Without waiting for any by-your-leave from the two men, Quinn pushed down the barbed wire with one foot, then climbed over to Glover’s side of the fence. The ends of her hair had gotten wet from paddling up to the compound. She shivered, suddenly feeling cold.
Vern snorted in disgust. “You handle this, Boone,” he said, about-facing and stalking up across the yard.
Quinn frowned at the departing bodyguard. “Mr. Warm and Fuzzy must make nervous clients feel safe and secure.”
“You want a Mr. Rogers protecting you or a Vern Glover?”
“I don’t want anyone protecting me.”
“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” Huck stepped back over the fence. “Your lips are purple.”
“It was colder on the water than I expected.” She shifted just enough to get out of his shadow. As she stood in the sunlight, his eyes seemed to have darkened. “If you take me to see Ollie, I can warm up at the house.”
“Ollie, huh?”
“That’s what my former boss calls him. To each other, they’re Gerry and Ollie. To the rest of us, they’re Gerard and Oliver.” She tried to smile, but it felt strained. “In case you’re wondering, I’m never Quinny.”
Huck settled back on his heels, studying her a moment. “Quinn, go home. I can take you back to your cottage—”
“Okay, I’ll find Ollie on my own.” Feeling light-headed, a little out of control, she pointed toward the white house with its black shutters and gracious landscaping. “He’s up there, right? All you have to do is let your guys know I’m friendly, so no one shoots me.”
“No one’s going to shoot you.”
“What about you? Are you armed?”
He didn’t answer her.
Taking a few steps in the soft, cool grass, she could feel her heart racing and knew the shock of Alicia’s death was having an effect on her. She hadn’t slept or eaten enough in the last two days. She was half-frozen. Normally, she was self-disciplined, thinking before acting. “My great-grandfather died in an avalanche because he was impulsive.”
“What?”
She paid no attention to him, barely paused for a breath. “But my great-great-grandfather lived to almost a hundred, and he took more risks than any of us. When is a risk calculated and when is a risk reckless?” She glanced back at her companion, then answered her own question. “Depends on whether you live or die.”
“Sometimes, there’s no choice—”
“Not with my family. They all could stay home and read books, but they don’t. My parents—” She stepped onto a brick walk that curved around dogwoods, lilacs and azaleas that soon would be in bloom. “I used to worry myself sick about them when I was a kid. They’re marine archaeologists. It sounds like a safe profession, doesn’t it? But they’ve had so many close calls, diving into sunken ships, exploring remote places. They’d leave me with my grandfather.”
Huck eased in next to her. “He’s not a risk-taker?”
“He’s a historian, too. His area of study is the Civil War. These days he’s a volunteer guide at Fredericksburg and Chancellorsville.”
“Old guy?”
“Eighty-two.” Feeling the sun warm on the back of her neck, Quinn took a breath, some of her tension letting up. “My point is, Alicia could have done everything right the other day, and still could have drowned.”
“Quinn.” Huck’s tone had lost some of its edge. “You did what you could. It sounds as if she had problems—”
“She didn’t kill herself.”
“Maybe not on purpose.”
Quinn swung around at him. “Where are you in the Breakwater hierarchy?”
“I’m the new guy. I’m at rock bottom.”
“That’s not good. I was hoping you could pull strings for me. I guess I’ll manage on my own, especially since no one’s going to shoot me—”
“I could just throw you over my shoulder and dump your butt back in your kayak.”
“Then you could kiss your new job goodbye, couldn’t you?”
He didn’t answer, but she thought he gritted his teeth.
The brick walk led to the front of the house. If she was going in the wrong direction to find Oliver Crawford, Huck wasn’t going to tell her. He didn’t want her there at all. She could hardly blame him.
“Why was Alicia here on Monday?”
“I have no idea—”
“She and Gerard Lattimore, her boss, my former boss, get along well. He thought she was burned out at work and needed some time off, understood the appeal of Yorkville in springtime.” Quinn cast Huck a look. “He wasn’t here, was he?”
