Olfactory stimulation was beginning to rouse me. Sunlight was penetrating my eyelids. I raised one of them -- the one closest to my Timex Ironman digital watch. My sluggish brain registered 10:15 a.m. I opened my eyes wider and they reported images: shapely legs, broad hips and a flat stomach. Over time, the images coalesced into the svelte figure of Rebecca Levis moving around in the galley area. With great effort, I raised my head. Rebecca had performed a miracle on our alcohol-burning stove -- pancakes and sausage! I climbed out of bed.

      "Rebecca, babe, you deserve a big kiss for this," I said. She giggled as I delivered it.

      "Prepared fresh from pancake mix, powdered egg, condensed milk and sausage straight from the can," she continued, with a mixture of enthusiasm and irony.

      "Well, I love you anyway," I said.

      She flipped a pancake onto a plate and gave it to me. I set it down and gave her another kiss.

      Before eating, I slipped into my surfer jams and climbed the ladder to the cockpit for a look around. We occupied the outermost berth on the east dock, close to the Australian-pine-lined channel through which we'd entered the day before. The Second Chance was kitty-corner, across the marina and wasn't visible. The view was blocked by boats tied up to the long center dock. The marina was less than half-full and some of the boats seemed unoccupied. That was typical for the Bahamas in November. There was no family trade. No kids running around the docks. Summer vacation was over and the Gulf Stream was too tricky for a fair-weather captain to bring his family over here for the weekend. No, the boat-owners here now were a couple of grades saltier -- liveaboards, sport fishermen, divers and other categories. Most were independently wealthy or, at least, had sources of income that did not involve manning someone else's desk. And many would have sources of income that they couldn't talk about.

      I looked to the east. Beyond a thin row of Australian pines was a vast expanse of shallow water -- the Little Bahama Bank -- and a long stretch of beach which was the beginning of the northern coast of the Grand Bahama Island. A mile down the coast, a lot of recreation equipment was assembled on a beach. A couple of windsurfers were gliding on the water.

      Rebecca called up from the galley. "If you're worrying about the Second Chance, don't. I checked it out this morning and it's doing fine."

      "Thanks." I leaned in and gave my dark-haired, green-eyed ocean lady another kiss. But before going below I took another look around. Our immediate neighbor was a 20-foot daysailer with an outboard motor and a small cabin in which the occupants seemed to still be sleeping. Beyond that was a semi-covered Boston Whaler. It wasn't much over 20 feet long but it had two enormous Mercury outboards and a grossly exaggerated tuna tower that must have gone up 30 feet. Shielding my eyes with an out-stretched hand, I looked up towards the sun. A man was up there, hunched over the controls. He didn't return my wave.

      Returning to the cabin, I helped Rebecca convert the bed to a dinette. I lavished praise on her culinary handiwork as she set it on the table.

      "Consider yourself fortified for a big day," she said. "It will include a visit to the dock office and formalities with the customs officers. I registered with them yesterday as the captain of the Diogenes with no passengers. That leaves you as the salvage captain of the Second Chance."

      "Good thinking."

      Rebecca sat down with her own plate. "And I told them that you were dealing with a dangerous situation and wouldn't be able to go to them until this morning.

      "Great thinking." I leaned forward and gave her another kiss.

      She smiled at the attention. "What is on your own agenda for today?"

      "Composing my crime scene affidavit for Sgt. Townsend. It should also be useful for pressing our salvage claim." Below deck, we would not be overheard, but I kept my voice low, anyway. "Did he talk to you any time after he tried to order us off the boat?"

      "He came here when I was taking the hasp off the rope locker."

      "What did he say?"

      "He asked me how we found the Second Chance and saved it. I told him and he wrote some of it down."

      "Did he give you any information on the victim?"

      "I asked him and he said he didn't have any. He said he couldn't find any identification on the man. No driver's license, credit cards or anything."

