“Just shocked the hell out of her, I’ll bet,” Huck said.
Cradling the phone, Thelma turned her frown on him. “Quinn will be right with you.”
“Mind if I look around?” He showed her the bottom of his shoes. “I haven’t stepped in dog poop or anything.”
“Just take a seat, Mr. Boone.”
She pointed at an ornate wooden chair against the wall across from her desk. “I feel like I need a crown to sit in that thing. Mind if I use your phone to make a call? It’s local.”
“Please, make yourself welcome.” Her gracious words didn’t match her frosty tone. “Dial 9 for an outside line.”
Huck ignored her hostility and stepped over to the front of her desk, turning the heavy old phone to him. At least it was Touch-Tone. He dialed 9, then one of a handful of Washington numbers he’d committed to memory. He didn’t want any of them showing up on his cell phone, in case Vern and the guys got hold of it.
Nate Winter answered. Huck quickly interrupted. “I’m in D.C. at the American Society for Plants and Animals. I can’t talk right now. Something’s up. Everything okay there?”
“Everything’s fine.” Winter sounded tight and impatient, but he always did.
“Here, too. I’ll talk to you soon.”
When Huck hung up and turned around, Quinn Harlowe was there, apparently having slipped down the thickly carpeted stairs without him noticing. In her slim skirt and stretchy top, she looked smart and professional and even prettier than she had in Yorkville. Her black hair was pulled back, so that all the angles of her face stood out, and her eyes shone brighter, more intense.
“It’s the American Society for the Study of Plants and Animals,” Quinn said, cool, obviously suspicious.
“Isn’t that what I said?”
“You left off ‘the study of.’”
“Oh.”
“It changes the meaning entirely. Who were you talking to?”
“Dry cleaners.”
Thelma returned to her oak swivel chair behind her desk. “I can hit redial and find out.”
Nate would know what to do. Huck shrugged. “Go ahead.”
“It’s okay, Thelma,” Quinn said, giving the older woman an affectionate smile. “Thank you. I’ll take Huck upstairs—”
He remembered his orders from Lubec. Take her for a walk. He could think of worse tasks. “It’s Friday. It’s beautiful outside. Let’s get out of here for a little while.” To drive home his point, he touched a fingertip to her pale cheek. “You’ve been sitting up in your garret all morning, haven’t you?”
“I naturally don’t have a lot of color in my face. But you’re right, it is a beautiful day, and I’d love to take a walk. Thelma, I have my cell phone if you need to reach me.”
This was another way of telling Thelma to stick close to her phone, in case Quinn needed her. Considering how they’d met and the dubious circumstances under which he was in Washington, Huck thought she was being smart.
She’d have been even smarter, though, to have shown him the door.
Thelma clearly didn’t like the idea of Quinn going off with him, but she kept quiet. Huck decided not to worry about her. They weren’t leaving Thelma alone—the building was full of Society staff. As he headed for the front door, however, he couldn’t dispel his sense of uneasiness. He would have preferred knowing where Travis and Company had gone.
Quinn trotted down the steps ahead of him. “Where do you want to go?”
“We could have coffee somewhere.”
“Sure. I can show you where I was when Alicia found me. That’s why you want to go for coffee, isn’t it?” Without waiting for him to answer, she breezed down the shaded sidewalk. She looked back at him. “Coming?”
Something about her was off, Huck thought. Or not off so much as ramped up. As if, on some level, she’d been expecting him and had her own agenda for when he showed up on her doorstep.
He fell in beside her. “We don’t have to do coffee. We can take a walk.”
“Coffee’s fine.” She glanced over at him, her eyes still cool. “Who sent you here?”
“Ah. I can see you distrust my motives.”
“I don’t know what your motives are. I can speculate, but I’m not sure that would do any good. In my work, I try to avoid speculation.”
“There’s a difference between speculation and analysis?”
“Big difference.”
