You a cop?
Nope, just looking for some information.
What kind of information?
You're Charley, aren't you?
Maybe.
I'm looking for a guy named Evan Keating.
Never heard of him.
Funny, you were arrested with him the other night in the municipal parking lot.
Was that his name? I didn't know the guy.
You sure about that?
You sure about not being a cop?
I'm sure.
I'm sure, too. Never set eyes on the guy before that night.
Okay, Charley, thanks,
Stone said. He started the engine,
turned and started out of Garrison Bight. That guy looks like the Unabomber, Ted Kaczynski.
Everybody in Key West looks like Ted Kaczynski,
Dino pointed out.
Where's the Key West Yacht Club?
Stone asked. Dino was looking at the chart, and he pointed to the east. It's way down there in the corner of the bight.
Nice to know that,
Stone said.
Yeah, but we don't know much else, do we?
Chapter 8
THE P R O P E R T Y O F the Key West Yacht Club was entered from busy Roosevelt Boulevard, and the clubhouse was an unassuming 1950s-era building, surrounded by a large parking lot and a good-sized marina. There was a party going aboard a traditional motor yacht moored near the entrance to the driveway. Stone found a parking place, and they walked into the club, taking a left into a roomy bar sheltering a crowd of happy-sounding people. Tommy Sculley waved them over to a corner of the bar, where he introduced them to a couple.
Stone Barrington, Dino Bacchetti, this is Jack Spottswood and his wife, Terry, local lawyer and real estate broker, respectively.
Hands were shaken.
Jack, I think we met in Atlanta a few years ago,
Stone said. A real estate closing, as I remember.
That's right, we did,
Spottswood said. Nice to see you again. I hear you and Dino used to practice the police arts in New York with Tommy.
That's a polite way of putting it,
Stone said. We were all street detectives, and only Dino prospered in the work. Tommy and I got out when we could.
Yeah, Stone, sure,
Tommy said. I retired in good order; you got your ass bounced by Captain Leary and the other brass.
True enough,
Stone said. There's enough in that story for a novel. I'll tell it to you when I'm drunker.
Speaking of drunk,
Spottswood said, we're all invited to a party on a yacht next to the club.
The traditional one?
Stone asked.
She's a 1937 Trumpy,
Spottswood said. A member here, the local tennis pro, Chuck Chandler, just fi nished restoring her.
There's that name again,
Stone said.
Yeah, the Chuck Choke. He hasn't lived it down yet.
Come on, let's go see Chuck's new boat,
Terry said. They walked out of the bar and around to the yacht; her name on the stern was Choke II. They stepped aboard into the large cockpit, which was filled with people drinking with both hands. A tall, deeply tanned man in his late thirties with sun-bleached hair made his way toward them, and Spottswood introduced them to Chuck Chandler. A pretty girl with a tray of champagne glasses came over and gave everybody one.
She's very beautiful,
Stone said to Chuck.
Yes, she is,
Chuck replied, watching the girl walk away.
I was referring to the yacht, but I can't argue the point. She's a Trumpy, I hear. The yacht, I mean.
Yep, 1937.
How'd you come by her?
I had a client at the Olde Island Tennis Club for some years, and he died last year. I had been helping him with the finish work on the restoration, and to my astonishment, he left her to me. She already had new engines and electronics, and her hull had been painted. All I really had to do to her was a hell of a lot of varnishing.
You did a very fine job,
Stone said, touching a bit of mahogany.
How many coats?
Ten, and I'll give her another coat every year. It'll give me something to do in the summers, when business is slow.
You know your varnishing, Chuck.
I had a lot of experience restoring her predecessor, a thirtytwo-foot one-off that I lived aboard. This one is forty-four feet, and, believe me, the extra room is going to come in handy.
May I see below?
Stone asked.
Chuck led him down the companionway and into the saloon. There was a built-in dining table and a galley tucked into a corner, a chart table and seating for eight or so.
Gorgeous,
Stone said.
There's just the one cabin, aft,
Chuck said, pointing the way. Stone found a handsome stateroom, white and mahogany, with a nice head and shower and a double berth. Perfect bachelor quarters, he said. How many of these were built?
She's a custom job,
Chuck said, the only one of her kind. She was in pretty bad shape when Jerry bought her. He replaced all the lower hull planking and then redid everything from the bottom up.
You're a lucky man,
Stone said.
That I am. If you'll excuse me, I'd better check that my guests are drinking enough.
Sure.
Stone didn't think they would need any encouragement. He walked back into the saloon and found a woman looking into the galley cabinets and fridge.
She glanced at him. Hello,
she said. She was tall and slender, with blond hair. Late thirties, maybe.
Good evening, doctor,
he replied.
She turned to face him and lifted an eyebrow. Ah,
she said, my former patient.
Stone offered his hand. My name is Stone Barrington. I'm afraid I wasn't very appreciative of your kind efforts last evening. In my defense, I plead semiconsciousness.
She shook his hand. Yes, you were. I'm Annika Swenson.
I know; your card is in my pocket,
Stone said. I had intended to call and thank you, but my day got busy.
