody in the room was smoking.

Brick and Threnody sat side by side. Brick wore one of his many specially tailored silk shirts, khaki Dockers, and beach Crocs. His bald head and his carefully trimmed beard pulled my gaze away from his weathered face and steely blue eyes. I feel sure he prides himself on his penetrating gaze that tends to make the other person look away first. This morning I looked away first.

I returned Threnody’s weak smile. Kane’s ‘high-maintenance’ description popped into my mind. Her dark hair, styled in a casual do, touched the shoulder of the hand-print caftan that matched her sling-back sandals. Today she projected a Sunday-morning look suitable for a trophy wife a decade or so younger than her husband.

Their son Jessie had practiced his casually elegant look to perfection. I wondered if he’d planned for his black silk shirt and white slacks to contrast with Kane’s faded jeans, tank top, and flip-flops. Don’t know why Jessie always reminded me of a one-eyed Jack—maybe because his eyes weren’t a matched set—one blue, the other brown. Nobody knew why. Sometimes Jessie seemed secretive about it. I thought he used his eyes like magnets—attracting women to him.

To my surprise Dolly Jass sat near the door in her trademark poet’s outfit. How did she fit into this scene? But much more important than these people’s costumes were their closed-book expressions.

So far nobody had said a word, and we listened to the breathing of the air conditioner until Chief Ramsey entered the room and stood behind his desk. I’d been so busy noticing the people present that only now did I study the mix of items on the desktop. For a few moments, he looked down at the clutter. Then he lifted his chin and peered at us, his gaze traveling around the room and stopping briefly on each of us as if in silent greeting.

“Ladies, gentlemen.” He paused to clear his throat. “I’ve brought you here this afternoon to show you items pertinent to Diego Casterano’s murder, to show you some photos of the death scene, and to ask each of you a few questions. The police found Diego’s body, his personal effects, and these other items shortly after midnight last night in the sea beneath a catwalk at Daiquiri Dock Marina.”

Opening a manila envelope he’d been holding in his right hand, he withdrew several glossy photos which he began passing out, three to each of us. The photos carried a chemical scent, perhaps of developing fluid, and they felt slick to the touch. I could hardly bare to look at them. One showed Diego’s partially submerged body in the water. Another, Diego’s body lying prone on the rain-slick catwalk. A distance shot that must have been taken from the end of the catwalk showed sailboats, cruisers, runabouts—all moored in their slips. It also showed a sign with the words DAIQUIRI DOCK MARINA in black print against a white background. I shuffled through the pictures quickly then turned them upside down in my lap.

Without speaking, Ramsey waited until everyone finished studying, or at least looking briefly at the photos.

“Does anyone care to comment on these pictures?” he asked.

Nobody spoke. What did he expect—perhaps a denial that the person was Diego? A denial that the photos had been taken at the Vexton Marina?

Ramsey collected the photos, slowly, deliberately, and returned them to the manila envelope that he then laid on his desk. Next, he began touching each of the other desk items and naming them. I cringed inwardly, imagining the sensations his fingertips must be conveying to his brain.

“A diver found this concrete block roped to the victim’s ankles which had been bound together with black duct tape.” He ran his fingers over the concrete and twined the blue rope around his fingers. I folded my hands in my lap, avoiding the thought of feeling the roughness of the concrete under my own fingers.

Then leaning a bit forward, Ramsey picked up the tangled clump of duct tape. He said nothing as he dangled it before us. After a few moments he dropped it and we heard a dull thud as it hit a bare spot on his desk. He made no comment, nor did anyone else.

“Have any of you seen these any of these items before this morning?”

Nobody spoke. All eyes met the chief’s. Brick cleared his throat as if he might say something, but he remained silent. The blue rope caught my attention because it seemed similar to the rope I’d just seen in the bunkhouse on
The Buccaneer.
But so what? Rope is rope, right? I tried to remember that seamen called rope ‘line.’ Chief Ramsey hadn’t called it anything. He gave the impression that he hadn’t noticed it. I knew his seeming lack of notice must be a ruse of some sort. A trap. Did he expect one of us to incriminate himself/herself by accidentally mentioning it? If so, nobody obliged him.

Next, Ramsey picked up a dock master’s jumpsuit, gathered at the back with a wide elastic band. He held it in a way that made it impossible to ignore the words DAIQUIRI DOCK MARINA embroidered in dark brown against the melon-colored fabric. Melon as in cantaloupe, not honeydew. Why were such crazy thoughts racing through my mind? When Ramsey turned the front of the uniform toward us, we saw that all its buttons were missing and that someone had ripped the fabric from neckline to crotch. I tried to squelch my mental picture of Diego in a death struggle with his killer—with someone sitting near me in this room right at this moment. Or maybe not. Again I wondered who would replace Diego on the board of commissioners. Maybe a stranger appeared in the dark of night, killed Diego, hoping to be appointed to replace him as a commissioner. Maybe nobody in this room was guilty of this horrible crime.

“Have any of you seen this uniform before?” Ramsey asked.

We all nodded as Brick spoke up. “Of course I’ve seen it—or one like it—many times. It was the chief dock master’s work uniform at my marina. Diego owned several of them and I kept a couple of extras in an employee’s closet at the chandlery in case I needed to call in a sub.”

Ramsey nodded. “I feel sure you’ve all seen such a similar uniform before. But did anyone see it last night?”

Nobody answered and Ramsey picked up a closed plastic bag, the kind with a bright-colored zipper across the opening. A bit of coarse dark hair almost filled the small container. A strand of it hung outside the bag, caught in the zipper. I could hardly bear to look. I focused my gaze on the bag, but I let my eyes glaze, forcing myself to avoid looking at Diego’s hair by concentrating on other things. My car. My computer. The Blue Mermaid. For a few moments I could avoid facing the hair, but I couldn’t avoid Chief Ramsay’s intrusive voice.

“This hair came from the victim’s head.” Ramsay’s voice forced me to look at the bag and think about the hair. “It had been tangled in the anchor line of
The Bail Bond.
Perhaps the murderer intended to make the death scene look as if the victim died accidentally. Perhaps. But no. The perpetrator knew someone would find the concrete block soon. He had tangled Diego’s hair in the anchor line for shock value.

Next, Ramsey displayed a leather thong holding a medallion that advertised the Vexton marina. Again nobody spoke. Ramsey laid it on top of the concrete block and picked up a bit of hand-tooled leather. “Anyone seen this before?”

I spoke. “I’ve seen it many times. I know it belonged to Diego because my father made it for him many years ago as a gift. As a craftsman, Dad enjoyed tooling objects from leather.”

Ramsey laid the thong aside. “And this?” Now he stepped in front of his desk and held a diamond stud earring in the palm of his outstretched hand as he passed in front of each of us, offering the stud for our inspection. His pudgy hand matched the rest of his body. At times, the gem shifted its position and almost disappeared in a fleshy crease below Ramsey’s index finger. Everyone except Brick examined the diamond from a distance. Brick reached to touch it.

“I can’t be sure that earring belonged to Diego,” Brick said. “But I know he owned and usually wore a stud similar to this one.”

While the chief displayed his exhibits, Lyon scribbled in a small notebook. Now he jammed the notebook into the pocket of his suit coat. Suit coats. I guessed that’s the way the chief and his detectives set themselves apart from ordinary citizens. They wore suit coats even on days like today when the temperature threatened to hit the high eighties. I wondered if Lyon had been jotting down our reactions to the desk-top exhibits. I’d been making mental notes, but I’d noticed little reaction from anyone.