Dead in the Water (Stone Barrington 3)

“That’s high praise,” he said, satisfyingly flattered.

“Do you know why?”

He shrugged.

“It’s not because you’re a beautiful man, though you are, and it’s not because you’re experienced and inventive, though God knows you are: it’s because you’re so considerate. I know when we’re fucking that you really care that I’m enjoying it as much as you. It makes me want to please you even more.”

“And you do, believe me.”

“I know I do; I can tell. I think you like me best when I’m wanton, when I do the things a proper Greenwich, Connecticut matron isn’t supposed to enjoy, and when I do them well.”

He smiled, but said nothing.

“Take me back to the boat,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said.

They walked past the two policemen on guard and boarded the yacht, and as they started down the companionway, she began undressing. So did he. She led him to the after cabin and threw off the bedcover, then made him lie on his back. She began slowly, kissing him here and there, using her tongue, but staying away from his genitals until he was completely erect, which didn’t take long. Then she spent several minutes bringing him to the edge and backing off, playing him as if he were a musical instrument.

Stone then found himself in a condition where he knew he could resist coming for as long as he liked but still remain rigidly erect. Finally she rolled over on her stomach, took him in her hand, and guided him home. Then, after a while, she let him slide out.

“Now here,” she said, guiding him into a different place. She let him ride her for a short time, then turned on her back and reinserted him in the same place. Then, without parting from him, she rolled him onto his back and sat astride him, moving slowly up and down, making little noises. Half an hour had passed before she said to him, “Now. Come for me.”

And he did.

They passed the night alternately sleeping and making love, as the mood took them.

She woke him at dawn and made him do it again, then they slept for another hour.

“Want some breakfast?” she said, yawning.

“Sure.”

“Oh,” she said, “all my stuff is packed. Will you bring me the smallest duffel? It’s got my toothbrush in it.”

“Sure.” He rolled out of bed and stretched.

She kissed him on the belly. “You were perfectly wonderful last night.”

“You were way beyond wonderful. I don’t think I’ve ever had a night like that. I’m exhausted.”

“You’ll live.” She slapped him on his naked buttocks. “Now get me that duffel.”

Stone went forward to the door of the engine room, under the companionway. He opened it, walked down two steps, and looked around the small compartment, which contained the two engines and a small workshop. It was as clean and neat as the galley, he thought. On the bulkhead behind the workbench, all the ship’s tools were arrayed in motion-proof brackets. He picked up a wrench and saw that each tool had been traced in black paint. He marveled at the time Paul Manning had spent ordering his ship. He turned and looked at the other equipment. There was a wet suit, hung neatly on a hanger, and a pair of diving tanks resting in custom-made stainless steel holders fixed to the bulkhead.

Then, in a sudden, sickening flash, Stone became a cop again.

He saw something that, in an earlier day, would have made his heart leap in triumph, but now made him feel sick with revulsion.

Next to the tanks, fixed to the bulkhead and outlined in black paint like all the tools, was a spear gun for underwater fishing, with brackets for the gun and three spears. One of the spears was missing, its outline empty. That would have given him pause, but it was something else that immobilized him. The spear gun was there, but it had been taken down and awkwardly replaced backward in its brackets, the opposite of its painted outline.

Stone knew in an instant that Paul Manning would never, never have replaced the gun in anything but its proper position. It had been put there by someone else, of course, but the third spear had not been returned to its place.

The third spear, he knew beyond a doubt, was still in what was left of Paul Manning’s body, out there in the depths of the cold, cold ocean.

Chapter

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