Vern turned around at the small motel, practically in front of Diego Clemente’s truck with its New York plates, and drove out toward Quinn Harlowe’s road, bypassing it since it was a dead end. Huck could see the cute waterfront cottage. Still no car, still no sign of life.
“That an osprey nest?” he asked, pointing to the buoy in the quiet cove, giving Vern a reason for him to be peering in that direction.
Vern made a face. “Yeah. It’s protected. Birds have more rights these days than people.”
Always the optimist, Vern was. Huck said nothing. He had the same feeling he’d had on his run. Something was wrong. He just couldn’t pinpoint what.
4
Q uinn rang the doorbell to Alicia’s first-floor Georgetown apartment for a third time, but she instinctively knew her friend wasn’t there. When Alicia moved to Washington, as far as she was concerned, only one address would do—somewhere, anywhere, in Georgetown. With a trust fund her grandfather, a prominent Chicago doctor, had established for her, she bought a small condo in a black-shuttered brick townhouse on a narrow street of the historic, prestigious neighborhood.
Quinn realized Alicia wouldn’t be coming to her front door at all—let alone acting like herself again, explaining that the stress of her job had finally gotten to her and she’d simply freaked out that morning.
Quinn descended the steps down to the street, recalling her last visit to Alicia’s just after New Year’s, when she had broken the news that she was quitting her job at Justice and going out on her own. Alicia, adept at concealing her true feelings, had claimed she wasn’t surprised and wished Quinn well, then let it be known through mutual friends that she viewed Quinn’s departure as something of a betrayal and resented her ability to make the jump into working for herself.
Quinn noticed the flower boxes on the front windows, which last spring Alicia had planted with a mix of bright flowers but now were filled with dead leaves and stale, dry dirt. She loved her home. Jobs and men might come and go, she’d say, but she always had her refuge.
The neglected window boxes were just another sign, if a trivial one, of Alicia’s mounting burnout. In law school, she’d ended up in treatment for depression. The medication she was given didn’t agree with her, but therapy by itself did the trick, and she got better. The entire experience wasn’t something she shared with many people, but Quinn had been there. Now, given Alicia’s bizarre behavior earlier, Quinn wondered if her friend ought to seek treatment for whatever was going on with her—it might not be just some funk she could snap out of on her own. If she was suffering from depression or some other mental illness, she needed to see a doctor. Period.
But Quinn recognized she didn’t have the expertise to make a diagnosis herself.
Debating what else she could do, she walked back down to M Street, Georgetown’s main commercial street. After giving up on chasing the black sedan, she’d stopped at her office, in case Alicia had asked her driver to drop her off there, but no luck. Now she wasn’t at her apartment, either. And Steve Eisenhardt, who worked with Alicia at Justice, hadn’t called back with any news of her.
If she called the police, Quinn knew they’d ask if Alicia had gotten into the black car voluntarily, and she would have to say yes. Alicia hadn’t screamed for help. She’d been agitated and semicoherent, but she’d somehow found her way from Yorkville to Washington and Quinn’s office, then her favorite coffee shop. If Alicia was having some kind of breakdown, she wouldn’t want the police involved. And Quinn wanted to help, not to make Alicia’s life more difficult.
She crushed the temptation to let her mind spin ahead of the facts and took the Metro Connection bus back to Dupont Circle, a few blocks from both her office and her apartment. She loved being able to walk to work in the morning, one of her favorite perks of self-employment.
She was so preoccupied with the bizarre scene at the coffee shop that she almost walked past the ivy-covered 1896 Italianate brick headquarters of the American Society for the Study of Plants and Animals. Her eccentric great-great-grandfather was one of the founders, and her slightly-less-eccentric marine archaeologist parents were directors, their latest project, funded by a private grant, having taken them to the Bering Sea for most of the past year.
During college and graduate school, Quinn had worked on and off for the Society, and when she decided to go out on her own, she negotiated use of a vacant second-floor office in exchange for modest rent and help with cataloguing the mountains of stray stuffed carcasses, drawings, journals, musty papers, old clothes and junk tucked in the building’s attic, basement and closets, a task the Society’s directors had meant to get to for decades. So far, she had filled more trash bags than Society treasure chests.
