Breakwater

by Carla Neggers

  The goon didn’t react at all. “What’s her relationship with Lattimore?”

  “He worships her. Thinks she’s brilliant. Thinks she can help him shine. He’d do damn near anything to get her back at Justice.”

  “Any romantic interest?”

  “Have you had a good look at her? Who wouldn’t have a romantic interest in her?”

  The kid to Steve’s right sneered. “Not everyone wants to screw every woman he sees, Eisenhardt. You’re a piece of work, aren’t you?”

  A squeaky-clean type. Steve ignored him. He looked up at the superfit goon on his left. “Quinn doesn’t like to sit on the sidelines.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me. Keep an eye on her. If she meets with Gerard Lattimore, we want to know.” The SS guard took another few steps. He spoke mildly, never raising his voice or giving his words any emphasis. Just stating the conditions under which Steve got to live. “We don’t want the Justice Department to use Alicia Miller’s death as an excuse to start nosing around in our affairs.”

  Steve felt sweat breaking out on his brow, the back of his neck, his lower back. “I don’t know her that well. What if I can’t find out what she’s up to?”

  “You’re a well-connected, intelligent, successful attorney. You’ll find out.”

  They walked a few more steps in what would look to anyone on the street like companionable silence. Finally, Steve licked his lips. “This wasn’t part of the deal.”

  “There was no deal.”

  “We had a verbal agreement—”

  “Lawyer talk,” the kid said.

  The older guy—the SS guard—seemed to like that one. “One more thing. We want you to find out if anyone at Justice is investigating what they would call a vigilante network.”

  “What?”

  “Names. We want names.”

  “What vigilante network?”

  The SS guard didn’t react. “Last fall. You remember. Deputy U.S. Marshal Juliet Longstreet and Special Forces Army Major Ethan Brooker uncovered a vigilante plot to expose traitors. One of the vigilantes was killed. Another—a low-level thug, really—was taken into custody.”

  Steve remembered. They’d nearly killed a White House advisor and Juliet Longstreet’s family in Vermont. “You guys?”

  Cold, steel-blue eyes leveled on him.

  Steve felt his stomach drop to his knees. He had a sudden urge to go to the bathroom. He tugged at his shirt collar, his fingers coming away wet with sweat. “If you’re involved with those kooks from last fall, you can bet your ass they’re investigating you. I wouldn’t have access to that kind of information.”

  The older goon reached into his pants pocket and withdrew a pack of gum, tapping out a piece as if they were discussing the spring weather forecast. “Get access.”

  Sipping more of his coffee, as if somehow it made him feel normal, Steve decided these guys needed to know he wasn’t afraid of them, that his life depended on it—never mind that his intestines were telling him in no uncertain terms that he was scared shitless. “So, is Oliver Crawford in on your new world order, or are you all just using him for his money and connections? He is who you work for, isn’t he? Makes sense, given what happened to Alicia down in Yorkville.”

  Steve wasn’t into their crazy thinking. Justice, breaking the law to save freedom. Throwing out two hundred years of jurisprudence and starting from scratch, rewriting the law their way. If they were involved with those screwballs from last fall, they were into vigilante violence and their own idea of the new world order.

  Thumbscrews. These bastards are into torturing people.

  The steel-eyed Nazi responded to his remark in the same mild tone. “We want the names of anyone involved in the investigation into last fall’s events. The lawyers, the FBI, the ATF, the marshals. Any White House liaisons.”

  “Liaison. That’s a big word for you, isn’t it?” Instead of shooting him, the Nazi offered Steve a piece of gum. He shook his head. “No, thanks.” For some reason, the gesture made him sweat even more. “Doesn’t anything get to you?”

  A quirk of a smile. “Justice Department lawyers entrusted with the people’s business having kinky sex with underage girls.”

  Steve forced himself not to react. The bastards had pictures. They’d sent him a link to a Web site with an entire photo album of him and the congressman’s daughter. They didn’t just have a couple of grainy pictures he could explain away. With a few clicks of the keyboard, they could post their little montage to the world.

  “No one was hurt.”