      "Hopefully the Sergeant has a name and address by now. In the mean time, I will make a phone call to the U.S. Coast Guard and ask them to help me get in touch with the 'S.C. Corporation' that is listed on the Coast Guard Documentation Certificate. All it lists is a post office box in Miami. And for the rest of the day, I'll put finishing touches on the repair and respond to matters arising. Which reminds me -- could you call the phone company here and have them activate our cellular phones? It's called 'Batelco.'"

      "Sure."

      "Thanks."

      "Oh, Ben, I feel a project coming on."

      "Yes. If we pull it off right, the salvage will net us one hundred thousand dollars."

      "Wow! That's great news." Then a frown came over her lovely face. "And the reason you said 'pull it off' is because there could be complications with the Bahamians and with . . . the people who scuttled the boat."

      "Or complications with whomever owns the boat. It might not be owned by the victim."

      The frown deepened. "Will the salvage project get us in trouble?"

      "Not if I can get that smudge pot out of here quickly. Not after I get it on solid ground in Miami."

      We were interrupted by a slight rocking of the boat and footsteps in the cockpit. It was Sgt. Townsend. When we both looked up, he was standing before the companionway, looking in but not saying a thing.

      "Hey, Sergeant," I called up to him. "I might have given you permission to come aboard, but never with leather-soled shoes."

      He was dressed like the previous evening but this time he was wearing sunglasses. "And I did not give you permission to place a padlock on the Second Chance," he replied tensely.

      Rebecca's hand came down on my forearm. I gave her a nod as a promise to not go over the top, this time.

      "It's a combination lock. Rebecca -- Dr. Levis -- took it off our rope locker. Consider it to be our contribution to crime scene integrity. Ivanhoe was asleep on his steed, last night." I looked for a reaction and got none. "He was sleeping in his car."

      "What is the combination?"

      I wouldn't tell him that because it was the same as the rest of our locks, including the one to the companionway, hanging open on its hasp just a couple of feet from his face. "We're not giving out the combination. But we'll open the lock whenever you need to get in."

      "Then you must open it for me now."

      "Gladly," I said, with a glance to Rebecca.

      All I needed to look presentable was my Swarthmore University T-shirt. I pulled it down over my head and got up to lead Sgt. Townsend off the boat. The people on the daysailer were up, now -- a thin guy in his mid-twenties with a head of thick, unruly, dirty-blond hair and a Jesus beard, and his girl, an emaciated strawberry blond who looked a few years younger. They were dressed like hippies. He wore full-length jeans with no shirt and she had on a semi-transparent dress that was probably manufactured in India. I gave them a wave.

      I also waved to the tuna tower guy as we walked past. He was sitting on a "fighting chair" mounted on the back of his Boston Whaler. Those chairs are designed for reeling in marlins and other so-called big game fish. His buddy was sleeping in a small enclosure up front. A few steps later, I waved to an older guy sitting in the cockpit of a yacht named Engineuity. Passing the center dock and the marina office, there was nobody to greet. The Sergeant and I didn't have any small talk for each other.

      Ivanhoe was standing guard at the base of the small dock that the Second Chance shared with the diving couple's Bayliner. I stepped up the pace to pull ahead of the Sergeant, gave Ivanhoe a naval salute in passing, and hopscotched over the cushions that Rebecca had laid out on the dock to dry. I sprang aboard and dialed in the combination on the four embedded wheels and pulled off the brass lock before the Sergeant could catch up. I opened the door for him. Then I clamped the lock back on the opened hasp, taking care to turn all four wheels so that the combination would not show.

      "There you are," I said to Sgt. Townsend as he huffed aboard. "Have fun. And let me know when you're done so I can lock up."

      "I will still need the combination."

      "No, that won't be necessary," I said, following him in. "I plan to be here twenty-four-seven until you are through with your investigation."

      He responded with a snort. "I noticed that you have fiberglassed over the hole. Your salvage is completed."

      "Negative. I still need to protect the engines from the saltwater exposure and try to rescue the electronics."

      The Sergeant's mouth dropped open for a second, then his lips closed and tightened. "Very well, but you are to keep all other people off the boat. And you are not to move the boat until I relinquish jurisdiction."