A cherry tree shaded the gracious building’s front entrance, its pale pink blossoms fluttering onto the sidewalk in a humid breeze. Quinn mounted the steps, waving to Thelma Worthington through the glass-front door. Thelma had served as the Society’s receptionist since John F. Kennedy was president, the only occupant of the White House to acknowledge its existence when he referred to it as one of the country’s great institutions. Nowadays, its well-managed endowment more than its contemporary relevance kept the American Society for the Study of Plants and Animals operational.
Thelma buzzed her in. When she tugged open the heavy door, Quinn entered another world, one of tall ceilings, ornate moldings, crystal chandeliers, Persian rugs, curving staircases and a respect—an encouragement—of eccentricity and risk-taking. Glass-fronted cabinets lined the center hall. As a child, Quinn remembered displays of glass jars of pickled organs and stuffed wild rodents and raptors. A new director, however, had replaced them with graceful porcelain figurines of wildflowers and songbirds.
Thelma took off the gaudy purple reading glasses she’d picked up at a drugstore. Despite the warm spring weather, she wore a sage-green corduroy ankle-length skirt and an argyle sweater vest over a white turtleneck. She had short gray hair and a Miss Hathaway face. Every summer, she picked ten mountains to climb.
“Any luck finding your friend?”
Quinn sighed heavily, suddenly tired. “Afraid not. Nothing new?”
“I’m sorry, no.”
Alicia had stopped by the Society first, apparently not as agitated as she was by the time she’d arrived at the coffee shop. Thelma thought nothing of telling her that Quinn was just down the street, but she’d already apologized for not having paid closer attention to Alicia’s frazzled emotional state.
“Did she go up to my office?” Quinn asked. “I wonder if she might have left a note, anything that could help—”
“She didn’t go any farther than where you’re standing right now. I almost didn’t recognize her. I’ve only met her once. She hasn’t seen your new office, has she?”
“No. We haven’t been that close lately.”
Thelma’s eyebrows arched, but she kept whatever questions she had about the friendship between the two younger women to herself. She leaned forward, glancing toward the stairs. “You have company. He got here about ten minutes ago. He said he’d wait for you. I don’t know how he has time—”
“Who, Thelma?”
She made a face. “Deputy Assistant Attorney General Lattimore.”
“What? You didn’t let him into my office, did you? All I need is for him to catch me cleaning out files on buffalo bones—he’ll never let me hear the end of it.”
“Relax. He’s in the library.” Thelma lowered her voice. “He’s even better looking in person than he is on television. If I liked lawyers…”
Quinn tried to smile. “Thelma, you are so bad. I’ll go see what he wants.”
Resisting the urge to run up the stairs, Quinn contemplated what she would say to Lattimore. Steve wouldn’t have told him about Alicia, but Gerard Lattimore was the type—alert, always waiting for the next shoe to drop—to have guessed.
She found her former boss in a high-back leather chair in front of the massive stone fireplace in the walnut-pane
led library at the top of the stairs. He looked as if he belonged there.
“All you need are a pipe and slippers,” Quinn said.
He didn’t smile as he rose, studying her. He had on an expensive dark gray suit and looked every inch the high-powered Department of Justice official he was, but Quinn could see the strain in his eyes. Although he was only forty-two, he seemed ten years older this afternoon. He was the newly divorced father of three preteens and a talented attorney with awesome responsibilities. On most days, he had the ego, ability and ambition to meet all his obligations.
He took her hand. “It’s good to see you, Quinn.”
She reminded herself that he didn’t have to be there because of Alicia. It could be anything. She let her hand fall back to her side. “Mr. Lattimore—”
“Gerard. No more formalities.” He glanced around the old library, largely unchanged since the late nineteenth century. “What a great room this is. This whole building is like stepping into a simpler past.”
“I’m not sure it was that simple. We do tend to run into the errant skull around here.”
