Dead in the Water

by Stuart Woods

  “Do you recall anything about Paul having a rubber dinghy flown in from Barcelona?”

  “Yeah, I do; somebody had stolen his dinghy, and he wanted a new one, something special. It wasn’t available in Las Palmas, so he called somebody in Barcelona and had one sent.”

  “A Parker Sportster?”

  “Beats me.”

  “Did he give any reason for wanting that particular dinghy?”

  “Not that I can recall. He seemed obsessive about having just the right gear on his boat, I remember that well enough; every item on it seemed to have been chosen with great care.”

  “Was the one that was stolen a Parker Sportster?”

  “I don’t know, I guess so.”

  “Thanks, Jim. Thomas, put Jim’s drink on my tab.”

  Forrester grinned. “You think a New Yorker reporter would accept favors from a lawyer in a case he was writing about?”

  “You bet I do.”

  “You’re right,” Forrester said, raising his glass to Stone, then taking a big swig. He wandered off to find a lunch table.

  Stone dialed his office number in New York, and his secretary answered. “Hi, it’s Stone,” he said. “What’s happening?”

  “Not a hell of a lot,” she replied. “Arrington went to L.A., but she said she faxed you about that.”

  “Yeah, she did.”

  “There’s a lot of mail, mostly junk and bills; nothing that can’t wait until you’re back.”

  “Listen, I want you to do something for me.”

  “Shoot.”

  “I want you to call a couple of marine supply houses and see if you can get me some information on a rubber dinghy called Parker Sportster—a brochure or something. Apparently it’s a high-end piece of equipment.”

  “Okay; you want it sent to you?”

  “Yeah, FedEx it, priority.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Not right now. Bob Cantor is coming home tomorrow; you can go ahead and reimburse his expenses and pay him for his time; he’s always short of money.”

  “Okay.”

  Stone hung up and returned to his table. Allison had arrived and was deep in conversation with Hilary Kramer, who was taking copious notes. He sat down and listened to the interview, which included most of the questions Wheaton had already asked her, but in more of a chronological order.

  When they had finished talking, Allison returned to the yacht with Jim Forrester, whose turn it was for an interview.

  Stone picked at the remains of his lunch. “Hilary, what did you think of Allison?” he asked.

  “She’s a brave little thing, isn’t she?” Kramer replied. “If I had been in her shoes, I don’t know if I could have done what she did.”

  “I’d like your opinion about something that might help me with the trial.”

  “Sure, go ahead.”

  “Did you find any holes in her story? Anything that was hard to believe?”

  Kramer shook her head. “Not a thing; she’s a transparently honest girl; a jury is bound to see that.”

  “Thanks, I’m glad to have my opinion reinforced,” he said. And Chris Wheaton’s opinion opposed, he thought.

  Chapter

  20

  The first of the media rush began at midafternoon. Stone watched them ask Thomas where to find Allison Manning and be told of the news conference. As six o’clock approached they were still arriving, and he put back the conference until the following morning at ten, much to the annoyance of those who had arrived early. They were not relying on Chester’s small airplane now, but chartering out of San Juan and St. Thomas. Stone spoke to Henry and Arliss and had the guard on the marina doubled.

  Allison was nervous; she sat in the saloon of the yacht and drank a martini just mixed by Stone.

  “Easy,” he said. “You don’t want to be hung over in the morning. We only have to do this once, and I’ll be there to protect you.”

  “But there are so many,” she said. “I had a look through the binoculars, and there must be thirty of them.”

  “Yeah, they got together and chartered an old DC-3 in San Juan and packed it. I hear the airplane is making another flight, due in early in the morning.”

  “Are you sure this is good for us?” she asked.

  “It can’t be bad,” Stone said. “When the authorities get wind of what’s happening, I hope to see a change in their attitude.” At her insistence he mixed her another martini. “Tell you what, I’ll cook for you tonight.”

