“Which is where?”
“Right next to me on the front seat of my car. It was on my desk this afternoon. Steve could have grabbed it, but he didn’t. He must have known Thelma would never have let him out of the building with it.”
“Thelma’s the receptionist,” Kowalski said.
“I see you’ve been doing your homework, too.”
“Any idea why this Steve character would care if you were researching Oliver Crawford and Breakwater Security?”
“No.”
“Don’t you lock your office?”
“I didn’t think of it. Someone stopped by to see me, and we went out for coffee—I never went back upstairs.”
Just a half beat’s hesitation. “All right. Anything else?”
Quinn bit her lip, considering Kowalski’s reaction. Why wasn’t he asking her who’d stopped by her office? But she didn’t pursue the subject. “Don’t you want to know who Steve Eisenhardt is?”
“You told me you called him after Miss Miller took off in the black sedan.”
“Good memory,” Quinn said, tongue-in-cheek. He wasn’t telling her everything—and he didn’t care that she knew he was holding back. But she had no status herself in any investigation, whether it was Alicia’s death or whatever—whoever—Huck McCabe was hunting in Yorkville.
“Thank you. I’ll take that as a compliment.” He didn’t sound grateful for anything. “Where can I find you if I need to talk to you?”
“Yorkville.”
“That’s not a good idea. Why are you headed there?”
“I’m going to an open house at Breakwater tomorrow afternoon.”
“You’re joking, right?”
“Oliver Crawford asked Gerard Lattimore to invite me.”
“You like playing with fire, don’t you?”
“Actually, no, I like peace and quiet.”
Kowalski grunted. “Then go pick lilacs and read a book tomorrow. Watch the birds.”
“I had coffee with Huck Boone this afternoon,” she said.
Another two-second silence.
He knows about Huck. Quinn felt her hand on the phone turn clammy. “I’m coming into traffic—I need to hang up.”
She clicked off, tossing the phone onto the seat. Traffic was fine. She just didn’t need another federal agent second-guessing her. If the FBI and the marshals had bad guys to catch, they could go catch them. She’d stay out of their way. In the meantime, Oliver Crawford was her neighbor, Breakwater Security wasn’t going anywhere, and the best thing she could do—Huck had even said so—was to resume her normal routine.
In April, she’d spend the weekend at her cottage.
If invited to a party at the Crawford estate, she’d go in a heartbeat.
28
A lthough it wasn’t yet dusk, tall white candles lit the elegantly set table in the formal dining room. Huck didn’t want to be there. He had already refused Oliver Crawford’s offer for him to sit at the long, antique table, with its high-backed upholstered chairs.
Everything was cream, crystal and silver. Tasteful. Crawford seemed to match his surroundings in his light-colored suit and tie, the candlelight flickering in his eyes. “Come, Boone,” he said, “tell me about your work. I want to hear how we’re doing from someone getting put through his paces. Are we ready for new trainees?”
“We will be,” Huck said, telling the truth. As far as he could see, Breakwater Security was up and running, moving ahead fast with its plans to enter the high-stakes, competitive world of protective services and training.
Sharon Riccardi, who’d spotted Huck when he’d arrived back at the compound and all but ordered him inside, stood back, as if to give him space, room to show off before the boss. She’d dressed for dinner, wearing an ankle-length black skirt with a white wrap-top that plunged low. Huck was still in the clothes he wore to Washington. She raised her wineglass at him. “Mr. Boone seems to relish the physical challenges of our work here.”
“I like to stay in shape.” He didn’t know what else to say.
Crawford seemed interested. “Joe Riccardi says you helped him design the training course here.”
“The design was in place,” Huck said. “I just worked with him to fine-tune it.”
“I understand it’s similar to what the feds put their special operatives through—the FBI Hostage Rescue Team, the U.S. Marshals Service’s Special Operations Group.” He paused, adding, as if it was some kind of secret he was letting Huck in on, “Others.”