“Travis Lubec sent me. He’s a senior security—”
“He’s Oliver Crawford’s chief bodyguard. He might have a fancier title, but that’s what he is. Yes, I know his name.” She picked up her pace. “He was a key player in the rescue of his boss.”
“You’ve been doing your homework.”
“It was in the papers.”
“Not Lubec’s name,” Huck said.
“No?” She didn’t act as if he’d caught her in a deception. “Someone must have told me.”
“When?”
“Recently.”
Now she was being openly deceptive, making him wonder what all she’d been up to in the days since she’d found her friend and her red kayak in the marsh. Lubec could have had good reason to send Huck in to talk to her. He kept up with her quick pace. “Ever think Crawford and his people are a little jumpy these days and might not want someone asking questions about them?”
“You mean me, because of Alicia, because she wasn’t herself and she showed up at their front gate early one morning when they all were in bed.” Quinn shifted to him, still moving at a fast clip, her eyes bright, shining with energy, a touch of indignation. “What, do they think Alicia and I conspired to make Oliver Crawford and his people uncomfortable?”
“Quinn—”
“The Kayak Caper.”
Huck sighed. “Having fun?”
“Not really. If I worried every time I asked a question someone didn’t want me to ask, I couldn’t do my job. I have to put that kind of resistance aside and focus on what I’m supposed to do. I try to keep an open mind and not let outside forces influence my conclusions.”
“That’s why you’re good, but it’s not your job to investigate what happened to your friend last week—”
“How would you know I’m good? Have you been researching me? Why is that okay but it’s not okay for me to research you all?” She was on a roll now. “Maybe I should be taking you for a walk and picking your brain.”
Huck decided to keep silent.
“That’s what you’re doing, isn’t it? Picking my brain—finding out what I’ve been up to since I left Yorkville?”
“It was a good excuse to get to see you.”
She obviously didn’t believe him.
“Quinn—”
“I’ve only reached a few conclusions about Oliver Crawford and you Breakwater Security guys.” She eased her pace slightly and gave him a sideways glance, the coolness suddenly back. “For instance, I don’t believe Huck Boone is your real name.”
“No, huh?”
“I told Special Agent Kowalski. And this Venezuela rescue of yours—” She shook her head. “I did a little investigating. Something doesn’t pass the smell test there, either.”
Huck was thinking about shoving her into a cab, taking her to Nate Winter and having him put Quinn Harlowe under lock and key. “Vern and I did a good deed. We worked under the radar, and the U.S. government might not approve—”
“I checked with a law enforcement source I have in Venezuela. Very reliable. She says that the kidnap victim you rescued wasn’t a particularly good guy. He was involved in Colombian emerald smuggling. He disappeared after you freed him.”
Because, Huck thought, unbeknownst to Vern, he’d managed to tip off fellow U.S. federal agents who subsequently took his rescued emerald smuggler into custody. Turned out he was an American citizen wanted for a long list of wrongdoing.
“Wouldn’t you disappear if you were a smuggler?” he asked Quinn mildly.
“I don’t think rescuing a smuggler is suc
h a good deed.” Quinn stopped in front of a small coffee shop with flowerpots and four round tables out front. “If you want, you can get us a table and I’ll buy coffee—”
“That’s okay.” In her mood, she could be out the back door in a flash, and he’d have to explain why he went for coffee by himself. “I want to see what’s on the menu.”
“Every kind of coffee you can think of.”
“I’m hungry.”
“Biscotti, croissants, muffins, cookies…”
He smiled at her. “I want to see what looks good. Let’s go.”
He followed her into the coffee shop, and she said a cheerful hello to a big guy she called Ivan, who looked at Huck as if he were a criminal. Huck tried to take Ivan’s suspicion as a positive signal that his deception was working. In any event, he figured it was good that Quinn had people looking out for her. She ordered an espresso. He ordered coffee, black, and a chocolate croissant.
“Make that two chocolate croissants,” Quinn said, giving him a quick smile. “I can’t resist.”
She put everything on a tray and carried it outside, all four tables vacant. She set the tray on the middle one and unloaded it. “I’m right—Boone isn’t your real name, is it?”