      "Okay. But you should do the fingerprints right away. They are decaying by the minute. And when you do get around to dusting for them, I suggest that you pay special attention around the cleats on the transom and on the cockpit's rails."

      The Sergeant didn't answer and he didn't seem to agree. This was not the time to tell him that I expected to be able to move the Second Chance in three days. What a shame that he had made me argue with him. The Bayliner next door was open; Martin Becker and Beth Owens might have overheard.

      Before leaving the Sergeant on the yacht, I took a look over the side. The tide was rising and was now taking much of the yacht's weight from the pallets. Now, the patch was mostly under water and there was no sign of recent bilge pump activity. In a few hours, I'd be able to remove the pallets.

      I strolled back towards the Diogenes, exchanging greetings with the Engineuity guy. He was no transient. He had a dock box with a satellite dish mounted on its lid. The short-haired tuna tower guy's buddy was up, now. They were sitting around in their swimsuits -- solid red and blue Speedo racing suits -- too deeply engaged in conversation to respond to my hello.

      I went back to the Diogenes to gather my documentation for the visit to Customs. Rebecca went with me. We passed the Second Chance and continued along the seawall to the customs shed. It was a couple of dozen yards inland of the fuel dock. Inside, Rebecca took me to the counter, reached into a box and pulled out several blank forms. The two agents didn't pay much attention to us. They were watching, mirthlessly, a Seinfeld rerun. The beat-up TV was apparently getting its signal from the coaxial cable I'd noticed strung through the trees along the way from the marina office. A big noisy through-the-wall air conditioner overrode the audio track and chilled the room down to the dew point, blurring the view of the marina through the room's one small window.

      I filled out three pages of a Temporary Cruising Permit application. I crossed out "vessel's master" and wrote that I was the "salvage master" of the Second Chance. I added a footnote, stating that I had salvaged the vessel in International Waters and that it was now in transit to its home port of Miami. Another page asked for an inventory of my yacht's equipment and a statement of the yacht's value. I filled in $200,000. Then I filled out the Immigration Arrival/Departure Card, tucked it into my passport, and I handed everything to the more senior looking official, who turned out to be the Customs official. He wore white-over-black uniform with epaulettes that were suggestive of a lieutenant in the Royal Navy. The junior-looking partner, who turned out to be the Immigration officer, wore a nondescript brown uniform with small shoulder patches. She didn't look away from the Seinfeld episode -- apparently an early one because Elaine was wearing a long yellow patterned dress with folded-down white socks and black penny loafers.

      The Customs officer said, "The Cruising Permit will cost one hundred and fifty dollars." He spoke in a soft voice that was difficult to hear over the air conditioner.

      "I don't mind paying the fee," I said, handing over three fifty-dollar bills, "but I would like you to note that the vessel will not be used for cruising. I will be returning it to its home port of Miami in the next day or two, as soon as the repairs are completed."

      The Immigration officer chuckled -- not at me but at the TV screen. She was chuckling at Kramer, who had just made a sliding entrance into Jerry Seinfeld's apartment.

      "You will still require a permit," the Customs officer said, making it sound like I wanted to deprive his country of its deserved foreign currency. He cashiered the three bills, took out his seal, and stamped the forms.

      "That's fine with me," I said. It was fine because the Government of the Bahamas had just accepted me as the salvage captain of the Second Chance and had stamped its approval on my plan to take the boat to Miami. He handed me back one of the stamped forms. "This is your permission-to-cruise form. You must turn it in here or at your last port before you leave the country, or you must mail it to the main office in Nassau."

      "Understood," I said.

      He went on to tell me that the reverse side of the form listed the types and quantities of fish, conch and lobster that I had permission to take. Then he handed my passport to the Immigration officer. She stamped it and my customs form, telling me I could not engage in any gainful occupation. She said that I was to return the form when I left the country.