What Breakwater was setting up was good, and if it was a legit outfit, the training program would produce competent personnel. But Breakwater wasn’t a legitimate outfit. Huck kept his tone even as he said, “So long as it’s effective training, I guess it doesn’t matter.”
Joe Riccardi came in from the adjoining living room, dressed down in khakis and a Breakwater Security polo shirt. There didn’t seem to be a place set for him at the table. “We’re not trying to compete with HRT, SOG, Delta,” Riccardi said. “They’re who we call when we get into trouble. Our mission as private contractors is quite different from that of law enforcement. We just want capable people.”
His wife concurred, her demeanor professional, low-key, almost as if she was trying to persuade Huck of the righteousness of their work. “Law enforcement doesn’t have the same latitude we do. You’d think it was the other way around, but it’s not.”
“We can’t break laws, of course,” Crawford broke in. His tone was sincere, no hint of sarcasm, no wink and nod.
Huck, banking a surge of frustration at all the doublespeak in the room, picked up a glass of ice water. “Pay’s better, too.”
“That helps us recruit good people like yourself.” Crawford sat back with his wine, his eyes on Huck. “Do you believe a private security firm like Breakwater should play by the rules? Or should we put our talents to use in a variety of ways, push the envelope—be creative?”
“You said yourself we can’t break the law.”
“But whose laws? So much happens these days transnationally. Look at my situation. I’m an American citizen who was kidnapped in the territorial waters of a small Caribbean island protectorate. My kidnappers were a variety of nationalities. They took me to another island nation.”
“I see what you mean,” Huck said.
Sharon Riccardi sipped her wine. “We’re witnessing globalization on every level.”
While her husband’s expression remained neutral, Crawford immediately seemed more animated than he had earlier. “Politicians argue about legal infrastructure and nuances of interrogation techniques, and people like me—honest businessmen—are going about our business and trying to protect ourselves.” His eyes shone. “I see nothing wrong with it.”
Huck shrugged. “Me neither. I heard what happened to a couple of your kidnappers in Colombia. In my mind, they had it coming.”
A distance came into Crawford’s expression. When he didn’t answer right away, Sharon Riccardi snatched a plate of cookies off the table and stepped forward, offering them to Huck. “They’re linzer cookies. The raspberry filling’s to die for.”
“I guess I could die for worse,” Huck said with a fake grin, taking a cookie.
She changed the subject. “I understand you found your own way back from Washington today.”
“That’s right.”
“How?”
Ethan Brooker drove him. Even in a suit and tie, Brooker exuded competence. He would have taken Huck to Breakwater’s front gate, but Huck had him drop him off in the village and walked out to the compound.
None of which he was telling Crawford and the Riccardis.
“I had Scotty beam me back down here,” he said.
Joe took a sharp breath, not hiding his irritation, but Sharon smiled. “Did Quinn Harlowe give you a ride?”
“A friend,” he said. “Most people have friends in Washington, don’t they?”
“Where did you go after you left Travis?”
Huck bit into the
cookie. “I got a pedicure.”
Now she got frosty. “You’re not used to answering to anyone, are you, Boone?”
He didn’t respond. Crawford, who seemed more amused by the exchange than annoyed, collected himself. “But you did see Quinn Harlowe today?”
“We had coffee.”
“That was Lubec’s idea,” Joe Riccardi said.
Crawford nodded. “Was it? I’m sure he had his reasons. Quinn’s inquisitive—Gerry Lattimore thinks the world of her. I’ve invited them both to the open house here tomorrow.”
Huck forced himself not to react. “You spoke to her?”
“No, I invited her through Gerry. He’ll be here.”
And so will Quinn. Huck had no illusions. If invited, she’d come. Hell, if she wasn’t invited, she’d come—she’d paddle over in her kayak and jump over the barbed-wire fence, probably in her party dress.
“Quinn seems to have taken a liking to you,” Crawford said.
“I wouldn’t go that far. I was there right after she found her friend.”
