Daiquiri Dock Murder by Dorothy Francis Page A

choose my words carefully. “I believed Diego was alive when I first saw his head bobbing in the water at the marina late last night around midnight.”
    “What were your first thoughts on seeing him there?”
    “At first, it startled me to see anyone in the water. It took me a few moments to recognize Diego in the choppy waves, to be sure it was he. It astonished me to realize he chose to swim after dark. Few people swim at night.”
    “Did you think he might be in trouble?”
    “Not at first. Diego grew up around the sea. My first thought was that he might be trying to help another person who could be in trouble.”
    “So what did you do?”
    “I called to him, shouted to him. The roar of the water and the storm drowned out my words so I called several times.”
    “Did he respond to your call?”
    “No. He did not. By that time I knew something was wrong. He seemed to be floating and I thought perhaps he was saving his strength by doing the dead-man’s float instead of swimming or treading water. I knew he needed help.”
    “And you called 9-1-1, right?”
    “That’s correct. I’d left my cell phone in my car parked near the chandlery. It took me several minutes to reach the car and the phone as I fought my way slipping and sliding along the swaying catwalk.”
    “You never saw Diego anytime earlier in the day?”
    “No.”
    “I understand you’re living at The Blue Mermaid here in Key West and writing a weekly column for the newspaper.”
    “Yes, Sir.” Why he was dwelling on information we’d discussed at the hospital?
    “Good luck to you, Rafa Blue.”
    Good luck? What was that supposed to mean? Good luck? With my writing career? Or good luck in avoiding being considered a murder suspect? I leaned back in my chair, but I couldn’t relax.

Chapter 10
    (Still Sunday Afternoon)
    “Kane Riley?”
    “Yes, Sir.”
    “When did you last see the victim alive?”
    “I saw Diego Friday night at The Frangipani Room.”
    “What were you doing there?”
    “I work there sometimes when I’m not out on a shrimp run.”
    “What are your duties, Mr. Riley?”
    “I’m a plain clothes security guard—a bouncer—a peace keeper, if you will.”
    “The Frangipani Room’s in a rough-tough area of the hotel?”
    “No. Hardly ever, but after Mr. Blue died, leaving his wife and daughters in charge of the hotel, they felt it added protection, an air of safety to have a security person present in The Frangi.”
    “You were paid for this job?”
    “No. Rafa and I’ve been close friends for some time. It’s my pleasure to help out at The Frangi.”
    “And Diego was there, too, on Friday night?”
    “Yes. Diego Casterano sat at the refreshment bar eating a sandwich.”
    “Did you talk to him that night?”
    “No, Sir. He arrived shortly before Mama G—she’s the combo director and pianist—before she announced her special medley of golden oldie piano selections. That number usually lasts several minutes. It’s an ad-lib bit of entertainment she keeps going as long as the audience claps and whistles and demands more.”
    “Yes,” the chief said. “I’ve seen and heard Mama G perform her specialty on many occasions. Tell me about last Friday night.”
    “Nothing unusual about it. When Mama G ended her number, she announced a short intermission. I noticed then that Diego was no longer present.”
    “The two of you didn’t speak?”
    “No. I didn’t see Diego again until after your men removed his body from the water at the marina. Dead.”
    Chief Ramsey stopped the questioning and stood for a few moments as if deep in thought. Nobody spoke. We sat again listening to the thready breathing of the AC. Nobody actually relaxed, but when the chief spoke again, I sensed everyone pulling to a higher degree of alertness.
    “Does anyone know the whereabouts of Pablo Casterano this afternoon?”
    Nobody replied.
    “And Rafa, can you tell me if Pablo worked at The Frangipani Room last night?”
    “No, Sir.