“That would be very nice if there were some physical evidence, like a murder weapon or DNA.”

“But there wasn’t. Oh, there’s something else in the addendum that I didn’t know before.”

“What’s that?”

“Hotshot is registered as having Boston as a home port, and the owner of the boat, who backed their alibi, is named Kip.” He spelled it for Stone.

“Just ‘Kip’?”

“He may have many other names, but that’s the only one Potter got.”

“Okay, Tom. Do you have any suggestion as to what we could do with this?”

“Not a one, except to stick the story up your ass if you tie me into this. And that means not tying in Jake Potter, either.”

“So we’re back to square one.”

“Yeah, and the route from square one to an arrest is fogged in.”

“Well put, Tom. Are you sure there’s nothing else?”

“Not from me, there isn’t. You’re on your own. Bye.” He hung up.

“Well,” Dino said, “I’d call that convincing evidence.”

“Yeah,” Stone replied, “but the only ones convinced are you and I.”

“I don’t suppose anybody keeps a record of who lands at the airstrip on Islesboro.”

“I hate saying these words, Dino, but you are absolutely right.”

“So near, but yet so far.”

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?”