Breakwater

by Carla Neggers

  “You’re heading back to Washington?”

  “Yes, as soon as I pull myself together. I have work today, and there’s nothing—I guess there’s nothing for me to do here.”

  She left money on the counter for her breakfast and a generous tip. As she headed for the door, Huck didn’t stop her. Once she was outside, she let herself sob, brushing back tears as she started down the main street. She’d walked into the village, which meant she had to walk back. The gorgeous morning made her want to stay on the bay for a few days. Hide there, she thought. Pretend she was on vacation and Alicia was at work in Washington, not on a slab in some medical examiner’s office.

  Pushing the image out of her mind before it could take hold, Quinn focused on the pretty scenery, walking along the loop road past the motel where she’d met Diego Clemente last night. She stood on the dock, pretending to look for birds, but she didn’t see him or his boat. She recognized Buddy Jones, the motel’s owner and a Yorkville fixture, a wiry, leather-skinned man in his late sixties, a cigarette hanging off his lower lip as he tied a boat with a thick, worn rope.

  “Excuse me,” Quinn said. “Have you seen Diego Clemente?”

  “Who?”

  She repeated the name. “He was out here last night. I think he’s a guest at your motel—”

  “Oh, right. Yeah. The Yankees fan.” Buddy paused, removing the cigarette from his lip. “I hate the Yankees. Diego’s a nice guy, though. He went out early this morning. He does most mornings.”

  “In his boat?”

  “Yeah, in his boat.”

  “He’s here alone?”

  Buddy regarded her with curiosity more than suspicion. “Why do you want to know?”

  “I don’t, really. I was just asking.”

  “He’s a good-looking fella.”

  “That’s not why—”

  “He and his wife split up. He’s taking some time to get his head screwed on straight. Nothing like fishing for that.” He flicked ashes into the water. “You fish?”

  “No—I kayak.”

  “Kayaking.” He grimaced with disdain. “I hope you know what you’re doing. Half the kayakers I see out here are a menace. A wonder more of them don’t get killed. That girl yesterday—you hear about her?”

  Quinn felt the blood run out of her head, but she nodded. “What a tragedy.”

  He sighed. “An unnecessary tragedy, if you want my opinion. Now she’s gone, and her family and friends have to live with what she did. Sorry. I don’t mean to speak ill of the dead. You want me to tell Diego you were asking for him?”

  “Oh, no, that’s not necessary. How long has he been in Yorkville?”

  “Couple weeks.” The old man stabbed a callused finger at her. “You take my advice and stay away from him, okay, missy? He’s on the rebound from a bad marriage. Nothing but heartache in it for a pretty girl like you.”

  “Thanks. I’ll remember that.” In spite of his old-fashioned attitudes, Quinn couldn’t help but like the man. “He doesn’t have anything to do with Breakwater Security, does he?”

  The old man grunted. “Those psychopaths? No, not that I know of.”

  “The security guys—do they sometimes do training runs out this way?”

  “A few do—”

  “A rough-looking guy with short dark hair? He was out for a run yesterday morning—”

  “I think I know the one you mean. He found that woman’s body yesterday—he and her friend from D.C. I heard his name’s Boone. I can’t remember if it’s his first name or his last name. He just got here. I saw him running Monday, before the storms hit.”

  Quinn took a breath. “What time, do you remember?”

  “Before five.” He grinned, stained teeth showing. “I wasn’t drinking a beer, and I don’t drink beer until after five.”

  “A sensible rule.”

  “He stopped to stretch. Diego was out here having a cigarette—they talked for a minute or two. That’s it. Why?”

  “I’m just curious.” It was the truth, but she remembered Kowalski’s warning about interfering. “To be honest, I’m not sure how I feel about having the Crawford compound turned into a private security facility.”

  Buddy waved a hand in dismissal. “A day late and a dollar short on that one, if you don’t mind my saying so. It’s a done deal.”

  Quinn couldn’t argue. Thanking him for his time, she continued her waterfront walk back to her cottage. Finding Alicia yesterday was horrible. She’d been in shock most of the day and wasn’t doing that great now, but if she didn’t pull herself together soon, people like T.J. Kowalski would either think she was on the verge of a breakdown herself or hiding something.

