Double Jeopardy

23

Stone and Dino were crouched over the computer, trying to penetrate the website for yacht registrations, when Stone, after a half dozen attempts and without a password, had a better idea.

“I’ve got a better idea,” he said.

“Yeah, sure. Remember what happened when you got your last idea, what, an hour ago?”

“We need the help of someone authorized, who can penetrate this website or, perhaps, do it the old-fashioned way and make a phone call. We need a tame cop.”

“Yeah, but you only know one cop up here, and he’s stopped helping.”

“I was thinking of you.”

“I’m not a Maine cop.”

“The boat registration website is federal,” Stone pointed out.

“I’m not federal,” Dino pointed out.

“But you know lots of feds, don’t you? All he has to do is call the number on the website and ask them to do a search for a yacht — that is, a sailboat named Hotshot, registered to an owner named Kip.”

“Kip is not a name, it’s a nickname. You think that the feds register yachts to nicknames?”

“Well, what name might be shortened to Kip?”

“Kissinger?”

“Nah.”

“Kiplinger?”

“Nah.”

There was a sharp rap on the door, and Stone opened it.

Primmy stood there. “You didn’t tell me you two were hiding in the walls. Seth ratted you out.”

“Come in,” Stone said, pulling her inside and closing the door behind her.

“What are you doing?”

“We’re looking for somebody who owns a yacht registered with Boston as a home port.”

“Then you only have to search a couple of hundred thousand yachts. Do you have any filters?”

“What?”

“Filters. You look for a yacht. If you know its name, you enter that in the search thingie, and so on. It filters out everything that is not as you’re describing it.”

“Well, the name of the yacht is Hotshot, and we know the owner’s nickname is Kip.”

“Well, why didn’t you just ask me?” Primmy said.

“You have the yacht registry tucked away in your brain somewhere?”

“No, but I know the yacht. And I know Kip.”

“Yeah?” Dino asked. “What’s Kip short for?”

“His name is K. P. Harwood. His friends just left out the i. He owns Hotshot, which is a custom-built Hinckley 54, probably paid for with his clients’ money.”

“And how do you know this?”

“Because Kip is my stockbroker, or was, until the feds got onto him for a few not-exactly-legal moves he was making. When I heard about that, I found a new stockbroker. Who needs her money tied up in a federal investigation for several years?”

Dino turned and looked at Stone. “Why doesn’t she just conduct the investigation for us?”

“Well, she’s doing better than the Maine State Police and the Nantucket Police Department and us, put together, isn’t she?”

“Why don’t you two just tell me what you want, and I’ll see if I can help,” Primmy said.

“Can you figure out where Hotshot is docked? We know it’s in Boston.”

“At the Fairwater Yacht Haven in Back Bay.”

“She’s like Siri,” Dino said. “You just ask her, and the answer pops out. Where the hell is Back Bay?”

“Fairwater Yacht Haven is on the Charles River, down from Cambridge. You want directions? Nearby restaurants? Tattoo parlors? Cheap parking?”

“Wouldn’t it just be easier to take her along?” Dino asked.

“I believe you may be right, Dino,” Stone said.

“Second time today! Do you think a 1938 Ford woodie station wagon can get to Boston and back without putting us afoot on an interstate?”

“Seth keeps that car in perfect condition,” Stone said.

“We should go now,” Primmy said. “There’s a race to Provincetown tomorrow, and everybody will be clearing the marina by eight AM.”

“Do you think we’ll find Kip there?”

“Kip never misses a race,” she says. “When he’s on the water, he’s harder for the U.S. attorney to find.”

“We’d better pack an overnight bag,” Stone said. “Siri. Excuse me, Primmy, can you recommend a hotel?”

“Sure. What kind of hotel would you like?”

“One with thick walls,” Dino said. “I don’t want to spend the night listening to you two.”

“I’ve got a better idea,” Stone said.

“Now what?”

“Let’s take my Cessna. We fly into Boston somewhere and rent a car.”

“We’ll still have to stay the night, in order to get to the marina before eight AM,” Dino said.

“So what? We won’t be on an interstate.”

They landed at Hanscom Airport, west of Boston at mid-afternoon and drove into the city in a rental car. They checked into the small, but elegant, hotel that Primmy had booked.

“Here’s a thought,” Stone said.

“Uh-oh,” Dino replied.

“I’ll bet you Kip is sleeping aboard tonight, rather than getting up in the wee hours. Why don’t we drop in to see him after dinner?”

They had dinner in the hotel restaurant, then drove to the marina.

“Where will we find the boat?” Dino asked.

Primmy went into a little shed, talked with a young man for ten seconds, then returned. “Hotshot is moored in berth G 12, right over there.” She pointed.

“Lead the way,” Stone said. Then he stopped them. “Primmy, we need some sort of wedge with Kip.”

“‘Wedge’?”

“Something we can tell him will happen to him if he lies to us, like going to jail.”

“Tell him you’ll haul his boat to investigate him, if he doesn’t cooperate. He would miss the start of the race.”