He wanted to tell her. McCabe. It’s Huck McCabe. He wanted to tell her about his family in San Francisco and how his parents had adopted him, then four more kids, all of them of different racial and ethnic backgrounds. How they ran a boutique hotel and had never understood his interest in law enforcement but always supported him, wished him well, worried about him, believed in him.
How they thought he was training police officers in Eastern Europe.
So much deception, and here he was, supposed to figure out what lies Quinn was telling.
“It’s all right,” she said quickly. “You don’t have to tell me.”
He picked up his coffee. “I suppose you have various scenarios to explain why I’m not using my real name. Assuming I’m not.”
“Six scenarios, at least for starters. One, you’re an ex-con. Two, you’re dramatic and just like the idea of using an alias. Three, you’re protecting your family, for whatever reason. Four, you’re wanted by authorities under your real name. Five, you’re making a clean break from a troubled past. Six, you’re a cop.”
“You met Joe Riccardi, right? Well, does he look like someone who’d hire a guy like me without having done a thorough background check?”
“Then either he knows you’re using an alias,” she said, picking up her tiny espresso cup, “or you’ve covered your tracks very, very well. Which these days would take money and help.”
Why couldn’t Alicia Miller have been best friends with a dental assistant? Nope. An expert in transnational criminal networks. “Going to take my coffee cup back to your fed friends and have them run my prints?”
“That’s an idea.”
“Of the six scenarios, do you have a favorite?”
She lifted her espresso to her lips. “Undercover cop. Federal. FBI, ATF, DEA, U.S. Marshals. Vern Glover associated with a California fugitive…” Her hazel eyes leveled on him. “Didn’t you say you were from California?”
“San Francisco.” He leaned over the table. “How long have you known?”
Color rushed to her face. She had to set her cup down. “Damn.”
“Yeah. Damn.”
“Your real name—”
“McCabe. Huck McCabe. I have a brother named Boone. He’s a painter in northern California, as in canvasses, not houses.”
“You’re…what kind of—”
“I’m a deputy U.S. marshal working undercover.” He smiled at her. “And you, Quinn Harlowe, are suddenly a very big pain in my ass.”
“Not that suddenly,” she said, rallying. “I got suspicious when you told me to trust you. You wanted me to know who you were. If you hadn’t, you’d have handled the situation differently.”
“I’m not that deep. You’d had a shock. You were scared. I wanted to make you feel better.”
“That was decent of you.”
“There you go calling me decent again,” he said dryly. “Look what it gets me, a former DOJ analyst poking her nose into my investigation.”
She didn’t seem remotely guilt-ridden or even that concerned. “When I started digging into Breakwater Security and Oliver Crawford’s kidnapping—certain things didn’t add up right from the start. I doubt the Breakwater guys would draw the same conclusions I have. I have access to sources and materials they don’t.”
Not if Lubec has his way. Huck got rid of any hint of a smile. “Quinn, this isn’t some intellectual exercise. You’re not ten steps removed from an operation. You’re right in the thick of it.”
“Yes, I know.”
But she couldn’t sustain that cool demeanor, and Huck watched her break off a piece of her chocolate croissant, realizing that she hadn’t fully expected she was right about him. She was more shaken than she wanted to admit, which probably should have pleased him more than it did. He found himself wanting to reassure her—and yet he warned himself that he didn’t need that kind of distraction, that kind of emotional involvement. If she was a problem, he’d stick her with Nate Winter.
“I suppose you’re not going to tell me what you’re investigating at Breakwater?”
“Nope.” He smiled slightly. “I’m not sure I know.”
She eyed him. “Want me to take a guess?”
“That might not be a good idea.”
“Maybe not. I have a high-level security clearance. I keep secrets well.” She ate her small bite of croissant. “You don’t have to stuff me in a trunk for the duration of your investigation.”
“You have a lot of guts, Quinn, and you’re curious by nature—your profession requires it. But you’re not removed from the action. You knew Alicia Miller. You know Oliver Crawford. Gerard Lattimore has a soft spot for you, maybe a romantic interest in you.”