  A sound overhead—close—drew her out of her thoughts.

  A helicopter. Private. Flying low over the cove.

  Oliver Crawford.

  Quinn pictured Huck in his neat khakis and Breakwater jacket, rushing out to meet his boss, and found something about the image was off, simply didn’t work.

  She didn’t know the man at all, but she’d learned to be a quick judge—to trust her instincts. And he hadn’t struck her as bodyguard material. Not that she knew anything about bodyguards.

  Huck Boone is not your problem, she told herself.

  She’d take a shower and head back to Washington.

  There was no reason to stay in Yorkville another minute.

  16

  H uck followed a mixed barbed-wire and white rail fence down to the water, where the rail fence gave way to just the barbed wire. As deterrents went, it was nothing elaborate, barely enough to warn off trespassers. Getting to Breakwater along the water would be difficult enough, given the surrounding marshes and the absence of a dock.

  Joe Riccardi was smoking a cigar and staring out at the water. Without looking at Huck, he said, “I understand you met Quinn Harlowe in town just now.”

  “I didn’t meet her. I ran into her.”

  “She was in the diner when you arrived?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You didn’t go there because of her?”

  “No, I went there for breakfast.”

  Riccardi nodded, his gaze still on the quiet bay. “Mr. Crawford is here. We don’t want any problems. He’s met Quinn Harlowe several times, because of his friendship with Gerard Lattimore.”

  “Did he know Alicia Miller?”

  “Not really. They’d met.” Riccardi shifted his gaze to Huck, but his expression was difficult to read. “The FBI agent looking into her death was here. T.J. Kowalski. He’d heard Miss Miller was out here on Monday morning. I hate to see that story come to law enforcement’s attention. The scrutiny—” He looked back out at the water. “I don’t know what’s to be gained by that kind of scrutiny.”

  Find out if she was murdered. During the night, Huck had brainstormed all the different ways Alicia Miller could have ended up in the marsh, drowned, with her kayak, that didn’t involve an accident or suicide. The thunderstorms could have provided a killer with cover, a reason for the authorities not to think murder.

  But if he had a list of possibilities, speculative though they were, so did T.J. Kowalski and the local cops and probably half the village of Yorkville.

  “Do you ever wonder how you got into this kind of work in the first place?” Riccardi asked quietly.

  “Sometimes.”

  “If I’d stayed home in Michigan, I don’t know.” He puffed on his cigar. “There was no work in town. I wasn’t that excited about college. I went, anyway, and got a useless degree. Then I joined the army.”

  “How long did you stay in?”

  “Twenty.”

  “Miss it?”

  Riccardi shook his head. “Not anymore. I lost a wife because of the demands. She just wasn’t suited to having a husband at war. Then I met Sharon. We’ve been married less than a year. I thought Breakwater would be a path to a more normal life. I’d have a chance to get ahead.” He stubbed out his cigar on a fence post and tucked it into his jacket pocke
t. “It’s beautiful out here. We sure as hell could do worse.”

  “I guess so.”

  “Alicia Miller’s death is a tragedy. Monday morning, when she came out here, Lubec and Rochester did what they could for her. She was ranting. They took her back to the cottage. They tried to get her to go to the emergency room or call a friend, but she sent them away. What more could they have done?” Riccardi didn’t wait for an answer. “She went back to Washington, then came back here. For whatever reason.”

  “Tough break to get mixed up in her problems.”

  “What about Harlowe? Is she going to stir the pot?”

  She already has. Huck shrugged. “Once she gets back to Washington and resumes her normal routine, she should be fine.”

  “She doesn’t want to believe her friend killed herself yesterday or died in a tragic accident, does she?”

  “She’s operating under a lot of guilt.”

  Joe Riccardi’s dark gaze fell on Huck. “Be careful of her.”

  It wasn’t a statement that required a response.

  Riccardi changed the subject. “Oliver Crawford is meeting with Sharon right now. I’m joining them in a few minutes. We’re updating him on where we are with the company. He wants to see you, Vern Glover and Cully O’Dell at the house in an hour.”

