Dead in the Water

Palmas.”
    “Tell me about the fight,” Stone said, lowering his voice and looking around to be sure no one overheard.
    “A real knockdown, drag-out domestic dispute. Crockery was thrown, names were called, tears were shed, and the whole thing happened at top volume.”
    “Did you get any direct quotes?”
    “No, but it had something to do with sailing—with their route, or something.”
    Odd, Stone thought, that Allison would argue with Paul about something to do with sailing the boat. “That’s all you could find out?”
    “That’s it. Apparently the couple did all the usual things that the yachties do when they sail in and out of Las Palmas—repairs, food, and like that.”
    “Funny, a guy showed up here, a journalist, who says he had dinner with them their last night in Las Palmas. Any mention of a third party there during the fight?”
    “Nope, no mention. I’m afraid that’s all there is here.”
    “About the dinghy, what was so special about the one he had flown in from Barcelona?”
    “I don’t know; apparently the guy was real picky about his stuff. There were other dinghies available here—Avons and Zodiacs, mostly, both good brands, one English and one French. He wanted something called a Parker Sportster, an American model, very expensive. It arrived on their last morning. Can you think of anything else I should be doing here?”
    “No, I guess not; go on home.”
    “Soon as I’m back I’ll finish up my research into Manning; there wasn’t time to do much before I left.”
    “Do that, and get back to me soonest. It’s Thursday, and the trial is on Monday; I’ll need the info fast.”
    “Right; I’ll be in touch.”
    Stone hung up the phone just as Jim Forrester ordered a drink at the bar. “Just the man I wanted to see,” he said.
    “What’s up?”
    “You said you had dinner with the Mannings their last night in Las Palmas, right?”
    “Right.”
    “How late were you with them?”
    “I don’t know, maybe eleven o’clock.”
    “Did the Mannings have a fight when you were there?”
    “No, not exactly; they did disagree about something, though.”
    “What was that?”
    “It was kind of crazy, when you consider that Allison apparently didn’t usually take much interest in the sailing of the boat. We were looking at their route on the chart, and she wanted to sail a direct course from Puerto Rico to Antigua. Paul pointed out to her that the trade winds blow some distance south of the Canaries, and if they wanted to take advantage of the trades, which everybody does who’s crossing in those latitudes, they’d be better off sailing south or southeast from Puerto Rico until they picked up the trades, then turning west with a good breeze at their backs. She couldn’t seem to grasp that, for some reason. We’d all had a good deal to drink, of course; maybe she was just spoiling for a fight. You know how married couples can be. Anyway, I was a little uncomfortable, so I said my good-byes and left. They were still arguing about it when I stepped ashore.”
    “Do you recall anything about Paul having a rubber dinghy flown in from Barcelona?”
    “Yeah, I do; somebody had stolen his dinghy, and he wanted a new one, something special. It wasn’t available in Las Palmas, so he called somebody in Barcelona and had one sent.”
    “A Parker Sportster?”
    “Beats me.”
    “Did he give any reason for wanting that particular dinghy?”
    “Not that I can recall. He seemed obsessive about having just the right gear on his boat, I remember that well enough; every item on it seemed to have been chosen with great care.”
    “Was the one that was stolen a Parker Sportster?”
    “I don’t know, I guess so.”
    “Thanks, Jim. Thomas, put Jim’s drink on my tab.”
    Forrester grinned. “You think a New Yorker reporter would accept favors from a lawyer in a case he was writing about?”
    “You bet I do.”
    “You’re right,” Forrester said, raising his glass to Stone, then taking a big swig. He wandered off to find a lunch table.
    Stone dialed his office number in New York, and his secretary answered. “Hi, it’s Stone,” he said. “What’s happening?”
    “Not a hell of a lot,” she replied. “Arrington went to L.A., but she said she faxed you about that.”
    “Yeah, she did.”
    “There’s a lot of mail, mostly junk and bills; nothing that can’t wait until you’re back.”
    “Listen, I want you to do something for me.”
    “Shoot.”
    “I want you to