Swimming to Catalina (Stone Barrington 4)

“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: 100 BUSINESS 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 read REED 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 called Maria,” 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 to Maria’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 called Paloma and one called Contessa. Can you show me those two?”