Stone went and got the map the rental car agency had given him.
“Yeah, here it is,” he said, pointing. “Duval is kind of the main drag, and the hotel is marked. It’s only a few blocks from here.”
“Then let’s go see him after breakfast,” Dino said.
“Yes,” Stone said, “and carefully.”
Breakfast arrived and they ate, then showered and dressed.
“Let’s go see Mr. Keating,” Stone said.
“I think I’d better watch your back this time,” Dino replied.
“Good idea.”
They drove over to Duval and down to the Hotel La Concha, which was a large stucco building. They found a parking place and fed a lot of quarters into a meter, then went inside to the front desk. Stone approached the clerk on duty.
“May I help you?”
“Yes, I’d like to speak to a Mr. Evan Keating, who, I believe, is a guest here.”
“You just missed him,” the clerk said. “He left maybe fi ve minutes ago.”
“Do you know what time he’ll be back?”
“He won’t. He checked out and didn’t leave a forwarding address.”
“Did he say anything that might give you a clue where he was going?”
The man shook his head. “No. In fact, neither he nor his girlfriend said a word, except to ask for the bill.”
“He didn’t mention, for instance, the airport?”
“No.”
“Do you know his girlfriend’s name?”
“What’s this about?” the clerk asked.
Stone handed him a card. “I’m an attorney from New York. I have some business with Mr. Keating.”
“You’re suing him?”
“Nothing like that. I just have some papers for him to sign.” Stone showed him the envelope in his coat pocket. The clerk went to his computer terminal and typed a few strokes.
“The woman’s name is Gigi Jones.”
“Any home address for either of them?”
The clerk chuckled. “No, it just says ‘Itinerant.’ That’s the fi rst time I’ve ever seen that one.” The clerk smote his forehead. “Oh, I remember: when they arrived, Keating said they were on a boat.”
“Sail? Power?”
“He didn’t say. I got the impression that they were cruising and just wanted to get some shore time. Lots of people on boats do that; they want a real shower and their laundry done.”
“Did Keating get his laundry done?”
The clerk gazed at his terminal again. “Yep. Charge of $189 for laundry and dry cleaning. That’s a fair amount of stuff.”
“Did you have any other conversation with Keating?”
“Not really, just when he checked in and out.”
“Did he get or make a lot of phone calls?”
The clerk checked his computer again. “None at all, but that’s not unusual; everybody has a cell phone these days.”
“Did he mention where his boat was moored?”
“Nope.”
“How many marinas are there in Key West?”
The clerk laughed. “Lots.”
“What’s the biggest one?”
The clerk got out a tourist map and opened it, pointing at some sheltered water. “This is Key West Bight, and the biggest marina there is the Galleon, right here. But the whole bight is petty much all marina, and there are others along the shore.”
Stone thanked the man for his help, and he and Dino left. “Well, I guess we’d better start at Key West Bight,” he said. They drove down to Front Street, found a parking lot and walked to the Galleon Marina. They stopped at the dockmaster’s offi ce and spoke to a young woman at the desk. “Good morning,” Stone said.
“I’m looking for a fellow named Evan Keating; someone told me he’s docked here.”
She went to the computer. “Nope, no Keating. Do you have a boat name?”
“No.”
“Boat type?”
“No.”
“Then I don’t think I can help you.”
“Evan is about six feet, longish hair, a hundred and eighty pounds and with a pretty girl.”
“That covers about half our people,” the woman said. Stone thanked her and they left.
“Time to wear out some shoe leather,” Dino said.
“Yeah, I guess so.”
They started to walk around Key West Bight, checking other marinas, but got nowhere.
“I think that’s what we need,” Stone said, pointing at a boats-for rent sign.
“Feed me first,” Dino said, pointing at a sign that said raw bar.
“Okay, but keep an eye peeled for Keating.”
“I only saw his back,” Dino said, “but if I see a familiar back, I’ll let you know.”
“What would I do without you?” Stone asked.
7
STONE AND DINO walked into the Raw Bar, a large, opensided barn of a place, which was rapidly filling for lunch. They were given the last free table along the waterfront, overlooking the marina area. As they sat down, Dino looked over the railing into the water and pointed.
“Hey, look at that,” he said.
Stone peered into the water and saw half a dozen large fi sh measuring about four feet each, swimming among a lot of smaller ones.
“I guess they know where to go for lunch,” he said. Dino was perusing the menu. “I want conch something,” he said.
“What have they got?”
“How about conch fritters?”
“Sounds okay to me.”
A fetching girl—all the waitresses were fetching—took their order and brought them glasses of iced tea.
“How long have we got to find this guy and get him to sign?”
Dino asked.
“A week, give or take.”
“So we’re down to six days?”
“I guess. I mean, it can’t be that hard. When he hears how much money is coming to him, he’ll be glad to see me.”
“You’d think.” Dino got out his cell phone, made a call and got up. “Signal’s not too good; excuse me a minute.” He walked a few feet away and seemed happier.
Stone sipped his tea and looked around at his fellow diners. They all looked like tourists, but in Key West everybody was dressed like a tourist.