“No.”
“Oliver Crawford—”
“Him, either.”
The Riccardis intercepted them in front of the porch steps. She’d met them, briefly, at Lattimore’s party in March. In retrospect, she suspected the party was his way of showing his approval of his friend Oliver’s private security firm—of legitimizing it without having to go on record.
Sharon Riccardi, in a Breakwater sweatshirt a size too big for her, stepped forward, ahead of her husband. “Miss Harlowe?” There was a decided sharpness to her tone. “Is there something we can do for you?”
Before she could respond, Huck answered. “She was out kayaking and stopped just outside the fence—”
“I’d like to say hi to Oliver,” Quinn interrupted. “I saw his helicopter arrive.”
Joe Riccardi gave Huck an irritated glance, then turned to her, smiling pleasantly. “Miss Harlowe, Mr. Crawford’s on a very tight schedule.”
“You look half-frozen,” Sharon said. “My God, you’re shivering.”
“I underestimated how cold the water is this time of year.”
Joe straightened. “Huck can drive you and your kayak back to your cottage. We’re very sorry for your loss yesterday. We’d met Alicia…” He hesitated, as if he didn’t know what more to say. “We’re sorry.”
“She was lovely,” his wife interjected. “Absolutely lovely.”
Quinn decided to push harder, although she wasn’t sure why. “Can you tell Oliver that I’m here and—”
“Quinn!” Crawford himself trotted down the porch steps. He had gray-flecked dark hair and was about six feet tall, paunchy, dressed in baggy jeans and a navy cotton sweater with the elbows blown out. He took both Quinn’s hands into his. “It’s good to see you, although I wish the circumstances were better. I heard about Alicia, of course. I’ve already called Gerry to express my condolences.”
“Thank you.”
“What can I do for you?” He squeezed her hands. “You’re freezing.”
Now that she was here, seeing how distraught everyone was over Alicia’s death, Quinn didn’t know what to say, and she was so cold, she just wanted to crawl back into her quilt at her cottage and stay there. “Nothing, really. I just wanted to say hello.”
“You’ve never been out here, have you?” When she shook her head, he let her hands go and gestured broadly, taking in his entire hundred-acre estate. “We’re transforming the place into a state-of-the-art security company. We want to keep it small, elite.”
“Looks as if you have your own mini-Quantico here.” She thought of Donna at the diner, the talk in town surrounding Breakwater. “There’s a rumor going around town that you’ve got snipers on the roof and everything.”
Huck didn’t react at all, but the Riccardis seemed appalled at such a suggestion, Sharon in particular, wincing, taking a sharp breath. Oliver Crawford, more accustomed to controversy, chuckled. “Well, not quite.”
“Corporate security isn’t what it used to be, is it?” Quinn could feel her teeth starting to chatter and knew it was the cold. But she couldn’t seem to stop herself. “Gone are the days when you just needed a couple of scary-looking guys in black suits.”
Sharon stepped forward. “Miss Harlowe—”
“Quinn’s fine.”
Crawford held up a hand, apparently guessing that his Breakwater CEO was losing patience. He smiled. “Scary-l
ooking guys never hurt.”
Quinn refused to look at Huck, who was tight-jawed, not moving from his spot. She kept her attention on the boss, the owner of the hundred-acre compound. “You heard that Alicia came out here to Breakwater early Monday morning, didn’t you?”
Crawford’s smile faded, and he sighed heavily, his eyes shining with regret and sympathy. “I heard, yes. Quinn—Gerry told me your friend had been on the verge of a breakdown for several weeks.”
“A couple of your guys took her back to my cottage—”
“Travis Lubec and Nick Rochester, Oliver,” Sharon said, her voice steady but laced with impatience. “They were trying to help.”
“Did they follow her to make sure she got back to Washington?” Quinn asked, noticing that purple splotches had appeared on her hand—she needed to get on dry clothes. But she didn’t stop. “A black Lincoln Town Car with tinted back windows picked her up at a coffee shop down the street from my office.”