  She brightened. “No kidding? I’ve never had a man cook for me.”

  “Not once?”

  “You forget, I’d been with Paul forever, and he wouldn’t so much as make himself a sandwich. Once, when I was sick and couldn’t cook, I saw him eat beans straight out of the can rather than heat them.”

  “Let’s see what you’ve got in here,” Stone said, rummaging through a cabinet. He found some linguine and a couple of cans of minced clams. “Where’s the olive oil?”

  “Down below, under the silverware drawer,” she said. “I’ll find us a nice chilled white wine.” She went to a cooler and produced a bottle.

  Stone found some garlic, peeled and chopped it, sautéed it in some olive oil, then drained the clam juice into the skillet, seasoning with salt and pepper. “Any parsley?” he asked, adding some of the white wine.

  “Only dried; up there in the spice rack.”

  Fifteen minutes later they were dining on linguine and white clam sauce.

  “Excellent,” she said.

  “Typical bachelor dinner,” Stone replied.

  “Have you ever been married?”

  “Nope.”

  “So you’ve had a lot of practice at quickie bachelor dinners?”

  “Oh, I can make a few more elaborate dishes, too, if I have time to plan and shop. I don’t do it all that often.”

  “And only early in the relationship, before seduction is assured,” she said, grinning.

  “You are a cynic.”

  She laughed. “Nailed you, huh?”

  He tried not to smile. “Certainly not.”

  Stone washed the dishes, then stuck his head up through the hatch for a look toward the Shipwright’s Arms. The bar was jammed with people, and their raucous laughter reached all the way to the marina. He noticed that two of Henry’s policemen stood near the restaurant, ready to stop any journalist who so much as ventured onto the lawn between the bar and the marina.

  “I think we’re safe for the evening,” he said, climbing back down the companionway.

  She met him, tugging at his shirttail. “No safety for you,” she said, unzipping his fly.

  At ten sharp on Friday morning, Stone, with Allison beside him, began walking across the lawn toward the Shipwright’s Arms. Somebody had nailed together a little platform and on it stood a forest of microphones, taped and lashed together, their wires snaking into the crowd of reporters like so many reptiles. There were two ranks of cameras, high and low, and the TV reporters stood by, microphones in hand, for their own comments. The print journalists stood in clutches or sat on the grass, notebooks at the ready, and photographers were everywhere. Stone had never faced anything like this, and he wasn’t looking forward to it. The buzz of voices turned to a shout as he and Allison approached.

  “Good morning,” he shouted over the crowd, taking a sheet of paper from his shirt pocket and waiting for the noise to subside. When they were quiet, he spoke. “My name is Stone Barrington; I am one of the legal team representing Mrs. Allison Manning in the case against her, about which I am sure you have all heard. I will be making a statement, and then I will take questions for thirty minutes. Then Mrs. Manning will make a brief statement and will answer no questions.”

  There was a roar of outrage from the assembled media.

  Stone shouted them down. “I hope you can understand that Mrs. Manning is facing a serious charge in a strange country, and that by answering questions at this stage, she might inadvertently put herself in further je
opardy. I know that none of you would wish to contribute to her difficulties.” He began to read his statement, covering events from the time of Allison’s arrival in St. Marks, including the coroner’s inquest and her questioning by Sir Winston Sutherland. He gave them a brief primer on the workings of the St. Marks criminal justice system, and they listened, rapt and astonished. Finally, he wrapped up his statement and asked for questions, glancing at his watch. “To preserve some sort of order, I will point to a questioner and answer his or her question only. Let’s do this one at a time, people.” He pointed at a woman television reporter.

  “Mr. Barrington, do we understand you to say that in St. Marks, the judge selects the jury, and that the defense may not even question them or object to them?”

  “Both the defense and the prosecution may ask the judge to address particular questions to a prospective juror, but the judge will ask the question only if he deems it relevant to the proceedings.”