He laughed stiffly. “Museum-quality animal skulls only, I hope.” He sighed, shaking his head. “Ah, Quinn. We miss you in the department.”
“Thanks. I’d hate to have spent three years there and not be missed. I can just hear it: ‘Harlowe? Not a minute too soon did she get her arse out of here.’” But when she saw that her stab at humor only elicited a tense smile from him and realized how awkward and phony the banter felt, she gave it up. “What can I do for you?”
His gray eyes settled on her. “Alicia Miller.”
Quinn licked her lips. “What about her?”
“I’m worried about her. She spent the weekend at your cottage in Yorkville. She didn’t come in today. She didn’t call in sick. Steve Eisenhardt—you’ve met him, haven’t you? He says he tried to reach her on her cell phone, but she hasn’t answered or returned his calls.” He studied her a moment. “Quinn?”
“I saw Alicia this afternoon. Around one o’clock.”
He motioned for her to sit down, but they both remained standing. “Tell me,” he said, his expression even tighter.
Quinn resisted the impulse to pace. How much should she tell him? She’d promised Alicia to be discreet, but never expected her to bolt the way she did. If she was in any trouble, Lattimore needed to know. He was in more of a position to help than Quinn was.
“Quinn,” he said quietly, “I know Alicia hasn’t been herself recently. I’m worried about her mental health. She left early on Friday. She was agitated, anxious. She couldn’t sit still. I caught her crying, hyperventilating, before she left.”
“I didn’t realize how burned out she was until today.”
“What happened?”
In that split second, Quinn decided to tell him everything, including as much of Alicia’s ramblings as she could remember. He listened without interruption. When she finished, Quinn was relieved that at least someone else now knew what she knew and could help figure out what to do. “I didn’t recognize the car that picked her up or see who was inside. If you think I should call the police—”
“And tell them what? There’s no reason to think Alicia didn’t want to get in that car.”
“She was totally freaked out, Gerard. I don’t know that she was capable of making a good decision.”
“Let’s hope the people who picked her up were friends who understand she’s on the verge of a nervous breakdown and can help her. Do you think she’d been drinking? Was she on drugs?”
“She didn’t seem drunk, no. On drugs—I just don’t see it.”
He sighed. “I’m sorry. I know she’s been preoccupied the past few weeks. She’s taken a few extra days here and there—to stay at your cottage, I presume.”
“I gave her a key after your party at the Yorkville marina last month and told her she could come and go as she pleased. I had no plans to use the cottage until later this month. When she first arrived in Washington, she helped me work on the place. We’re not as close as we once were…” Quinn wondered if she’d said too much. “I hoped the cottage might help to thaw things between us.”
“I understand. I know it must be hard for you, worrying about her. Alicia can be very distant at times, but she’s smart and capable—she’ll find her way through her problems. I’ll see what I can do on my end.”
“Alicia came to me for help. She never said what it was she wanted. Maybe there was nothing specific, but now…” Quinn shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know what to do.”
“You’re a good friend to Alicia, Quinn, but sometimes—” He took in a breath. “Sometimes there’s just not a damn thing we can do to help even a friend.”
“I’ve got time. I’ll drive down to Yorkville and see if she’s at the cottage. I don’t have a phone there—I can’t call and see if she’s there.” She thought a moment, liking this idea. “I can ask the neighbors what they know.”
“Why not call them?”
“I tried earlier. They’re not home. Anyway, I don’t want them to feel obligated to find Alicia. If she’s there and needs help—maybe I can do something. I can take work with me if she turns up fine in the meantime.”
“Let’s hope she does.” Lattimore walked out into the hall, his footsteps silent on the thick Persian runner, also original to the building. “Going to show me your office?”
“It’s just down the hall—it’s in the Octagon Room.” Quinn could hear how stiff she sounded. “Gerard—”
“Maybe another time.” He rubbed the back of his neck in a rare display of awkwardness. “If you ever heard anything, knew anything, that would put me in a bad light, you’d tell me, wouldn’t you? Rumors, people’s agendas. Whatever.”