      Rebecca and I left the customs/immigration shed in good spirits. She went back to the Diogenes and I went to make arrangements with the marina. The office was in a small concrete block building with a flat roof. There were three soft drink machines out front, restrooms and showers on the left side, and a bank of coin-operated washing machines and driers behind. The office, itself, occupied the right side of the building and was accessible through a glass-windowed, wooden door in the center. This led to a narrow reception area with several wicker chairs. A wall-mounted TV was showing the same Seinfeld episode as in the customs shed. The set was on "mute" and an oversized, through-the-wall air conditioner was doing its best to fill the space with cold air and white noise.

      The office was on the far side of the reception area, to the right. I walked up to the Dutch door where they transacted business and leaned in to see who was there. The manager was sitting at a small wooden desk, deeply engrossed in paperwork. I announced my presence with a light cough, but she didn't look up. Like yesterday, her wardrobe wasn't the least bit nautical. She wore a silky buttonless and armless blouse -- the type that a girl slithers into. And that's what her feminine assets seemed to be doing underneath -- slithering -- in resonance with her right arm as she made longhand entries in her ledger book. The blouse was a chocolate brown, one shade darker than her skin. She had a broad forehead, strong cheekbones that formed a broad sloping valley beneath her dark eyes, a generous nose with broad nostrils, and a full mouth. Taut, flat cheeks descended to a gracefully rounded chin. Her straight black hair was swept back and held in place by a broad leopard-spotted band of structured cloth, a statement of pride in her African roots.

      She was also taking pride in her work. I caught her with a smile when she looked up. She responded by narrowing her brow and tossing her head. I interpreted this as a warning against acting too familiar.

      "Good morning, I'm Ben Candidi."

      Her lips thinned and her face stiffened. She said nothing. Grabbing a clip board, she got up and came around the desk to the Dutch door.

      I added, "Thanks for the quick and helpful response yesterday."

      I noticed she was a couple of inches taller than me. Her height and slenderness were accentuated by a long, straight beige skirt. The long slit on its left side revealed an attractively thin leg. The straps on her high-heeled sandals were decorated with dark glass beads.

      She handed me the clipboard. "The police could come quickly because the West End station is only two miles up the road."

      "And Sgt. Townsend is the desk sergeant there?"

      Two small creases formed over the bridge of her nose, between those two carefully trimmed and penciled eyebrows. It was just a trace of a frown. "He is in charge of the station and the western portion of Grand Bahama Island," she said crisply. She paused, then gave me instructions at a rapid pace. "Please read the contract carefully before signing. Our rate is one dollar and fifty cents per foot per day, prepaid. Use the out-of-the-water length of your vessel, please."

      She spoke like an educated Bahamian, her words well enunciated -- over-pronounced, actually -- and her inflection in the English style, but lacking the sharp edges and the high resonances of the Ox-Bridge standard to which some aspire. This Bahamian style often includes dropping of voice at the end of each sentence. Americans hearing it for the first time often perceive it as condescending. Although quite used to this, I still felt a gut reaction to her downward inflections on signing, prepaid and please.

      "My Diogenes is thirty-six feet, out of the water. But I am not sure what length to write down for the Second Chance."

      "You need not worry about the Second Chance. You have returned it to its original berth which is prepaid to the end of the month."

      I thought for a second. "Very well, then I won't include dockage in my salvage claim against the boat or the victim's estate. His name was Steve. What is his last name, anyway?"

      "I do not recall." She said it in a matter-of-fact tone and with no hint of apology. She just stood there, regarding me with inscrutable black eyes. It was hard to tell if they moved when I cast a meaningful glance at her file cabinets. After I raised my eyebrows, she said, "I cannot tell you."

      I turned my attention to the dockage agreement for the Diogenes. I signed at the bottom and filled in the required information -- my name, address, home telephone number, names of accompanying persons, and name plus registration number and length of my boat. Obviously she would have gotten this same information for Steve and the Second Chance. We would revisit that question. I handed her the clipboard and said, "I would like to pay for eight days."

      As fast as these words left my mouth, she told me my total bill. She noticed my surprise at her mental arithmetic. The corners of her mouth went up when I grabbed for my money clip.

