"Funny, a guy showed up here, a journalist, who says he had dinner with them their last night in Las Palmas. Any mention of a third party there during the fight?"

"Nope, no mention. I'm afraid that's all there is here."

"About the dinghy, what was so special about the one he had flown in from Barcelona?"

"I don't know; apparently the guy was real picky about his stuff. There were other dinghies available here--Avons and Zodiacs, mostly, both good brands, one English and one French. He wanted something called a Parker Sportster, an American model, very expensive. It arrived on their last morning. Can you think of anything else I should be doing here?"

"No, I guess not; go on home."

"Soon as I'm back I'll finish up my research into Manning; there wasn't time to do much before I left."

"Do that, and get back to me soonest. It's Thursday, and the trial is on Monday; I'll need the info fast."

"Right; I'll be in touch."

Stone hung up the phone just as Jim Forrester ordered a drink at the bar. "Just the man I wanted to see," he said.

"What's up?"

"You said you had dinner with the Mannings their in Las Palmas, right?"

"Right."

"How late were you with them?"

"I don't know, maybe eleven o'clock."

"Did the Mannings have a fight when you were there?"

"No, not exactly; they did disagree about something, though."

"What was that?"

iBi "it was kind, of crazy, when you consider that Allison apparently didn t usually take much interest in the sailing ' of the boat. We were looking at their route on the chart,

and she wanted to sail a direct course from Puerto Rico to Antigua.

Paul pointed out to her that the trade winds blow some distance south of the Canaries, and if they wanted to take advantage of the trades, which everybody does who's crossing in those latitudes, they'd be better off sailing south or southeast from Puerto Rico until they picked up the trades, then turning west with a good breeze at their backs. She couldn't seem to grasp that, for some reason. We'd all had a good deal to drink, of course; maybe she was just spoiling for a fight. You know how married couples can be. Anyway, I was a little uncomfortable, so I said my good-byes and left. They were still arguing about it when I stepped ashore."

"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 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.

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 oat 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 laelow, 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, sauteed 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 llt6