She frowned. “Why? Is there something going on that I should know about? Does it affect Alicia—”
“No, nothing like that. Sometimes the vultures get to me. That’s all.” He gave her a fake smile. “Comes with the territory.”
Quinn followed him downstairs. By the time he reached Thelma’s desk, he was loose and smiling, and when he said goodbye, the starchy, lawyer-hating receptionist couldn’t maintain her neutral expression.
Outside on the steps, Quinn smiled at her former boss. “You charmed Thelma. That’s not easy to do.”
“Thelma? Oh, the receptionist.” He grinned. “Doesn’t like lawyers, does she?”
An answer wasn’t necessary. Quinn had no illusions about Gerard Lattimore. He didn’t like surprises, and he never revealed all he knew on any subject. It wasn’t a stretch to guess that whatever was going on with Alicia, he probably knew or guessed more than he was saying. If one of his people was going off the deep end, he’d find out—and he’d be careful. He was a political animal, alert enough, nimble enough, to jump out of the way before he got burned.
After he left, Quinn didn’t feel any better for having told him about Alicia. She returned to her office and stood at a leaded-glass window, staring down at a center courtyard with a formal maze of shrubs, flowering trees and stone benches. The pretty, sedate scene made Quinn wish she’d had coffee with Alicia there instead of down the street. The atmosphere might have calmed her and helped her to articulate what was wrong.
Quinn checked her private office line, but she had no messages.
If Alicia was okay, why not call and reassure her?
Dropping into her swivel chair, Quinn let her gaze settle on the dark, ominous oil painting of her great-great-grandfather that hung on the wall to her right. His name, too, was Quinn Harlowe. His portrait came with the office. Like her, he had black hair, pale skin and hazel eyes, but his face had more sharp angles than hers, and his expression was more dour than she could ever manage.
As a little kid, the painting had scared the daylights out of her. Her father would grin at it with pride. “What an incredible man he was. Nothing could stop him. He had guts and luck.”
A scholar and adventurer, Quinn Harlowe had died at ninety-eight, havin
g explored parts of all the continents. His son wasn’t so lucky, dying in an avalanche in the Canadian Rockies at fifty. His son, Quinn’s grandfather, Murtagh Harlowe, was a gentle soul, a Civil War expert who’d all but raised her while her parents were off on adventures of their own. Everyone who knew her father as a baby said they realized he was a throwback to that first Quinn Harlowe, a risk-taker, even before he could walk.
Quinn appreciated her family history, but she didn’t worry about where she fit in. She liked her quiet cottage by the bay, her work as an analyst. She wasn’t an adrenaline junky.
Right now she wanted to find Alicia. Whatever it took. She called several friends she and Alicia had in common, but no one had heard from her. Had she gone back to the cottage?
On a good day, with reasonable traffic, the drive to Yorkville took about three hours. Beltway traffic, however, was seldom reasonable.
“The osprey, the osprey.”
An osprey pair had built a nest on a buoy just offshore in front of the cottage. The large birds of prey made Alicia nervous. They’d never held much romance for her.
“The osprey will kill me.”
What on earth did Alicia mean?
Quinn glanced at her watch. Almost three. If she got moving, she could be at her cottage before nightfall.
5
D eputy Assistant Attorney General Gerard Lattimore had his driver drop him back at the Department of Justice. As he returned to his office, he could feel his pulse throbbing in his temple, as if Quinn’s words were pounding themselves into his brain. Somehow or another, Alicia Miller’s nervous breakdown—whatever was wrong with her—would come back to haunt him. He was her boss. He’d hired her. If she went off the deep end, it would reflect badly on him.
Depressed, drunk, drugged—did it matter what had caused her to make the scene earlier today at the coffee shop? She was a problem he should have addressed sooner.
Pushing back his concern, his anger at himself, he walked down the hall to the maze of cubicles where Alicia worked and wasn’t surprised to find Steve Eisenhardt at his desk. Lattimore warned himself not to get worked up. He had borderline high blood pressure and feared that the next crisis would pop him over the line, and he’d have to go on medication. Provided, of course, he didn’t drop dead of a stroke first.
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