Huck quietly fell in next to her. “I can take Miss Harlowe back to her cottage now. If you’ll all excuse us—”
“No, wait,” Crawford said. “Boone, right? Thank you, but I want to know what she’s getting at. Quinn, if you’re suggesting my men had anything to do with your friend’s death, that they have anything to hide, then you’re quite mistaken.”
“I have no idea who was in the car that picked Alicia up in Washington.”
He softened. “Perhaps this mysterious black car belonged to another of Alicia’s Washington friends, someone who also tried to help her. With a sudden death—especially of a vibrant young woman—we all want to find answers where sometimes there simply are none.”
Quinn suddenly felt tears hot in her eyes, high on her cheeks. She looked away.
Crawford draped an arm over her shoulders. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” he whispered. “Cry all you want. It’s a terrible loss. Please, if there’s anything I can do, personally—anything at all—you’ll call, won’t you?”
“Thank you. I should get back. It’s a long drive to Washington.” Stepping out of his embrace, Quinn managed a quick, fake smile. “And I don’t have a helicopter.”
He seemed to relax at her attempt at humor.
Joe Riccardi, who’d maintained a tight-lipped silence, glanced at Huck. “Boone?”
“I’ll see her out of here.”
18
A s he led Quinn back across the lawn, Huck was relieved no one joined them. He was thinking that one more word out of her and she’d have everyone pissed off, and someone would start shooting. Then he’d have to blow his cover and say he was a deputy U.S. marshal and get her safely away.
He didn’t need a shivering kayaker poking around in his investigation.
Not that she was just some black-haired, slim and sexy yahoo out for the afternoon. He wasn’t that lucky. Nope. His kayaker had to be Quinn Harlowe, an expert in transnational crime who had recently worked for the Justice Department and the best friend of Breakwater Security’s owner.
For all Huck knew, she was more familiar with his psycho vigilantes and how they operated than he was.
Whose side was she on?
If a vigilante mercenary ring was using Breakwater Security as a front for smuggling weapons and training a private army—helping murderers escape custody—Gerard Lattimore would look bad, even if he wasn’t involved. He and Oliver Crawford were friends. It wouldn’t matter what either man knew. Appearances were everything in Washington.
Quinn, too, could get burned.
Not your problem.
“You’re in no shape to kayak back to your cottage,” Huck told her. “We can grab your boat and throw it in the back of my Rover.”
He could see her stiffen, her eyes, red-rimmed and puffy from fatigue and grief, focused on something in front of her, determinedly not focused on him. “That’s not necessary. It’s just cold. There’s no fog or thunder and lightning. No rain. Not like Monday. I’ll be fine.”
She shot ahead of him, jumping over the barbed-wire fence. She picked up her kayak by a short line tied to the bow and started dragging it toward the water, her soaked shoes sinking into the sand.
Huck remained on the other side of the fence. “You’re already a candidate for hypothermia.”
She dropped the kayak and put her hands on her hips, then, heaving a sigh, let them drop to her sides. “All right. You win. If I get into trouble out there, I don’t know if I’d have the energy to blow my whistle. And Buddy Jones would tack my picture up on the bulletin board behind his front desk as a warning to others. He thinks most of us kayakers are idiots.”
“Buddy Jones is—”
“The owner of the shabby little motel on the loop road.” She raised her eyes. “I’m sure you’ve seen him on your runs.”
Diego’s motel. Huck didn’t react. “I’ve only been in town a few days.”
“You stopped there on Monday before the bad storms hit. You chatted for a couple of minutes with a fisherman named Diego Clemente. He was having a cigarette.”
For two cents, Huck thought, he’d shove Quinn Harlowe’s butt into the back of his Land Rover and drive her to Nate Winter and have him put her in protective custody. Or some kind of custody.
Better yet, he’d leave her with Diego and let him deal with her.
