Stuart Woods - Swimming To Catalina

Finally, he came to the engine room, three decks below the bridge, and it was very impressive. Two huge diesel engines occupied half the space, and a large generator was bolted to the deck on either side of the engines. Stone began looking for seacocks.

“How you doing?” a voice said.

Stone jumped, then turned to find the captain standing in the doorway. “Sorry, you startled me,” Stone said. “I’m doing fine; just about finished. Tell me, how are the engines cooled?”

“There’s a heat exchanger mounted to each engine,” the skipper replied, pointing to the equipment, “with a mixture of fresh water and coolant; that cools the top end. Then there’s a raw-water flow to the bottom end of each engine.”

“Where does the raw water come from?” Stone asked. It was what he most wanted to know.

“A seacock on each side of the engine room,” the skipper replied, indicating a large valve operated by a wheel.

Stone had been looking for the sort of lever found on smaller boats; he was glad to have the big valve pointed out to him. This time there was no rubber hose, but a steel pipe running to the engine. “Got it,” Stone said. Then he saw something he didn’t recognize. “What’s that?” he asked, pointing at a six-inch pipe that rose from the bilges to about two feet above the deck plating. Attached to it were half a dozen smaller pipes, each with its own seacock. There were two of them, a few feet apart, and he had never seen anything like them.

“Those are called seaboxes,” the skipper said. “They bring in raw water for all sorts of uses-air conditioning, toilets, everything.”

Stone nodded. “Well, I guess that just about does it for me.”

“I’ll show you the way up,” Reno said.

Stone continued to pump the man as they climbed toward the upper decks. “How often does the owner use the yacht?”

“Practically every weekend, and sometimes he’ll spend a night aboard during the week.”

Stone continued making notes. “How many guests at a time?”

“We’ve got a dozen guest staterooms, sleeping twenty-four, plus the owner’s cabin.”

“How many crew?”

“We go light on crew; there’s a cook, a steward, two maids, a mate, and me. When there are dinner parties, the caterers furnish the help.”

“So that’s six living aboard?”

“At the weekends, yes, and whenever the owner is aboard. During the week we usually manage a lot of time off. I can run the boat with the help of one crew between here and Catalina, and when we’re on our mooring out there, there will often be just one man aboard.”

“Any worries about security problems?”

“Nah. Some big boats have armed guards, but our owner doesn’t believe in intrusive security-makes the guests wonder what they’re being protected from. Anonymity is the best security, we reckon.”

“Makes sense,” Stone said. They had reached the main deck now. “Well, thanks for the tour; I’ve got all I need to make my report.”

“We’re changing insurance companies, then?”

“It’s by no means certain; we’ll make our proposal and see what happens.”

“Who are you dealing with at our end?”

“Not your owner; one of his people, I think. I don’t have any direct contact with clients; I’m just the technical guy.” Stone shook the man’s hand, then went ashore. One thing he was sure of: He had checked every part of the yacht, and Arrington was not aboardContessa.

He gave some thought to going back toMaria and sinking the sports fisherman again. It was a quiet day at the marina, and he could probably get away with it. Maybe he could sinkPaloma as well. It would be fun to drive Ippolito even crazier.

Finally he decided against it. The police investigation would turn up the fact that somebody from an insurance company had visited the boats, and the simplest sort of check would reveal that he was bogus. The police would have a description of him, and he didn’t want that.

Eventually, the skipper ofContessa would mention to somebody that an insurance man had been aboard, and give a description of Stone. That didn’t trouble him greatly, since Ippolito himself would be unlikely to be involved, and he was the only man in his organization who could recognize Stone by sight.

He made his way back to his car and telephoned Betty Southard at her office. “Hi, it’s Stone; can you talk?”

“Sure, go ahead.”

“I want to take a closer look at David Sturmack; what can you tell me about him?”

“What do you want to know?”

“Let’s start with his address and all the telephone numbers you’ve got for him.”

She read the information out to him.

“Does he have a second home?”

She gave him an address in Malibu that sounded as though it might be next door to Ippolito’s slightly scorched beach house.

“What can you tell me about him personally?”

“He’s always been very cordial to me; he’s one of those people who can make you feel, when you’re talking to him, that you’re the only person in the room. He likes beautiful women, and from remarks that Vance has made, I think he always has something on the side. His wife seems cowed by him, so I don’t think she’d object, even if she knew.”

“Got any names?”

“There was an actress on Vance’s last picture, Veronica Hart, that he seemed to be very interested in. Want her address?”

“Sure.” He wrote it down, along with the phone number. “How big an actress is she?”

“Struggling, but pretty good. She reminds me of me a few years ago.”

“Any idea how Sturmack spends his time when he’s not conspiring with Ippolito or getting laid?”

She laughed. “He and Vance play golf at the Bel-Air Country Club once in a while. He seems to have lunch there most days.”

“You got any private numbers from Ippolito?”

“Let’s see.” She flipped some pages and gave him home, office, and car numbers, plus the number aboardContessa.

“I think that’ll do me for a while,” he said. “Thanks.”

“Dinner tonight?” she asked.

“You mind doing it in my suite at the Bel-Air?”

“I don’t mind doing anything in your suite.”

“Seven o’clock?”

“Make it eight.”

“You’re on.” He hung up and headed for Sturmack’s address. Maybe he hadn’t devoted enough attention to the man thus far, but he was going to remedy that now.

David Sturmack lived in a Georgian mansion less than a five-minute drive from Vance Calder’s house, in Bel-Air. It seemed to be on at least ten acres of land, which Stone thought must have cost a very large fortune. He had been struck by how little land most expensive L.A. houses occupied, especially in Beverly Hills, but also in the even ritzier Bel-Air. A platoon of men were working on the front lawn, employing tractor mowers, string trimmers, rakes, and hoes. One operated what appeared to be a large vacuum cleaner. God forbid a stray blade of cut grass should mar the perfect greenery.

The Rolls convertible was parked outside the front door, and as Stone drove past the house, Sturmack came out, got into the car, and started down the driveway. Stone made a U-turn and followed at a very discreet distance, wondering how best to shake up Sturmack’s world. He had already shaken up Ippolito, and now it was Sturmack’s turn. He had an idea. He dialed a New York number.

“Lieutenant Bacchetti.”

“Dino, it’s Stone.”

“How you doing, Stone? I was beginning to wonder if you’d got lost.”

“Not yet, but people are working on it. Do me a favor?”

“Sure.”

Stone gave him Sturmack’s car phone number. “Call this number; a man will answer. Say to him, ‘Stone Barrington has a message for you from the other side; he’s not through with you and Ippolito yet.’”