The rain lashed against the tiled roofs of Mangalore, a relentless monsoon deluge that turned the city’s narrow lanes into rivers of mud. Detective Vikram Shenoy sat in his cramped office above a spice shop in Hampankatta, the air thick with the scent of cardamom and damp paper. His desk was cluttered with case files, a flickering lamp, and a half-empty cup of filter coffee gone cold. The phone rang, shattering the rhythm of the rain.

“Shenoy, it’s Inspector Rao,” came the gruff voice. “We’ve got a body at the old Netravati Bridge. Looks like foul play. Get here fast.”

Vikram grabbed his khaki raincoat and stepped into the downpour. The Netravati Bridge, a rusted relic from the colonial era, loomed over the swollen river. By the time he arrived, the police had cordoned off the area, their flashlights cutting through the mist. Inspector Rao, a heavyset man with a perpetual scowl, stood under a tarp, staring at a tarp-covered lump.

“Male, mid-30s, no ID,” Rao said, lifting the tarp. The man’s face was pale, his throat marked with a clean, precise slash. “Found by a fisherman an hour ago. No wallet, no phone. Just this.” Rao held up a plastic evidence bag containing a single silver cufflink, engraved with a stylized fish.

Vikram crouched, studying the body. The cut was surgical, not the work of a panicked amateur. The cufflink gleamed under the flashlight, its fish design oddly familiar. “This isn’t random,” Vikram muttered. “Someone wanted him dead, and they wanted it clean.”

Back at his office, Vikram sipped fresh coffee and pored over the cufflink. Mangalore wasn’t a big city, but it had its secrets—smuggling rings, land disputes, and old family grudges that simmered like the summer heat. The fish symbol nagged at him. He’d seen it before, maybe on a signboard or a family crest. He pulled out his notebook, jotting down possibilities: local businesses, fishing communities, even the city’s temples.

The next morning, he visited the Gokarnanatheshwara Temple, where the fish symbol was said to appear in some carvings. The priest, an elderly man with a white beard, shook his head. “That’s no temple mark. Try the old merchant families. The Pai or Shetty clans, maybe. They’ve got fish in their crests, from the fishing trade days.”

Vikram’s next stop was the port, where the Shetty family ran a fleet of trawlers. The office was a sleek contrast to the gritty docks, all glass and air-conditioning. Anil Shetty, the heir, was a wiry man in his 40s, with sharp eyes and a tighter smile. “A cufflink, you say?” he said, glancing at the photo Vikram showed him. “Could be anyone’s. Fish designs are common here.”

“You’ve had no trouble recently? No enemies?” Vikram pressed.

Anil shrugged. “Business is business. Some people lose, some win. No one’s slashing throats over it.”

Vikram wasn’t convinced. Anil’s nonchalance felt rehearsed, and his cufflinks—gold, not silver—didn’t match. Still, Vikram noticed a photo on the wall: Anil shaking hands with a man who looked eerily like the victim, both wearing fish-emblazoned blazers. “Who’s this?” Vikram asked.

Anil’s smile faltered. “Old partner. Left town years ago.”

“Name?”

“Ravi Kamath. Haven’t seen him in a decade.”

Vikram left, his gut telling him Anil was lying. He checked with the police for records on Ravi Kamath. Sure enough, Kamath had a history—petty theft, smuggling, and a sudden disappearance five years ago. The photo from Anil’s office was recent, though. Kamath was back, and now he was dead.

The rain hadn’t let up, and neither had Vikram. He tracked down Kamath’s last known address, a rundown tenement in Bunder. The landlord, a chain-smoking woman with a hacking cough, remembered Kamath. “Moved in two weeks ago. Kept to himself, paid in cash. Left this behind.” She handed Vikram a crumpled receipt from a local bar, the Blue Wave.

At the Blue Wave, a dimly lit haunt near the docks, the bartender recognized Kamath’s photo. “Yeah, he was here last week. Met some guy—fancy suit, fish cufflinks. They argued, something about a deal gone bad. Kamath stormed out.”

Vikram’s mind raced. Anil Shetty was hiding something, and the cufflink tied him to the murder. But why kill Kamath now? He dug deeper, pulling records on the Shetty family’s business. A recent land deal caught his eye—a prime plot near the port, sold to a Mumbai developer for crores. Rumors swirled that the deal was shady, with forged documents and a missing co-owner: Ravi Kamath.

Vikram returned to the Shetty office, this time with Rao and a warrant. Anil was less smug now, his hands fidgeting as Vikram laid out the evidence: the cufflink, the photo, the land deal. “Kamath came back to claim his share, didn’t he?” Vikram said. “You couldn’t let him ruin the deal, so you had him silenced.”

Anil’s face crumpled. “It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. He threatened to expose everything. I hired someone… I didn’t know they’d kill him!”

“Who?” Rao barked.

Anil gave a name—a local thug known for clean hits. The police picked him up within hours, the murder weapon still in his possession. Anil was arrested, the land deal unraveled, and the city buzzed with the scandal.

Back in his office, Vikram watched the rain slow to a drizzle. The cufflink sat on his desk, a small victory in a city full of secrets. Mangalore’s monsoon had washed away one mystery, but he knew more were brewing, waiting for the next storm to break.