Free Daiquiri Dock Murder by Dorothy Francis

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