      "We also take all types of plastic," she said with the tiniest of smiles. She pulled from the wall a plastic-encased, laser-printed sheet and set it on the Dutch door counter before me. It was a rate table. She placed a long, sculpted index fingernail under the entry for eight days and a boat length of 36 feet. She copied the dollar amount onto the contract.

      Chagrined, I handed her my American Express card. She wasted no time putting it through her scanning machine. She signed the contract and made a photocopy. What a cold, formal treatment I was receiving from this woman. She offered no small talk while we waited for the credit card authorization to come back. The only noise in the room was from the VHF radio: hailing traffic on Channel 16 which she monitored. She didn't show the slightest uneasiness during our silence. She just stood there, statuesque -- a finely rendered and polished statue in tropical hardwood.

      The light blinked, and she handed me the contract. I stared at her signature, trying to decipher a name from it. It was formed around an oversized "Z" which was connected with a light upstroke to three sharp peaks which were followed by a resonating trail of indecipherable letters which was underscored and then encircled in a final flourish. Her name was Z-M something. She waited patiently.

      I tried again. "I don't have any information on Steve, and it would be a big help for my salvage claim if you could look up his last name, address and phone number."

      "I am sorry, but I am not authorized to give out such information."

      "But I need to contact his relatives."

      "I am sure that the police are doing that," she said, with great formality.

      "And I need to contact the people who are handling his business."

      "I am sorry, but I cannot help you with it."

      "I'm sorry, but not even having his last name leaves me -- in a jam." That word has rich overtones in Jamaica and the Bahamas.

      A faint smile appeared. "I am sorry, but the marina does not get involved in the affairs of the yachtsmen who berth here. As the marina manager, I do not get involved except to collect the dockage fee and to enforce the rules listed on the reverse side of the contract, which include not running engines unnecessarily at the dock and no music or loud noises after nine in the evening. If our marina service is inadequate, please let me know."

      She had given me a mouthful -- and perhaps some information between the lines. I glanced at the rules. Under them was written, "Zelma Mortimer, Marina Manager."

      "Office hours are from eight in the morning until nine in the evening. A phone number is listed for emergencies -- true emergencies, only."

      I returned her tiny smile. "It looks like a well-run marina. I wish you a good day."

      I guessed that keeping distance from things that happened in the marina was an important defense for this woman, and that formality provided a sturdy wall to hide behind.

      I went back to the Second Chance. Sgt. Leonard Townsend wasn't there but Constable Ivanhoe Walker was, wearing the same blue jumpsuit and ball cap uniform as before. He was sitting in an aluminum beach chair under an Australian pine near the head of the dock. Behind him stood his dilapidated car which I could now identify as a 1970s vintage Toyota. Both front doors were open and the radio was on, playing reggae. I waved and smiled. He smiled back, dropped a palm frond that he had been stripping, and got up to intercept me.

      "Morning, Constable," I said.

      He reached the foot of the dock faster than I did, and he stood there, blocking my way but keeping his gold-toothed smile. I realized that I hadn't looked at him very closely before. He was about my size and age, but very thin. He hunched forward and seemed to favor his left leg, as if he'd been injured once. His ball cap was small and so was his head, with closely cut curly hair.

      I walked up to him slowly and stopped, as if expecting a friendly conversation. "I've got more work to do on the yacht. The Sergeant must have told you."

      "Yeah, he did tol' me, and he give me my orders." Ivanhoe formed his words thickly and rolled them out in the rhythm of Island patois. "An' you know that you are not to take from de boat or take to it."

      "Yes, and I'm taking care to not mess up the fingerprints either," I said, showing him ten fingertips.

      He screwed up his face a little, and his eyes rolled up into his forehead. "An' de boat must not be moved until de A . . . S . . . P give permission."

      "What is the A . . . S . . . P?"

      Ivanhoe screwed up his face again. "Dat be de assistant superintendent of police."

      "Oh, I see. You've got a different rank system than we have in the U.S. Is there something between constable and sergeant?"

      "Yes, there be corporal."

      "And what comes after sergeant?"

      "A . . . S . . . P then S . . . P."

      "I see. And you don't have any leftenants or captains?"

      "No."