Dino came back and sat down. “I talked to Tommy again; I wanted to know the circumstances of the arrest. Seems his people were following a guy named Charley Boggs, who they suspected of being an importer/dealer. They tailed him around for a while, then he parked in the parking lot of a municipal building on Simonton Street. He sits in the car for five minutes, then Evan Keating and Gigi Jones pull up in a convertible and park next to Charley Boggs, who’s in a van. Some words are exchanged between the two cars, and then Tommy’s people move in and arrest everybody.
“There are traces of cocaine in the van, but Evan’s car is clean. They fi gure Boggs’s stash is near, and Evan is there to buy, so they haul everybody in. Evan’s story is he’s having dinner at a restaurant called Antonia’s, on Duval Street, and he’s just parking there. There’s a walkway from that parking lot to Duval. Tommy checks Antonia’s, and sure enough, Evan has a reservation there.
“Asked about what words were exchanged between Evan and Boggs, Evan says he was just asking the time, since he forgot to put his wristwatch on after showering.”
“So Tommy cuts Evan and Gigi loose.”
“Right. Charley Boggs, too.”
“Did you ask where we could fi nd Boggs?”
“He lives on a houseboat in Garrison Bight. You got that map?”
Stone produced the map, but their conch fritters arrived.
“Eat ’em while they’re hot,” the waitress said.
Stone dipped a fritter into some red sauce and took a bite. “Hey, good!”
Dino was trying one, too. “Kinda chewy, the bits of conch, but lots of fl avor.”
They finished the fritters and ordered key lime pie, then Stone spread out the map. “Here’s Garrison Bight
,” he said.
“That’s where the yacht club is, too, Tommy says. We’re meeting him there at seven.”
They ate the key lime pie.
“I could get used to this,” Dino said.
Stone waved for the check. “Let’s go rent that boat.”
THE BOAT WAS an 18-foot Boston Whaler, a fl at-bottomed fi berglass craft, with a 40-horsepower outboard attached.
“You know how to handle this?” the renter asked, handing Stone the keys.
“Yep.” Stone stepped into the boat, checked the fuel tank and started the engine. “How do we get to Garrison Bight?” he asked. The renter spread out a chart. “You go out into the harbor and keep to your right, past the old submarine base over there. You go under a bridge and straight ahead, past some Navy family houses, and your first right turn is into Garrison Bight.”
He handed Dino the chart and pushed them off. Stone got under way slowly. “Let’s stop at the fuel dock,” he said.
“All the boaters end up there sooner or later.”
“Whatever you say,” Dino said, settling into the seat ahead of the steering pedestal. They were sheltered from the sun by a Bimini canvas top.
Stone pulled up to the dock, showed the photo of Keating to the man and got a negative response. They pushed off again, then spent an hour motoring from boat to boat, hoping to get lucky.
“No luck,” Dino said finally. “Let’s go see Garrison Bight.”
Stone took one more look at the chart, then motored past the breakwater. “Before we do, let’s go take a look at the boats at anchor.”
There were dozens of boats of every type anchored outside Key West Bight, and their search of those yielded nothing. “All right,” Stone said, “Garrison Bight it is.”
They followed the boat renter’s instructions and slowed for a no wake sign along the row of houses, then turned through a narrow channel into the bight. The houseboats lay dead ahead. Stone throttled back to idle speed as they drove slowly along the row of moored boats. They were pretty, most of them, with window boxes and potted palms on the decks. A man of about thirty with a full, dark beard sat on the rear deck of one, fi shing. Stone cut the engine and drifted. “Good morning,” he said to the man.
“If you say so.”
“You know a guy named Charley Boggs?”
“Who wants to know?”
“My name is Barrington; I just want to talk to him.”
“You a cop?”
“Nope, just looking for some information.”
“What kind of information?”
“You’re Charley, aren’t you?”
“Maybe.”
“I’m looking for a guy named Evan Keating.”
“Never heard of him.”
“Funny, you were arrested with him the other night in the municipal parking lot.”
“Was that his name? I didn’t know the guy.”
“You sure about that?”
“You sure about not being a cop?”
“I’m sure.”
“I’m sure, too. Never set eyes on the guy before that night.”
“Okay, Charley, thanks,” Stone said. He started the engine, turned and started out of Garrison Bight. “That guy looks like the Unabomber, Ted Kaczynski.”
“Everybody in Key West looks like Ted Kaczynski,” Dino pointed out.
“Where’s the Key West Yacht Club?” Stone asked. Dino was looking at the chart, and he pointed to the east. “It’s way down there in the corner of the bight.”
“Nice to know that,” Stone said.
“Yeah, but we don’t know much else, do we?”
8
THE PROPERTY OF the Key West Yacht Club was entered from busy Roosevelt Boulevard, and the clubhouse was an unassuming 1950s-era building, surrounded by a large parking lot and a good-sized marina. There was a party going aboard a traditional motor yacht moored near the entrance to the driveway. Stone found a parking place, and they walked into the club, taking a left into a roomy bar sheltering a crowd of happy-sounding people. Tommy Sculley waved them over to a corner of the bar, where he introduced them to a couple.