“A terrible tragedy. Gerry’s very broken up about her death. Unfortunately—” Crawford set his wineglass down, pausing as he took a cookie from the plate Sharon had returned to the table. “Unfortunately, a rumor’s come to my attention that the federal government might be interested in what we’re doing here.”
Huck bit into his cookie. “Interested as in suspicious?”
Sharon answered, her voice quiet, no edge to her tone. “I wouldn’t go that far.”
“We have nothing to hide,” her husband said stiffly.
Sharon stood next to him. “That’s right. If the FBI or anyone else wants to investigate us, fine. We’re a legitimate operation. You’ve had a look at us from top to bottom, Huck. Wouldn’t you agree?”
He shrugged. “Absolutely.”
“However,” she went on, “an open investigation is one thing. Spying is another. We don’t want the federal government or anyone else infiltrating us, spying on us. No one would. If Quinn Harlowe is stirring the pot—”
“Then we need to know,” Huck finished for her.
Crawford tilted his head back, his eyes half-closed as he studied Huck. “I’d like you to keep an eye on her, Boone. She seems to get along with you. Check in with her from time to time.”
“That’s not exactly the kind of mission I had in mind when I signed on—”
“Nor did I,” Joe said quietly. He clearly didn’t like the idea.
“It’s not a mission,” Crawford said. “It’s an informal request. Quinn’s absorbing a difficult blow with the loss of her friend, and given Alicia Miller’s behavior in the hours, perhaps days, before she drowned, there are bound to be questions. I don’t want them backfiring on us here. We’re at a delicate stage.”
Joe nodded, reluctant. “That’s true. Bad publicity now could kill a start-up operation. We don’t have a reputation years in the making to fall back on.”
“That’s right,” his wife said. “If the first time people hear of Breakwater Security it involves the death of a Justice Department lawyer—well, that can’t be good. We don’t need Quinn Harlowe out there asking questions, spinning conspiracies, and turning what is clearly a tragic accidental drowning into something more sinister.”
“If you’re worried about Quinn Harlowe,” Huck asked, “why invite her to the party tomorrow?”
Sharon Riccardi’s eyes seemed to glow with intensity. Her husband was harder to read. Crawford ate his cookie, then answered. “It’s a way to reassure her about us, at least indirectly.”
“Okay,” Huck said. “Your call.”
“We’ll enjoy ourselves tomorrow,” Crawford added quietly. “I haven’t hosted a social event since I was kidnapped. Many of my guests will be seeing me for the first time since my rescue. What do you think, Boone? Do I look normal to you?”
This struck him as a strange question, but Crawford seemed intent on getting an answer. “You look fine,” Huck said.
Joe Riccardi excused himself and retreated through the living room. Huck couldn’t tell if Breakwater’s chief of operations approved or disapproved of the torture and execution of his boss’s kidnappers. Was he a part of the vigilante network—or not? Whose side was he on?
After a few more seconds, Huck decided his presence was no longer required, and said something innocuous about seeing everyone in the morning, and left, heading through the living room, back to the kitchen and out a side door.
As he walked down a brick path, he had to bank his frustration. If Oliver Crawford and the Riccardis were building their own private vigilante army, they sure were doing a damn good job of keeping him on the fringes.
He needed more than glowing eyes, tight lips, cryptic questions and locked doors.
He reminded himself that his job—his real job—required patience as well as a willingness to act.
“If Quinn Harlowe is stirring the pot…”
She was more than stirring, Huck thought. Knowingly or unknowingly, she’d turned up the heat on all of them.
She could trust him. But could he trust her?
The air was warm, pleasant, laced with the salty, fishy tang of bay and marsh at low tide.
Huck wondered if Quinn was back in Yorkville, ready for her party tomorrow. Then he remembered he’d just been tasked to keep an eye on her.
No time like the present.
29
W hen Quinn parked in the driveway next to her cottage, for a split second everything seemed quiet and peaceful, as if she were arriving for a normal getaway weekend of work and relaxation.