  The questions continued, mostly about the legal system and his plans for mounting a defense. When thirty minutes had passed, Stone pulled Allison forward. “Now, ladies and gentlemen, Mrs. Allison Manning will make a statement, and at its end, this press conference will be over. She will take no questions after that, nor will I; I hope that’s clearly understood.” He turned to Allison and nodded.

  Allison stepped forward to the microphones and, with a shy smile, began to speak. “Good morning,” she said, and after those words there was complete silence among the reporters. “My name is Allison Manning; I am the widow of Paul Manning, the writer, with whom some of you may be familiar.” She recounted their voyage across the Atlantic and their time in England, Spain, the Mediterranean, and the Canaries, then she began her account of their trip back across the Atlantic.

  “Ten days out of the Canaries Paul hoisted me to the top of the mast to make a repair.” She smiled. “He was too large for me to hoist him.” This got a laugh from the crowd. “While I was at the top of the mast I saw Paul clutch his chest and collapse in the cockpit. It took me more than two hours to get myself back down the mast.” She pointed at her yacht. “You can see how tall it is. When I was able to reach him, he was dead. Some hours later I managed to bury him at sea and then began trying to sail the yacht the rest of the way across the Atlantic. Somewhat to my own surprise, I was able to manage it. Then, to my astonishment, after I had saved my own life and reached St. Marks, I found myself charged with my husband’s murder. Now I must place my faith in Stone Barrington and Sir Leslie Hewitt, who could not be here today, because he is working on my defense. I thank you all for coming here and hearing my story. I hope we will meet again in happier times. “She stepped back from the microphones to a hail of shouted questions.

  Stone quieted the group. “As I said earlier, Mrs. Manning will answer no questions. Now you may have thirty minutes to photograph her yacht, down at the marina.” He pointed to the boat, and most of the crowd sprinted across the lawn. Another clutch of reporters tried to approach Allison and were pushed back by police officers.

  Stone hustled Allison upstairs to his rented room. “We’ll wait them out here, then go back to the yacht,” he said. He walked to the window and looked out. The reporters were swarming over the dock, prevented from boarding the yacht by the police. Then his eye was caught by another sight in the parking lot. Sir Winston Sutherland was standing next to his chauffeured car, watching the reporters, an outraged expression on his face.

  Thomas was standing next to Stone. “I predict an explosion,” he said, grinning broadly.

  Chapter

  21

  Stone sat at the little table near the window and watched Sir Winston, who was speaking into a cellular phone. A few minutes later, a bright yellow school bus pulled into the parking lot, and the driver received some instructions from Sir Winston. Abruptly, the bus left the tarmac and started across the lawn toward the marina. When it stopped, a dozen police officers got down from the bus, one with a bullhorn.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the officer was saying, “a press conference by the Ministry of Justice will be held in ten minutes, and I have come to transport you there. Please board the bus immediately, as we are short of time.”

  Stone watched as the journalists crowded the entrance to the bus, ready to fight to get on, if necessary. Shortly the bus pulled away and, to Stone’s surprise, took the road not toward the capital, but toward the airport. “What the hell?” he muttered.

  There was a rap on the door and Thomas entered. Allison, who had been dozing on the bed, sat up on one elbow and looked at him.

  “What’s going on?” Stone asked.

  “Half a dozen cops are going through my rented rooms, taking suitcases and clothes belonging to those reporters.”

  “Sir Winston wouldn’t have the balls to arrest that many journalists, would he?”

  “I can’t see it happening,” Thomas replied, “but he’s taking them somewhere.”

  “Let’s drive out to the airport,” Stone said. “Allison, the coast is clear to the marina; you go back to the yacht and wait for me there.” Allison nodded and put her feet over the edge of the bed, rubbing her eyes.

  In Thomas’s Toyota they drove quickly along the airport road and turned through the gates. In the distance they could see two DC-3s sitting on the apron; one of them already had her engines running. The group of reporters stood in a hangar listening to a young man in a business suit. There was much shouting and shaking of fists going on.