“No romantic interest.”
Huck didn’t let up on her. “You have to stop asking questions, calling up sources. Do your job—”
“You’re telling me to mind my own business.”
“I’m suggesting that you’re in over your head and you need to swim away to safer waters.”
“What about Alicia?”
“There’s just no indication her death wasn’t an accident—”
“Or suicide. That’s what you all believe, isn’t it? That she killed herself, if just by not caring if she lived or died—just by being reckless and agitated.”
“‘You all’ would be—”
“Your superiors, the local police, the FBI, the Breakwater Security guys. Everyone.” Quinn didn’t wait for a response. Tears, which she hadn’t seemed to expect, shone in her eyes. “What about the black sedan?”
“Quinn, I’m not going there. I’m not speculating with you—”
She pointed at the street. “The Town Car met her at that intersection. Right there.”
“You said she got in on her own. She wasn’t pulled in. No one forced her.”
“Were you in the car? The fisherman, Diego Clemente—Buddy Jones said he saw him have a cigarette with you that afternoon. Before five. It wouldn’t give you much time to get back to Yorkville and into your running shorts, but it’s possible.”
Huck said nothing. What had she done, diagrammed time lines?
Quinn shot to her feet. “Oh. Damn.” She almost knocked over her espresso. “Clemente—he’s with you. That’s why the anonymous tip about Alicia’s car.”
Hell.
She put a hand on one hip and blew out a lungful of air. “I didn’t get that one until just this second. Don’t worry, it’s not like anyone else in Yorkville will figure it out. Your guys at Breakwater—whoever you’re after—none of them will necessarily put two and two together. I just happened to be in the right place at the right time with Clemente and asked the right questions.”
“Don’t screw around with Diego, Quinn. He will stuff you in a trunk.”
/>
She nodded, taking his comment seriously. “I’ve put together a basic dossier on Oliver Crawford and Breakwater Security. And on you, although nothing speculative—nothing that would blow your mercenary bona fides.”
“Anything in writing?”
“Just notes. Everything’s on my laptop.”
Huck stood. “Let’s go back to your office and take a look.”
“I can’t have dug up anything on Crawford and Breakwater that you all don’t have already, but you’re welcome to take whatever files you want.”
“Quinn, Oliver Crawford’s guys know you’ve been poking around. How?”
“I have no idea—”
“Who have you talked to?”
“No one who’d know them.”
“Did you tell anyone you were looking into Crawford and Breakwater?”
She hesitated.
“Lattimore?” Huck prodded.
“No—I haven’t seen him. We’ve talked once since last week, but just about Alicia and how much we miss her.” When Huck started to say something else, she held up a hand. “Steve Eisenhardt. I told him a little about the research I was doing. We met here yesterday. He started working for Gerard after I left Justice.”
“You’re friends?”
“Sort of. I don’t know him that well. He was half in love with Alicia—” She broke off, frowning. “He wasn’t at Lattimore’s party in March, when Alicia met Oliver Crawford. She asked to use my cottage right after the party. I suppose Steve could have wondered what was going on and hooked up with Crawford’s guys somehow.”
“He ever mention Crawford?”
She shook her head. “I’ll talk to him—”
“Hell, no, you’re not talking to him.”
“I meant as a friend.”
“If he’s ratting you out to Travis Lubec, he’s no damn friend. Let’s go.”
25
S weating, heart thumping, Steve hit some keys to wake up Quinn’s laptop on her desk.
Password protected.
He’d expected as much and didn’t waste time moaning and groaning. He grabbed the spiral notepad next to the laptop and flipped it open.
He’d never been in Quinn’s office before. Very Sherlock Holmes, he thought, glancing up at the oil portrait of a man identified as Quinn Harlowe in raised lettering at the bottom of the frame. Steve couldn’t help thinking the hazel eyes were boring right through him, seeing that he was a soulless piece of dung.
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