But as she stepped out of her car, she saw an osprey soar above the bay and felt a pang of loss—and a surge of frustration. There were so many unanswered questions about why and how Alicia had died. Now one of her colleagues had maneuvered his way into Quinn’s office, perhaps had searched it, and wasn’t returning her calls. Quinn had left messages on every phone number she had for him—office, cell, apartment. She took his non-response as a confirmation of his culpability. He had looked through her stuff.
Quinn felt a gust of chilly air, the temperature on the bay much cooler than in the city. The lilacs, she noticed, had come into bloom, the breeze tinged with their soft, soothing fragrance.
Normally, she would tell herself she didn’t mind being on the sidelines. By staying out of the center of the action, she could maintain a clear mind and a level of objectivity. She didn’t have to plunge herself into the fray.
This is different.
Alicia had come to her for help, and Quinn still didn’t know why, what she was supposed to have done to keep her friend from drowning in the bay.
Now there was Huck McCabe, the undercover federal agent. Quinn pictured his dark green eyes, not at all unreadable—he didn’t like her knowing his status.
One of your brighter moves, Harlowe. Telling him.
He didn’t like having her on the periphery, never mind in the middle, of his investigation, whatever it was. If she meddled, he wouldn’t hesitate to put her under surveillance or arrest her or something.
Unless…
She didn’t want to finish the thought, but it had hung around in the back of her mind for hours.
What if the feds were investigating her?
She knew Oliver Crawford. She’d let Alicia stay at her cottage. Alicia had come to her for help. Quinn had found her friend dead. Now, Steve Eisenhardt had searched her office. On his own? Or had someone put him up to it?
Did he believe she was involved in Alicia’s death somehow—or was he acting on behalf of someone else? Someone at Breakwater? Lattimore? The FBI?
As unsettling as any of those prospects were, Quinn knew exactly what she’d done and hadn’t done.
Maybe, she thought, worrying about staying on the sidelines was a moot point.
She grabbed her backpack of work and tote bag of clothes out of the car and carted them into the cottage, dumping them onto her bed, then headed back to the kitchen. Evening was comin
g fast. Hungry, distracted, edgy, she put on a kettle for tea, hoping to clear her head. She dug out a mismatched teacup and saucer and a white linen napkin, all at least fifty years old, and set her small table.
As she waited for the water to come to a boil, she fought back an unwelcome sense of loneliness. She’d never meant for the cottage to be an isolated retreat. She’d always pictured friends, family, joining her, if not all the time—a lot of the time. But who would want to visit now?
She looked out at her cove, gray-blue with the fading sunlight, and thought she saw baby ospreys in the sprawling nest.
“The osprey will kill me.”
Her throat tightened. “Oh, Alicia. What were you up to here in Yorkville?”
But no answer came, just the wash of the tide and the cry of seagulls out on the open bay.
After her tea, Quinn resisted taking an evening walk. She didn’t want to run into Diego Clemente. If she said something she shouldn’t, who knew what he’d do. She had no desire to end up in the bottom of his boat, out of circulation. As much as she tried to tell herself she was being dramatic, she didn’t know how Clemente had reacted to the news she’d made him and Huck. Surely Huck would have told him by now. Clemente was Huck’s backup—his eyes and ears in the village. It was his job to protect Huck and their investigation.
Drama, Quinn thought, heading for the shower.
An hour later, her skin was still pink from her shower. She’d turned the water up as hot as she could stand it. She shook out her dress for Oliver Crawford’s open house and tried to remember when she’d last worn it. She’d attended social functions at least once a week when she was at Justice, but, more often than not, would end up wearing whatever she’d had on at work, running from office to cocktail party.
Since leaving Justice, she’d felt more pressure, not less, to join the Beltway cocktail circuit. There’d been no shortage of invitations. Although she liked parties and recognized the importance of networking, lately she’d find herself digging around in the Society’s musty, cluttered attic, glancing at her watch as party time approached, and ending up just not going—or hitting the road to Yorkville, a list of local weekend yard sales in hand.
Breakwater Page 18