  “We’d better not get too close to this,” Thomas said, stopping the car. A truck loaded with luggage moved past them toward one of the DC-3s.

  The reporters were now being herded onto the two airplanes by uniformed policemen; Stone noted that nobody was being beaten with the truncheons the policemen carried, but their body language told him that the cops were brooking no argument. The truck with the luggage pulled up and suitcases were thrown hurriedly into the luggage compartment of the airplanes.

  “Where’d the other airplane come from?” Stone asked.

  “It’s a government plane, used only by high officials.”

  “Where do you think they’re sending them?”

  “I can only hope that they won’t be flown out to sea, then chucked overboard,” Thomas murmured. “Look, one camera crew and a couple of others are still in the hangar.”

  The two airplanes were taxiing now, and in a few minutes they were both taking off and heading to the northwest.

  “Antigua, do you think?” Stone asked.

  Thomas shook his head. “Antigua’s due north; they’re flying northwest. St. Thomas is my guess; that’s the nearest U.S. airport; or maybe even to San Juan.”

  “That is the most high-handed thing I ever saw,” Stone said, grinning. “Those people are going to go absolutely nuts when they get back to their respective news organizations.”

  “And that pleases you, I suppose.”

  “You bet your ass it does. If they were aroused by Allison’s plight, then they’re going to be mad as hell about their own treatment. The press never gets as angry as when their own freedom gets tampered with, and I’ll bet half a dozen cameras got the whole thing on tape.”

  “You think this is going to soften up Sir Winston, then?” Thomas asked.

  “When he finds out what they’re saying about him in Miami and New York, it just might.”

  “Don’t count on it. Sir Winston and our prime minister are accustomed to dealing with a more compliant press; I doubt if they give a damn about what foreigners think.”

  “Thomas,” Stone said. “I hate to point this out, but this business is not going to be good for your business.”

  “I already thought of that,” Thomas said glumly.

  Back at the Shipwright’s Arms, Federal Express had delivered two packages for Stone. One was from Bob Cantor and contained a copy of the Publishers Weekly profile of Paul Manning. The other package was from Alma, his secretary, and it contained two items: a brand-new black judge’s robe and a b
rochure on the Parker Sportster inflatable dinghy. Stone sat down at a table and read the article on Paul Manning, which featured a photograph of the writer and Allison, arm in arm, in front of a large, handsome house. It was pretty standard stuff about a writer, his lifestyle, and his work, and there was nothing in particular that interested him in the piece. The boat brochure was more interesting.

  He spread it out on the table and admired the many color photographs of the craft being rowed, being propelled by an outboard, and, most interesting, under sail. The Parker Sportster, it seemed, came with an aluminum mast, a mainsail, a jib, a rudder, and a centerboard. The brochure claimed it was the only inflatable dinghy so equipped. Stone thought the thing must be good for four or five knots, more if surfing with the wind aft.

  Stone left the Shipwright’s Arms and walked down to the marina. He stepped lightly aboard Expansive, tiptoed down the companionway ladder, and looked into the aft cabin. Allison was asleep on the large bed, her breathing deep and regular.

  Stone climbed back into the cockpit and began quietly opening the cockpit lockers. There was the usual tangle of gear found aboard any yacht: fenders, warps, plastic buckets and deck brushes, life jackets, and in a special aft locker, an eight-man life raft. He opened another of the lockers and was greeted with the sight of an inflatable dinghy in its canvas bag; the manufacturer’s name was printed boldly on the bag: AVON. Stone’s heart began to beat a little faster, as much out of apprehension as discovery. There was one more locker, and he opened it expecting no new information. But there, lying packed and ready for use, was another, larger canvas bag emblazoned with another brand name: PARKER SPORTSTER. It seemed new and unused.

  He closed the locker softly and sat down on a cockpit seat, feeling relieved.