  “Tell that to her father,” the Nazi Youth said. “She was fifteen.”

  “If Daddy sees a picture of his daughter with your dick in her mouth, you won’t just not work in Washington again.” The SS guard chewed his gum, obviously relishing this part of his job. “You won’t work anywhere.”

  “The daughter was rebelling against her parents. That’s not my fault.”

  True enough, but the ropes and the rough sex were his idea. She’d gone along at first, just itching to get back at her father for ignoring her, at her mother for putting image above anything else—at both of them for not understanding her. Steve had used her disenchantment with her life to his advantage.

  He’d done it all before, and she hadn’t; his speed, his expertise, his excitement at her moans had frightened her. He’d gotten off on the risk of what he was doing and couldn’t make himself stop.

  Several of the pictures showed her trying to get away from him.

  She didn’t want anyone to know what she’d done. If nothing else, Steve figured he’d taught her a lesson about not getting ahead of herself in doing payback. She wanted to punish her parents by misbehaving, but the gain needed to be in balance with the pain.

  He’d also promised himself he’d stay away from the troubled teenage daughters of powerful Washington types.

  Two weeks ago, just when he thought he’d dodged this latest speeding bullet he’d fired at himself and his fun with the congressman’s daughter would stay their dirty little secret, the goons turned up. The pictures would embarrass the girl, too—not to mention her family—but they didn’t care. Steve didn’t know how they had managed to get the pictures. They must have followed him. Did he look like a pervert? Had one of his previous consensual partners talked?

  Since seeing himself on a computer screen, he’d been celibate.

  No wonder he couldn’t stand still, couldn’t think straight. Sex, especially kinky sex, relieved his stress.

  They came to Pennsylvania Avenue, busy on the warm spring morning. Normal people, Steve thought, going to normal jobs.

  The two Nazis flagged a cab and climbed in, ignoring Steve. The cab pulled away. He melted into a crowd crossing the street, his hand shaking wildly, his bowels clamping down. He didn’t know if he’d make it to the DOJ in time.

  What would the atmosphere be like, with Alicia’s death? Word of the discovery of her body hadn’t reached the office until late in the day.

  I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.

  But it had, hadn’t it? And it was never going to end. Never, unless he did something, walked into Lattimore’s office and told him everything, or called this Brooker or Longstreet. At least maybe they could stop these guys from hurting anyone else.

  Steve could hear his jail-cell door locking shut even now. If he talked, he faced a prison sentence as well as public humiliation.

  He wasn’t going to do anything except what the two Nazis had asked him to. It was his only chance to save his own neck.

  15

  Q uinn noticed curious looks from a few people as she settled into her booth at Shippey’s, a diner in a former hardware store on Yorkville’s wide main street. With its red vinyl booths and Formica counter, its draw was its comfort-food menu and pleasant staff, not its decor.

  The village did, however, have its quaint places. Some of the tourist-oriented seasonal shops weren’t open yet, but most of the mainstays—bookstore, pharmacy, antiques shops,
galleries, sporting goods store—had out their welcome signs. Quinn had no intention of going shopping. She just wanted breakfast. She’d spent the night on her couch, sleeping in fits and starts, and woke up starving, with nothing to eat but Alicia’s abandoned yogurt.

  After two years in Yorkville, with her scores of trips to yard sales and flea markets, she knew many of the locals and second-home people. Shippey’s was a gathering place, quieter on a weekday morning in early spring, but, still, half the stools at the counter and most of the booths were occupied. On a weekend morning in the summer, there’d be a line. Several people recognized her and told her how sorry they were about Alicia’s death, and Quinn quickly decided that coming to the diner, being among people, had been a good move.

  Donna, the redheaded thirty-year-old daughter of Shippey’s owners, set a mug of coffee in front of her and took Quinn’s order of French toast and bacon. Food, she knew, would help steady her.

  “You just missed your FBI agent,” Donna said. “He had the French toast, too.”