“Stone Barrington, Dino Bacchetti, this is Jack Spottswood and his wife, Terry, local lawyer and real estate broker, respectively.”
Hands were shaken.
“Jack, I think we met in Atlanta a few years ago,” Stone said. “A real estate closing, as I remember.”
“That’s right, we did,” Spottswood said. “Nice to see you again. I hear you and Dino used to practice the police arts in New York with Tommy.”
“That’s a polite way of putting it,” Stone said. “We were all street detectives, and only Dino prospered in the work. Tommy and I got out when we could.”
“Yeah, Stone, sure,” Tommy said. “I retired in good order; you got your ass bounced by Captain Leary and the other brass.”
“True enough,” Stone said. “There’s enough in that story for a novel. I’ll tell it to you when I’m drunker.”
“Speaking of drunk,” Spottswood said, “we’re all invited to a party on a yacht next to the club.”
“The traditional one?” Stone asked.
“She’s a 1937 Trumpy,” Spottswood said. “A member here, the local tennis pro, Chuck Chandler, just fi nished restoring her.”
“There’s that name again,” Stone said.
“Yeah, the Chuck Choke. He hasn’t lived it down yet.”
“Come on, let’s go see Chuck’s new boat,” Terry said. They walked out of the bar and around to the yacht; her name on the stern was Choke II. They stepped aboard into the large cockpit, which was filled with people drinking with both hands. A tall, deeply tanned man in his late thirties with sun-bleached hair made his way toward them, and Spottswood introduced them to Chuck Chandler. A pretty girl with a tray of champagne glasses came over and gave everybody one.
“She’s very beautiful,” Stone said to Chuck.
“Yes, she is,” Chuck replied, watching the girl walk away.
“I was referring to the yacht, but I can’t argue the point. She’s a Trumpy, I hear. The yacht, I mean.”
“Yep, 1937.”
“How’d you come by her?”
“I had a client at the Olde Island Tennis Club for some years, and he died last year. I had been helping him with the finish work on the restoration, and to my astonishment, he left her to me. She already had new engines and electronics, and her hull had been painted. All I really had to do to her was a hell of a lot of varnishing.”
“You did a very fine job,” Stone said, touching a bit of mahogany.
“How many coats?”
“Ten, and I’ll give her another coat every year. It’ll give me something to do in the summers, when business is slow.”
“You know your varnishing, Chuck.”
“I had a lot of experience restoring her predecessor, a thirtytwo-foot one-off that I lived aboard. This one is forty-four feet, and, believe me, the extra room is going to come in handy.”
“May I see below?” Stone asked.
Chuck led him down the companionway and into the saloon. There was a built-in dining table and a galley tucked into a corner, a chart table and seating for eight or so.
“Gorgeous,” Stone said.
“There’s just the one cabin, aft,” Chuck said, pointing the way. Stone found a handsome stateroom, white and mahogany, with a nice head and shower and a double berth. “Perfect bachelor quarters,” he said. “How many of these were built?”
“She’s a custom job,” Chuck said, “the only one of her kind. She was in pretty bad shape when Jerry bought her. He replaced all the lower hull planking and then redid everything from the bottom up.”
“You’re a lucky man,” Stone said.
“That I am. If you’ll excuse me, I’d better check that my guests are drinking enough.”
“Sure.” Stone didn’t think they would need any encouragement. He walked back into the saloon and found a woman looking into the galley cabinets and fridge.
>
She glanced at him. “Hello,” she said. She was tall and slender, with blond hair. Late thirties, maybe.
“Good evening, doctor,” he replied.
She turned to face him and lifted an eyebrow. “Ah,” she said, “my former patient.”
Stone offered his hand. “My name is Stone Barrington. I’m afraid I wasn’t very appreciative of your kind efforts last evening. In my defense, I plead semiconsciousness.”
She shook his hand. “Yes, you were. I’m Annika Swenson.”
“I know; your card is in my pocket,” Stone said. “I had intended to call and thank you, but my day got busy.”
“One shouldn’t be too busy in Key West,” she said.
“You have a point.”
“Annika!” a woman’s voice cried from the top of the companion-way ladder. “We’re leaving.”
Annika turned. “Coming!” she called back. “You’ll have to excuse me, Mr. Barrington,” she said. “I’m with some people.”
“I’m here for a few days,” Stone said. “May we have dinner?”
“Yes,” she replied without hesitation.
“Tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll call you, and we’ll arrange a time,” Stone said.
“Good night, then.”
He watched her climb the companionway ladder and enjoyed the view.
Dino was the next one down the ladder. “Was that the lady from last night?”
“It was,” Stone replied.
“You are the only guy I know who can meet a beautiful woman while lying on a sidewalk unconscious,” Dino replied. “Let’s go; dinnertime.”
They made their goodbyes to Chuck Chandler.
“You play tennis?” he asked Stone.
“Yes.”
“Why don’t you come over to the club, and we’ll hit some balls.”
He handed Stone a card.
“If I get a moment free,” Stone said.
Tommy, Dino and Stone wandered back toward the yacht club, and as they reached the door, Stone saw Annika Swenson getting into a Mercedes convertible. She waved as she drove by.
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