Stuart Woods - Swimming To Catalina

“To buy things,” Stone ventured.

“Well, of course, but what could they do with raw, unlaundered cash?”

“Launder it.”

“Obviously, but we’re talking about major quantities, is my guess.”

“So they’re buying big things, like businesses; big businesses.”

“You don’t understand, Stone; you can’t go buy a business with, say, a hundred million dollars and bring cash to the closing. The money has to be laundered, to appear legitimate, to appear to be after-taxes. It has to be in a bank and then wire transferred to another bank, or be put into a negotiable instrument, like a cashier’s check.”

“Ippolito has a bank at his disposal, doesn’t he?”

“He does, but I’ve checked with Treasury and the state examiners, and Safe Harbor has always been squeaky clean.”

“Then he must be using it in some way we don’t know about. I think people like Ippolito are too greedy to be happy with the income from a legitimate business; they want more. They want it all, too; they don’t want to share it with stockholders or the IRS.”

“Well, it’s early days; I expect we’ll come up with more as time passes.”

“I don’t have a lot of time,” Stone said.

“Are we talking about the kidnapping again? I can have fifty agents on that in an hour.”

“Not yet.”

“Not until what? Until the abductee is dead? It gets a lot harder after that.”

“Hank, if I knew where she was I’d welcome fifty agents on it, but I don’t know.”

“So it’s a she.”

“Yes, and that’s all I’m going to tell you.”

“Suit yourself, buddy; I just hope it doesn’t blow up in your face. We take a dim view of people trying to deal with kidnappers. It’s like this with ransom: you can pay the ransom and get the abductee back, or you can not pay the ransom and get the abductee back. Or-and this is the tough part-you can pay the ransom and lose the abductee, or you can not pay the ransom and lose the abductee. It’s a crapshoot.”

“You really think that? You really think that even if these people get what they want, they could still kill her?”

“Stone, it’s likely that the decision, one way or another, was made before they grabbed her. She could already be dead.”

“I don’t think so; a family member talks to her every day.”

“That’s good news, but it doesn’t mean it will last.”

“You’re depressing to talk to, you know that?”

“It’s part of my job to bring a ray of darkness into other people’s lives.”

Stone laughed ruefully. “Well, you’re good at your work.”

“I’ll call you if anything worth reporting comes up, and I’ll tell my people to listen for any talk on Barone’s lines about your abductee.”

“Thanks, Hank.” Stone said goodbye and hung up.

Stone found a little printing shop with a sign in the window: 100BUSINESS CARDS PRINTED WHILE YOU WAIT -$19.95. He drew a little sketch for the printer, and, while he waited, bought a cheap plastic briefcase, some file folders, and paper. When the cards were finished, he left the shop and dumped all but a dozen into the nearest trash bin, then drove to Marina Del Rey and found the marina office.

He asked for the dockmaster and handed him a card that readREED HAWTHORNE, ADJUSTOR, CHUBB MARINE INSURANCE. He didn’t know if Chubb even wrote marine insurance, but at least it was a recognizable name. “I’m here about the sinking of a sports fisherman calledMaria, ” he said.

“Yeah, I know about that,” the dockmaster replied.

“We raised her a couple of days ago. She was a mess.”

“Can you show me where she’s berthed?”

“Sure, come with me.”

Stone followed the man down toMaria’s berth, unconcerned that he might be recognized, since both the people associated with the boat who knew him were dead.

“You want to go aboard?” the dockmaster asked. “I’ve got a key.”

“No, I’m primarily concerned with security for the future, since she was obviously maliciously sunk. What kind of security do you provide here?”

“We’ve got a night watchman who has a walkie-talkie for contacting the night man at the office. We don’t have a lot of trouble here.”

Stone nodded sagely, opened his briefcase, and consulted several blank sheets of paper in a file.

“We’re insuring two other vessels here as well-one calledPaloma and one calledContessa. Can you show me those two?”

“Sure.Paloma is this way.”

Stone followed him to the deserted motor yacht. “How many passes a night does the watchman make past this berth?”

“He’s by here about once an hour.”

“Okay, where’sContessa berthed?”

“Down near the breakwater, with the other big yachts,” the dockmaster said. “This way.”

Stone followed the man down a series of pontoons until larger boats began to appear.

“You’re lucky she’s in here today,” he said. “She spends a lot of time over at Catalina.”

“At a marina there?”

“No, on a mooring. They put down a special heavy one for her.”

They approached the big yacht from the rear; she was lying alongside, rather than being moored stem to. The dockmaster waved at a man on deck. “Hey, Reno! How you doing?” He turned to Stone. “I’ll introduce you to the skipper.”

“Thanks,” Stone replied.

Reno came down the gangplank, smartly dressed in whites with shoulder boards and a peaked cap.

“Reno,” the dockmaster said, “this is Reed Hawthorne, from your insurance company.”

“Hello,” the skipper said, looking at the card Stone handed him. “You’re with Chubb? Marine Associates are our insurers, and we’ve only got liability, not hull insurance.”

“I know,” Stone lied, “but after the sinking of Maria they’re apparently getting nervous. I was asked to take a look at your yacht to assess her general condition.”

“Okay,” the skipper said, “come aboard.”

Stone smiled inside. Now he had a free pass to check out from stem to stern.

Stone followed the captain up to the yacht’s bridge, where a technician had pulled out some of the electronic gear to work on it.

“We’ve got everything,” Reno said, waving a hand. “The latest color, chart-display GPS, satphone, the works. That’s why we’re at Marina Del Rey now instead of Catalina, where the owner likes to keep the boat. We came over here for some adjustments.”

“Do you have a lot of electronic problems?”

“Not really; this is new gear, and we’re still getting the bugs out.”

Stone took a file folder and some blank paper and started scribbling fake notes. A cell phone mounted on the instrument panel rang, and the captain picked it up.

“Hey,” he purred into the phone.

A woman, Stone thought. He waved at the skipper, who covered the phone with his hand. “Look, I don’t really need a guided tour; I’ll look around on my own, if that’s all right.”

“Sure, help yourself,” the skipper said.

Stone thanked the dockmaster for his help and went below. Might as well make it stem to stem, he thought. He quickly toured the large saloon, the dining room, and the galley, then headed below to where he figured the crew’s quarters must be, up forward. He saw half a dozen small cabins and a larger one for the skipper, then he moved aft.

The size and quality of the cabins increased as he walked toward the yacht’s stem. Each was individually decorated, with expensive hardwoods and fabrics, and the owner’s cabin was huge, rivaling Stone’s hotel suite in style and comfort.

He went down another deck and looked into the cabins on either side of the hallway. These were smaller than the ones on the deck above, but still beautifully furnished. Something caught his eye in the aftermost of the small cabins. A U-bolt mounted in a plate had been welded to a bulkhead under a porthole. It seemed odd, out of place, but he had more yacht to cover, so he moved on. He checked every door and hatch on the yacht, no matter how small.