One shouldn't be too busy in Key West,
she said.
You have a point.
Annika!
a woman's voice cried from the top of the companion-way ladder. We're leaving.
Annika turned. Coming!
she called back. You'll have to excuse me, Mr. Barrington,
she said. I'm with some people.
I'm here for a few days,
Stone said. May we have dinner?
Yes,
she replied without hesitation.
Tomorrow?
Yes.
I'll call you, and we'll arrange a time,
Stone said.
Good night, then.
He watched her climb the companionway ladder and enjoyed the view.
Dino was the next one down the ladder. Was that the lady from last night?
It was,
Stone replied.
You are the only guy I know who can meet a beautiful woman while lying on a sidewalk unconscious,
Dino replied. Let's go; dinnertime.
They made their goodbyes to Chuck Chandler.
You play tennis?
he asked Stone.
Yes.
Why don't you come over to the club, and we'll hit some balls.
He handed Stone a card.
If I get a moment free,
Stone said.
Tommy, Dino and Stone wandered back toward the yacht club, and as they reached the door, Stone saw Annika Swenson getting into a Mercedes convertible. She waved as she drove by.
Not bad,
Tommy said.
Yes,
Stone replied, and I like the way she waved.
Chapter 9
TH E T H R E E M E N ordered drinks and were given menus.
Everything's good,
Tommy said. I especially like the beef.
They ordered.
Do you have a boat here, Tommy?
Yeah, a thirty-foot fiberglass bathtub, just big enough for my wife and me.
How is Rosie?
Dino asked.
Unchanged,
Tommy replied. Ornery as ever.
Tommy,
Stone said, how are we going to find this Keating guy?
Well, I can't put an APB out on him,
Tommy said. It's not like he's committed a crime.
Did you print him while you had him?
We didn't get that far. I ran his name, though, and he has no record.
Keating has checked out of his hotel, and the desk clerk said he thought he was living on a boat.
Any description of the boat?
No.
Good luck on finding it, then.
Yeah, we spent most of the day looking in Key West Bight,
Dino said.
Well, that's the most likely place for a visiting boat to be, but not the only place. They could be anchored almost anywhere, and there's also Stock Island, of course.
Where's Stock Island?
Stone asked.
It's the next key up,
Tommy explained. Stock Island is sort of a suburb of Key West. It has all the stuff they can't shoehorn onto this island hospital, jail, trash dump, lower-cost housing and trailer parks, golf course and a couple of marinas. It's worth a shot; Peninsula is the big marina.
I think we're wasting our time without the name of the boat,
Dino said. It's like looking for a visitor to New York without an address.
You got a point,
Tommy agreed.
Also, Keating is shy,
Dino said. He doesn't want to be found.
Yeah,
Stone said, a skip tracer found him in Miami, and he left town. He's likelier to get shyer after his encounter with me.
Sounds like he's on the lam,
Tommy said.
From his father,
Stone replied. Bad blood there.
Well,
Tommy said, at least you know what he looks like. His girlfriend, too.
Not really,
Stone said. I didn't take a good look at her, and I'm not sure I'd recognize her on the street.
You can always sit down with the phone book and start calling hotels,
Tommy pointed out.
That won't help us if he's living on a boat,
Stone said. The desk clerk at his hotel said that a lot of boaters check in for a couple of nights to get a decent shower and have their laundry done.
We talked to Charley Boggs,
Dino said. He denied all knowledge of Keating, said he'd never seen him until they were all busted.
How bad an actor is Boggs?
Stone asked.
He's got a couple of drug busts, but nothing ever came of them.
And why would a clean-cut rich boy with a trust fund be hanging out with a drug dealer?
Thrills, maybe,
Tommy offered. Do you know how big a trust fund?
The old man described it as a nice little trust fund,' but who knows what that means.
Maybe our boy Evan has dreams of bigger, easier money,
Dino said. He wouldn't be the first rich kid to go down for dealing.
Trouble his,
Stone said, we don't know anything about this kid who his friends are, how he earned a living in the past.
His old man couldn't help with that?
Tommy asked. Stone shook his head. Apparently, they haven't spoken since the guy was in college, and that was some years ago.
Tommy sighed. Dealing with criminals is a lot easier,
he said.
They have accomplices and parole offi cers, people you can talk to when you're looking for them. Rich kids just have drug dealers and ma+ Tommy's face brightened. Wait a minute. Your boy had a table booked at Antonia's, an Italian restaurant on Duval, the night we arrested him.
So?
Dino asked.
Tommy was already pushing buttons on his cell phone. Hi, it's Lieutenant Tommy Sculley, Key West PD. The night before last you had a reservation for an Evan Keating; did you get a phone number for him?
Tommy scribbled something in his notebook. Thanks, he said, then he hung up. He ripped the sheet from his notebook and handed it to Stone. Your boy has a cell phone number, 917 area code.
Can your computers track cell phone numbers?
Stone asked.
They can.
Do me a favor, Tommy. Ask your office to wait until late tonight and see if you can locate the phone. That might tell us where Evan Keating is laying his curly head at night.
Tommy made the call.
Chapter 10