“Hello,” the skipper said, looking at the card Stone handed him. “You’re with Chubb? Marine Associates are our insurers, and we’ve only got liability, not hull insurance.”

“I know,” Stone lied, “but after the sinking of Maria they’re apparently getting nervous. I was asked to take a look at your yacht to assess her general condition.”

“Okay,” the skipper said, “come aboard.”

Stone smiled inside. Now he had a free pass to check out from stem to stern.

46

Stone followed the captain up to the yacht’s bridge, where a technician had pulled out some of the electronic gear to work on it.

“We’ve got everything,” Reno said, waving a hand. “The latest color, chart-display GPS, satphone, the works. That’s why we’re at Marina Del Rey now instead of Catalina, where the owner likes to keep the boat. We came over here for some adjustments.”

“Do you have a lot of electronic problems?”

“Not really; this is new gear, and we’re still getting the bugs out.”

Stone took a file folder and some blank paper and started scribbling fake notes. A cell phone mounted on the instrument panel rang, and the captain picked it up.

“Hey,” he purred into the phone.

A woman, Stone thought. He waved at the skipper, who covered the phone with his hand. “Look, I don’t really need a guided tour; I’ll look around on my own, if that’s all right.”

“Sure, help yourself,” the skipper said.

Stone thanked the dockmaster for his help and went below. Might as well make it stem to stem, he thought. He quickly toured the large saloon, the dining room, and the galley, then headed below to where he figured the crew’s quarters must be, up forward. He saw half a dozen small cabins and a larger one for the skipper, then he moved aft.

The size and quality of the cabins increased as he walked toward the yacht’s stem. Each was individually decorated, with expensive hardwoods and fabrics, and the owner’s cabin was huge, rivaling Stone’s hotel suite in style and comfort.

He went down another deck and looked into the cabins on either side of the hallway. These were smaller than the ones on the deck above, but still beautifully furnished. Something caught his eye in the aftermost of the small cabins. A U-bolt mounted in a plate had been welded to a bulkhead under a porthole. It seemed odd, out of place, but he had more yacht to cover, so he moved on. He checked every door and hatch on the yacht, no matter how small.

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?”