Since he didn’t know what role, if any, she had with Breakwater—since he didn’t know if she’d been on the straight and narrow about her friend’s death and had nothing to hide—Huck put one foot on the barbed wire and pressed it down. “Coming?”
“I’m almost certain this Clemente character is the one who phoned in the anonymous tip about Alicia’s car.”
Sweet pea, Huck thought, you’re lucky I’m not wired, because if Diego were listening in, he’d be on his way.
He kept his foot steady on the barbed wire. “I’m not surprised. These fishermen can see things from their boats that other people might miss.” Especially with high-powered binoculars and night-vision equipment. “Why don’t you leave your kayak. I’ll bring it by your cottage later.”
“I think our Special Agent Kowalski should talk to this Clemente character, don’t you?”
“I don’t tell the feds what to do.”
She shrugged. “They don’t intimidate me.”
Huck wished to hell they did. But he found himself almost smiling. Traumatized and half-frozen, Quinn still was paying attention to details, processing, analyzing, thinking. The woman had guts.
She glanced down at her kayak, then let her shoulders slump as she muttered something under her breath. Leaving her boat behind, she walked back to the fence. “If you all can hold on to my kayak, I’ll stop by and get it when I come back down here.”
“Don’t want to give me the key to your shed?”
“No, I really don’t.” She smiled. “No offense.”
As far as Huck was concerned, her reluctance to give him the key demonstrated that some of the shock of her friend’s death was easing and she was thinking more clearly.
It was a big step for Quinn to get over the barbed-wire fence, but instead of putting a hand on his shoulder to balance herself, she reached to her right and held on to a fence post that was about eight inches too far away.
Huck could see she was tilted too far to the right but said nothing.
She got her left leg over the barbed-wire fine, then lost it with her right leg and plunged directly into him. He caught her around the waist, breaking her fall, and set her on the wet grass. She didn’t weigh anything, but she was fit.
He grinned at her. “Your stubbornness just cost you, didn’t it? If you’d just hung on to my shoulder—”
“I wasn’t being stubborn. I’m tired. That’s all.”
“Uh-huh.”
She changed the subject. “What did you do before you became a bodyguard? Were you in the military? Law enforcement?”
“I played a lot of video games.”
With a skeptical look, she started back across the lawn. She didn’t seem
quite as distracted. He got a step ahead of her, leading her to the gravel parking area near the converted barn. When he pointed at his Rover, she opened the passenger door and took a step backward, as if she’d been bit.
Looking over her shoulder, Huck noted his locked gun box in back, his bulletproof vest, various holsters and other gear a well-equipped law enforcement officer or private security expert would need.
Blue-lipped and pale, Quinn gestured at the stuff. “Your personal equipment?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He reached past her and grabbed a fleece pullover, handing it to her. “Put it on before you freeze.”
She nodded and mumbled a thank-you. The fleece made her look even smaller, but Huck reminded himself not to underestimate this woman. He walked around to the driver’s side, wondering what he’d do if he were Quinn Harlowe. Get in the Rover or make a break for it?
She got in. “The fleece’ll help,” she said. “I’ll be fine.”
“You really are in the early stages of hypothermia, you know.”
“I’ll warm up fast.” She seemed to shrink into the fleece. “I apologize if I’ve seemed curt or ungrateful. You’ve been very decent.”
“Decent, huh?” He gave her a mock shudder. “I’ll have to work on that.”
She smiled a little. “You have a sense of humor. It must help in your work.”
Huck pulled the Rover onto the paved driveway, waving at Travis Lubec, looking as mean as ever in front of an azalea not quite in bloom.
When they reached the narrow road that led back to the village, Quinn wasn’t looking as frozen. She had her hands up inside the fleece’s sleeves. Its dark sage green seem to bring out the mix of colors in her pretty, hazel eyes.
But she wasn’t ready to stand down. “Did you have anything to do with Oliver Crawford’s rescue last year?”
“No.”
“Have you done anything like that yourself? Rescued people?”
Breakwater Page 11