  Shippey’s French toast, golden-brown and sprinkled with cinnamon sugar, was famous. “Special Agent Kowalski? He’s not my FBI agent—”

  “I don’t know. He’s kind of cute.” Donna grinned, pointing her coffeepot at Quinn. “There. I knew that’d put some color back in your cheeks.”

  “Did he say where he was headed?”

  “No—I figure he’s gone to Breakwater. He was talking to some people in here, and he didn’t realize the woman who drowned—Miss Miller—” Donna suddenly grew awkward. “I’m so sorry about what happened. I know she was your friend.”

  “Thank you.” Quinn left it at that. “What didn’t Agent Kowalski realize?”

  “Oh. That your friend was acting weird all weekend. I don’t mean to speak ill—”

  “It’s okay, Donna. Had anyone seen her?”

  “A couple people saw her on Sunday and said she was real jittery. Then on Monday morning, I was up early as usual to get here for five-thirty, and I saw her out at the Crawford compound’s front gate. I go by there on my way to work. She looked pretty upset.”

  “She was at the Crawford compound at five-thirty in the morning?”

  “That’s right.” Donna blushed. “I’m not saying anything out of turn, am I?”

  “No, no, of course not. I just hadn’t realized she was there, either.”

  “I’m sure it doesn’t mean anything, her being out there. She’d walked from the cottage, I guess. It’s a couple miles, but she kept in good shape—we used to see her jogging around town all the time on the weekends she was down here. I didn’t think too much of it, except she was so upset.”

  “Did anyone at Breakwater know she was there? They’ve tightened up security—”

  “Oh, yeah. They knew she was there. You know they did. They’ve gone downright crazy with security, if you ask me. They’ve got snipers on the roof. I live three miles up the road, and half the time I don’t remember to lock my doors. And they’re just getting started. There’s way more to come.”

  Quinn doubted Breakwater had snipers, much less any posted on the roof. Donna’s exaggeration, however, wasn’t unexpected. Obsessive about his privacy even before his kidnapping, Oliver Crawford was a popular subject of gossip, and his new private security venture only added to his aura of wealth and eccentricity. He had the money, freedom and connections to indulge any whim.

  “Could you hear what Alicia was saying?” Quinn asked.

  Donna shook her head. “I couldn’t make out any words. I was going to stop and help, but some of Crawford’s security guys came out the front gate. Bet they drove her back to your cottage.”

  “Did you see which guys—”

  She gestured with her coffeepot out the window. “Not those two. They’re new.” But she collected herself. “I’m talking too much. I should put your order in.”

  As she sipped her coffee, Quinn turned to see who Donna had pointed to and watched Huck Boone and another man, just as buff, shut the doors to a black SUV that had pulled up in front of the diner. She was so startled, she dropped her mug, coffee spilling over her table. She jumped aside before it could hit her and pulled napkins from a dispenser, and began to sop up the coffee.

  In an instant Huck was there, scooping up the wet napkins as she grabbed for more. “Got butterfingers this morning, huh?”

  “Looks that way.” Using a fresh napkin, she took the wet napkins from him and tried to smile. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  “A granola bar at 5:00 a.m. doesn’t go far. We were up early for training.” Instead of running clothes, this morning he wore neat khaki pants and a black lightweight jacket with Breakwater Security over his heart, in discreet gold lettering. He gestured to the man next to him, also in khakis and a black Breakwater Security jacket. “This is Vern, by they way—Vernon Glover. He’s another Breakwater flunky. Vern, meet Quinn Harlowe.”

  “My pleasure,” Vern said, but he didn’t offer a hand, nor had he helped clean up the spilled coffee. He turned to Huck. “I’ve got a few things to do in town. I’ll be back for you in thirty minutes.”

  He left abruptly. Huck smiled at Quinn. “Looks as if Vern’s not having breakfast with me.”

  Quinn started to invite him to join her, but Donna arrived with a damp towel and he took a stool at the counter. Donna mopped the table, nervously glancing at Boone. She leaned close to Quinn and whispered, “Him and the one that just left—they’re armed to the teeth.”

  “I’m sure they have permits for any weapons—”

  “Shh.”