  “Any reason?”

  “He takes a personal interest in all of his employees.”

  Huck couldn’t tell if Joe Riccardi was dead-on serious or indulging in a little sarcasm about his employer. He left, and Huck stayed by the barbed-wire fence, looking out across the marsh. He hoped Quinn had packed up her Saab and was on her way back to Washington. From what he’d seen of Special Agent Kowalski, he wouldn’t take to having her sticking her nose in his investigation, even one into a likely death-by-accidental-drowning. She’d already given Diego fits. Huck had managed to check in with him by phone before breakfast, and Clemente was spitting fire about her bumping into him last night.

  Huck had made the mistake of reminding him that because of Quinn, they’d found Alicia Miller’s car. Diego had growled. “I’d have figured out it was Miller’s car without Harlowe’s help.”

  Unable to resist, Huck had prodded his partner. “When?”

  “You’re a prick, Huck. If you weren’t a prick, you couldn’t do what you do.”

  Diego was just giving as good as he got, but Huck thought his partner and backup—his friend—had a point. The past months of deep undercover work had changed him. When Huck looked in the mirror in the morning, he didn’t know who he was.

  A jackass.

  If he had to be a jackass to get the job done, fine. If being nice would do it—he’d be nice. But he had no clear idea of how to win the trust of the vigilantes among his new colleagues at Breakwater enough to get them to let him in on their plans. What did the Riccardis know? What did Oliver Crawford know? Who were the key players? Or had Vern Glover landed in Yorkville just because he needed a job, and Huck was barking up the wrong damn tree?

  Alicia Miller’s death had set everyone on edge.

  Somehow, as unfeeling as it sounded, Huck knew he had to turn all the free-floating tension around him because of the tragedy into an advantage. Something that would help him get answers.

  A soft breeze blew across the marsh, bringing with it tangy, earthy smells of salt and wet dirt. He was from northern California. As a deputy U.S. marshal, he could be assigned anywhere. But he wasn’t a part of the vigilante task force and didn’t like coming in through the back door.

  He saw Diego Clemente’s wreck of a fishing boat out toward the horizon. Tough life. Diego didn’t know a damn thing about Alicia Miller’s death, either. That black-haired, hazel-eyed Quinn Harlowe, reportedly a very fine analyst and an expert on transnational crime, had managed to find the one other federal undercover agent in town last night didn’t sit well with Huck at all.

  Diego’s decision to use his own name hadn’t seemed to be a big risk. There was no reason for anyone to run a background check on him. Now—he’d sparked Quinn’s interest. If she threatened their undercover status, Nate Winter and his team would yank Huck and Diego out of Yorkville, and the psycho vigilantes they were hunting would crawl back under their rocks.

  Huck turned back to the house. He knew Diego would see him on shore. His primitive all-clear for his backup. Things were okay at the Crawford compound. He wasn’t scheduled for a beating or an execution. With all the technology they had at their disposal, they were working with smoke signals.

  Back at the converted barn, he found Cully O’Dell preening in front of a mirror in the bathroom. He’d spent the morning in the classroom, taking written tests. “I look okay for Crawford?”

  “Yeah, you look fine. What’s that smell?”

  O’Dell sniffed. “Aftershave. Too strong?”

  “Well, this place has chemical-attack sensors. Don’t want anyone thinking you’re trying to kill Crawford.”

  The kid blushed. “Should I wash it off?”

  “No, you’re fine.” Huck grinned. “Hell, Cully, you’re going to be a great bodyguard, especially for women. The bad guys will underestimate you, which will be their mistake, and the women will think you’re their little brother and undress in front of you. Either way, you’re good.”

  If possible, Cully reddened even more. “I see myself as a professional, Mr. Boone.”

  “Huck, okay?”

  He nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  No way, Huck thought, was Cully O’Dell a half-crazy vigilante mercenary willing to break the law and torture, even murder. He was just a kid from Virginia who wanted to make a respectable living. If the shit hit the fan, O’Dell wouldn’t be backup or an enemy—he’d be someone Huck needed to protect.

