Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 51, No. 1 & 2, January/February 2006

“You mean sonar,” said one of the men from Fire and Rescue. “I think we can manage without it. The river isn’t that deep here. Your favorite hoop star could walk across the bottom without getting his wig wet.”

Auburn waved to the men in the boat and watched while they staked out the area under investigation, laid down pattern lines of yellow polypropylene rope, and began methodically exploring the river bottom by touch and with magnetic grapnels. Since they weren’t under his orders and obviously knew exactly what they were doing, he soon went back to his table at The Green Fish.

He now had the dining room almost entirely to himself, but the bar trade was picking up as people got off work. In the business district north of the river, the posh bars would be having happy hour for people wearing silk shirts and handmade shoes. Here in The Green Fish, the men and women hunched over their drinks at the bar were palpably blue collar workers and practitioners of the manual trades. Pace Street was parked solid, mostly with panel trucks and pickups. A big Allied Bell truck with an overhead hydraulic platform stood near the corner.

Since there was nothing to see across the street, Auburn, with yet another cup of coffee before him, turned his attention to the people around him. The atmosphere seemed to have undergone a subtle change. A man who was a stranger to Auburn, a tall curly-haired blond, was tending bar. That would be Scotty Casteven’s brother-in-law Greg. He had a diamond in each earlobe, but he wore no rings.

Casteven was busy at the dishwasher and Darla was helping at the bar and the cash register. It was obvious that relations between the two men were strained. When they communicated at all, it was in monosyllables, and their tone was stuffy, if not positively hostile. On the other hand, the chemistry between Darla and the new bartender, Greg, evidently went far beyond that of mere co-workers.

Were there hidden alliances here, ancient enmities, smoldering resentments? Or did the electricity in the air stem from the murder of Ida Blanford? A fatal drama had been played out within a stone’s throw of the bar and grill. The impression was growing on Auburn that somebody here knew more than they were telling about the murder across the street — that the solution to the whole thing might lie right here if only he could penetrate beneath the surface.

He became so absorbed in that puzzle that, even when he saw Kestrel and the divers holding a lengthy conference on the levee, he didn’t go outside. But that was partly because the TV crew from Channel 4 had just arrived back on the scene.

Hours passed. The radio station started repeating R&B records that Auburn had sat through that morning. Evidently the dining room did little business in the evening hours. At five fifteen, the only patrons having dinner were two women with bulging shopping bags stowed under their table. In one of the two booths on the windowless side of the dining room, two college kids with his-and-hers spiked hair were lingering over soft drinks and wearing out their welcome. Auburn ordered Salisbury steak again.

He felt so isolated in his nook in the window that, when his cell phone rang, he answered right there instead of seeking more privacy.

“Where in the world are you, Cy?” asked Lieutenant Savage.

“Still at the scene of the Blanford homicide, tying up a few loose ends.”

“Well, you must be well camouflaged. Even Kestrel of the hundred eyes couldn’t find you. Have you talked to Dollinger and Krasnoy?”

“Not since this morning.”

“Then you’re about three days behind. Kestrel found fresh bloodstains on the basement floor in the victim’s house. And the divers from Fire and Rescue struck gold.”

Auburn lowered his voice slightly. “They found the weapon?”

“They found the weapon and more, nicely preserved in a waterproof plastic bag. Are you ready?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Okay, first we’ve got an old Colt .38. Recently fired, one chamber empty. No ballistics match yet, but that’s the caliber of the slug they took out of Blanford’s chest. Not registered with any local agency. Next we’ve got a pair of leather work gloves. The right one shows what looks like powder burns. Chemistry tests are in progress. Both gloves have bloodstains, the same type as the victim.”

“What about latent prints?”

“Kestrel’s still waving his magic wand over the stuff, but no fingerprints so far. But there’s something almost as good — a wadded-up strip of adhesive tape with the name Johnston printed on it in indelible marker. And on the sticky side there’s another name, also in black marker but in reverse, like it was picked up from whatever the tape was stuck on. That name is Rakovy.” He spelled it.

“Now here’s the kicker, Cy. Rakovy was the maiden name of Maria Casteven, the late wife of your witness at The Green Fish tavern across the street from Blanford’s house. The only Rakovy listed in the current city directory is a Gregory J., who works for Allied Bell as a lineman and troubleshooter.”