  Quinn started to say something else, but Donna scooted off dramatically, giving Huck a dazzling smile as she disappeared into the kitchen.

  With her table wet, Quinn moved to the counter, deliberately sitting next to Huck. He glanced sideways at her. “How are you this morning? Besides jumpy.”

  “I’m doing okay. Thanks for asking. I thought getting out would do me good.” She smiled. “Plus, I had no food. Alicia left a yogurt…”

  “You need a real breakfast. You look pale.”

  Donna returned with two mugs of coffee and set them on the counter. “Your breakfast will be right up,” she told Quinn, then took Huck’s order of eggs, home fries and wheat toast.

  As she peeled open a thimble of half-and-half, Quinn was aware of him so close to her. “What exactly do you do at Breakwater?” she asked.

  “Whatever I’m told.”

  “You don’t give the orders?”

  “No, ma’am,” he said with an undertone of amusement. “I take orders. I’m just a low-level bodyguard.”

  “Whose body do you guard?”

  His eyes settled on hers, then drifted lower, taking her in with a frankness she wasn’t used to. He shifted back to his coffee, drinking it black. Without looking at her, he said, “Makes no difference to me.”

  “How does one get to be a bodyguard?”

  “I fell into it.”

  Quinn persisted. “How?”

  “Harvard didn’t want me.”

  “You’re using sarcasm to avoid answering my question. Is that your custom?”

  His dark green eyes narrowed on her. “You’re asking questions to avoid thinking about your friend.”

  She felt heat rise in her face. “I wouldn’t know if that kind of avoidance is typical for me because I’ve never had a friend drown.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said abruptly. “That wasn’t very nice of me.”

  “Are you a nice man?”

  He gave her a quick, unreadable smile. “You ask a lot of questions for someone who hasn’t had breakfast. Aren’t you hungry?”

  Donna returned with a plate of French toast and a glass shaker of cinnamon sugar, but this time she kept any comments she had to herself.

  Quinn picked up a knife and spread butter across the golden toast. “Whatever training you did this morning must not have been too rigorous. You were a lot sweatier yesterday. And you don’t look as if you just got out of the sho
wer.”

  Sudden humor sparked in his eyes. “How would I look just out of the shower?”

  Oh, hell. She set the knife down quickly, before she ended up dropping it. “More avoiding of the subject. My point is,” she went on, “that I don’t believe your story. I think you and your friend Vern saw Special Agent Kowalski coming in the front door and you went out the back door. So to speak. I don’t even know if the Crawford compound has a back door.”

  Huck drank his coffee without responding.

  As she sprinkled cinnamon sugar onto the melting butter, Quinn tried to regain her appetite. The smell of food combined with the tension of interrogating this man—who probably was armed, if not to the extent Donna assumed—had turned her stomach. “Why didn’t you tell me Alicia was at the Crawford compound early Monday morning? Never mind me—did you tell Special Agent Kowalski?”

  “I didn’t see her.”

  “Did Vern?”

  “No.”

  Donna brought his breakfast and refilled the two mugs, her knuckles white on the handle of the coffeepot. Quinn wondered how much she’d overheard.

  After Donna retreated nervously, Huck picked up a slice of bacon. “What are you now, Kowalski’s helper? Think the FBI can’t investigate, and they need your help?”

  “I was just making conversation.”

  “No, you weren’t.”

  She cut into her French toast. She needed a sugar boost. Something to help get her back to normal. “The police found Alicia’s car last night up on the loop road.”

  “So I heard.”

  “She must have taken the kayak up there—”

  Huck turned to face her. “Quinn, just stop. Don’t do this to yourself. Go back home, resume your life and mourn your friend. Let the authorities figure out what happened to her.”

  “She drowned.”

  Quinn jumped off the stool, ready to bolt.

  He touched her elbow. “I’m sorry. Sit down. Finish your breakfast. I’ll leave you alone.”

  “I can’t eat. It’s not you…” Her throat caught. “Good luck with your job. I’m sorry we had to meet under such difficult circumstances. If you stay at Breakwater—” She didn’t know what she was saying. “Well, who knows.”