  Unless all his instincts were wrong and the kid was plotting to kill him in his sleep.

  This was no time to start questioning his instincts, Huck thought, then washed up and put on a fresh shirt for the big meeting.

  17

  Q uinn decided she couldn’t go back to Washington without making herself get out on the water. She didn’t want Alicia’s death to keep her from kayaking. She had to get back out there. She dragged her second kayak, a dark green, down to the cove and shoved off smoothly. The water was colder than she’d anticipated, but the sky was bright and clear and the light chop just enough to be exhilarating.

  With the osprey pair circling overhead, she gave their sprawling nest wide berth and headed north along the marsh, up toward the Crawford compound. As she dipped her paddle into the soft water, she quieted her mind and listened to the gentle breeze in the marsh grasses and trees and the light lap of bay against kayak. A two-hundred-mile estuary, where saltwater met fresh water, Chesapeake Bay played host to more than three thousand species of plants and animals and, with its inlets and islands, had more than eleven thousand miles of shoreline. Sixteen million people lived within the bay region. Pollution, erosion, competition for resources and space were fierce, the delicate ecological balance constantly threatened and yet—always there was hope for a better future.

  Feeling more positive, Quinn continued along to the southern edge of the Crawford compound, her muscles tight after the tension of the past two days. Cold bay water splashed into her boat. She was wet up to her thighs. She’d put on water shoes and a bright yellow life vest, with a whistle secured to a zippered pocket, but she was wearing jeans. Although she should have worn a wetsuit, she didn’t expect to be out long. She’d be back at her cottage before she got really cold.

  Peering past the barbed-wire fence, she saw the graceful old house that was now headquarters for Breakwater Security and noticed a new building—classrooms, she recalled from local gossip. The tactical facilities—shooting ranges, simulation environments and defensive-driving courses—were farther inland, not right where Oliver Crawford could see them from his front porch.

  A large swell seemed to serve as a challenge—a dare. Quinn turned her kayak into the wave and let it take her to shore, onto the gras
s and sand in front of the barbed wire. She climbed out, splashing into the cold water.

  Unfastening and unzipping her vest, she laid her paddle across the kayak and caught her breath, hands on hips, as she surveyed the narrow strip of sand and wild grasses. The wash of waves behind her soothed her taut nerves.

  Why had Alicia come to Breakwater at dawn? As out of her head as she’d been, she still had reasons for what she’d done. She’d come to the coffee shop for Quinn’s help. Why here?

  Huck Boone and Vern Glover appeared on the other side of the fence. Neither man looked pleased to see her. Quinn shrugged off her life vest, dumping it into the cockpit of her kayak as she squinted at them. “You both look quite spruced up. Having lunch with the boss?” She pointed at the sky. “I saw his helicopter arrive.”

  “Lunch is over,” Glover said.

  Huck pushed down the barbed wire and stepped over it onto her side of the beach. “I thought you were going back to Washington.”

  “I am. Just not yet.” She nodded to the fence. “Worried about lost kayakers and wanderlust bird-watchers?”

  He just narrowed his eyes on her, as if he could see through her bravado to all her messy motives and emotions and knew exactly why she was there.

  She kept on. “Not much protection, is it?”

  Glover grunted. “There’s what you see and what you don’t see.”

  “You mean, like land mines?”

  Not liking her answer, he took a step forward, but Huck grinned, glancing back at his colleague. “She’s got her sense of humor back, anyway.”

  “It’s a sick sense of humor,” Glover said, his eyes darkening. “I know people who’ve lost limbs to land mines. They’re a serious business.”

  Quinn started to say something back to him, but Huck held up a hand and gave her a sharp, warning look, silencing her. “What do you want?” he asked.

  She realized she had no idea. She’d acted impulsively, getting out her second kayak, dragging it down to the water, paddling up the bay. A wonder she hadn’t ended up in Maryland. She squared her shoulders, feeling the cold bay water dripping down her legs inside her jeans. “Oliver Crawford’s here, right?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “I’d like to see him.”