      "So where is Sgt. Townsend's A.S.P? In Freeport or Nassau?"

      "He is in Freeport."

      "Thanks, Constable Ivanhoe. Nice talking to you. See you later." I took a step around him.

      Ivanhoe's smile went slack and his brow came down a bit. "Now you remember what I say about de boat." He slapped his right pants pocket. "Like we say on de Island, 'Don't try to run because I have a short gun.'"

      "Meaning that you can pull out a short gun quicker than a long gun?"

      Ivanhoe nodded and showed me some more gold. Then he reached in his pocket and pulled enough to expose the hand grip of what had to be a small semi-automatic pistol.

      I hand-signaled my acknowledgment and went up the dock, ducking under yellow crime scene tape to step into the yacht's cockpit. Stuck onto the cabin door with adhesive tape was a photocopy of a notice warning that this was a crime scene and that nobody was to enter or disturb it.

      Well, at least they hadn't sawed off my lock and put on their own. Mine was still locked onto the opened hasp as I'd left it. I walked in and checked out the repair from the inside. It had dried nicely, it felt solid to my knuckle, and no water was coming in anywhere. I went in the main salon for another look at the framed U.S. Coast Guard Documentation Certificate. I'd checked the registration number against the number painted on the bow, but I hadn't checked the hull number yet. I hung upside down over the stern until I found it, molded in the fiberglass by the waterline. It checked out, too.

      While hanging upside down, I noticed that the transom had a fresh white coat of paint and that the black letters spelling "Second Chance" were so new that they glistened. It seemed like the yacht had been given its "second chance" not too long ago. I did another stern-to-bow search and found nothing that would identify Steve. Since it would be another hour or so before the tide would crest, I locked up the boat and left for an errand.

      Outside of the marina office building, between the soft drink machines and the showers, was a pay phone. I used it for a credit card call to the U.S. Coast Guard in Miami. I told their operator that it was the matter of bringing back the salvaged Second Chance, and she connected me in to a Lieutenant (Junior Grade) Michael Davis. He listened patiently while I told him about the situation, including our discovering the dead man and turning criminal matters over to the Royal Bahamas Police Force. He agreed to take the information down, but he stressed the need for me to follow up the conversation in writing. "And, sir," he stressed, "this conversation in no way relieves you of your responsibility for clearing Customs and Immigration immediately, upon your return."

      "That goes without saying, Lieutenant Davis," I replied.

      Those guys must have been wary of people trying to pull fast ones.

      "Lieutenant, I would also like to ask for your help in getting in contact with the S.C. Corporation, which is listed as owner and master of the yacht. The certificate shows only a post office box for the address. I was wondering if you could get me a phone number for it?"

      He didn't answer right away, but I heard his keyboard clicking. A minute later, he recited the corporate name and postal address that I already had. "No individual named or phone number given."

      "Isn't it a little strange to have a corporation listed as a yacht's master? As its captain?"

      "No, they can do it. And with the big yachts they do it all the time. They might use a different captain for every cruise."

      "And with no phone number, how should we get hold of them?" I asked.

      "The standard procedure is to send the owners a registered letter and wait for their reply."

      "But that will take weeks!"

      "And you'll have to do it yourself. Sorry that I can't help you, sir, but the Coast Guard doesn't have any duty in this case, other than recording the registration. But I will put notes of our conversation into my personal log."

      "Thanks. And put me down as the salvage captain. Thanks again for the time you have spent with me."

      "No problem. And remember to clear Customs and Immigration when you return with the vessel."

      Being so close to the showers and restrooms, the conversation wasn't very private. During the course of it, three men and two women had passed by and any one of them could have picked up snatches of it. On the other hand, everyone knew that I had salvaged the yacht, and talking to the Coast Guard was a logical thing to do.

      The next logical thing for me to do was go back to the customs shed and ask if they had an address and name for "Steve." This time the TV was playing the Golden Girls and the brown-clad Immigration officer was the only one there. When I asked for the full name of "Steve," she said they didn't have it.

      "But you must have taken that information from him when he came here from Miami."