Breakwater

by Carla Neggers

  “No offense taken,” Huck said.

  “I’m afraid I shouldn’t have had that one drink with Ollie. It went right to my head.”

  “How will you get back to Washington?” Quinn asked her former boss.

  “Same way. Helicopter.” He recovered himself somewhat. “I didn’t use to like helicopters, but when you sail above snarled Beltway traffic—suddenly you don’t think it’s such a bad way to travel. Not that I’m in Ollie’s league when it comes to private helicopters ferrying me around. I’m just a government employee.”

  “Huck and I are on our way to dinner. Would you care to join us?”

  “Oh, thanks, but no—please, don’t let me keep you.” Lattimore made a broad gesture toward his boat. “I’m going to settle in for the rest of the evening. Enjoy yourselves. Boone—I’ll see you tomorrow?”

  “Yes, sir, I’m sure you will.”

  “Ollie’s first social event since he was kidnapped, you know.”

  Huck nodded. “So I’ve been told.”

  But Lattimore turned his attention back to Quinn, started to say something, then abandoned the effort and, without another word, headed for his boat. He wasn’t staggering, but he was obviously not entirely sober, either.

  “Guess he’s had a long day,” Huck said. “I’ll say it again—I think he has a crush on you. Threw him to see you out here with me.”

  Quinn scowled at him. “That’s ridiculous. Gerard’s only recently divorced—”

  “Gerard, huh?”

  “Oh, stop.” But she smiled. “You’re not even that funny, you know.”

  “I’m very funny.”

  “Well, Gerard is obviously under a lot of stress. I’m sure he’s hardly even thought about dating again, never mind striking up any kind of relationship with me. I have an interesting family background, but the Harlowes have always been more eccentric than well connected.”

  “Seeing you wouldn’t do him any good.”

  “I don’t mean to make him sound crass—”

  “A guy in his position, with his ambitions, needs to be strategic about who he lets himself fall for.” Huck winked at her. “Unlike those of us who exercise no sense whatsoever.”

  “And which describes you? Are you the strategic type or the no-sense type?”

  “Me? I’m not supposed to be falling for anyone, for any reason, strategic or stupid.” He started back along the dock with her, the cool night air or the lights—he couldn’t tell which—turning Quinn’s lips blue. “And you?”

  “None of the above.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I don’t want to be strategic or stupid. I just want to fall in love.” She looked at him, her directness, her bright smile, catching him off guard. “I do try to stay away from heartbreakers.”

  “I can’t see anyone wanting to break your heart, Quinn.”

  Although she must have heard him, she pretended not to, shooting out ahead of him. “The restaurant will be closing soon,” she said, glancing over her shoulder. “We should get a table.”

  Once they were inside the small restaurant, a middle-aged man Quinn knew by name showed them to a table overlooking the water, with blue cloth napkins, fresh daisies in a flowered vase and a white votive candle flickering in a clear-glass holder.

  Quinn ordered wine with her crab cakes, but Huck stayed away from alcohol. Gun or no gun, he wasn’t drinking tonight.

  Across the room, Joe Riccardi was drinking alone at the bar, no sign of his wife or their mutual boss, or any of his Breakwater crew. He carried his drink over to their table. “I thought I saw you head out earlier, Boone.” He nodded politely at Quinn. “Nice to see you, Ms. Harlowe.”

  “You, too, Colonel Riccardi,” she said smoothly. “Huck’s keeping me from getting stuck having dinner alone.”

  “I understand Mr. Crawford invited you to the open house tomorrow.” Riccardi spoke in his usual neutral tone. “I’d be glad to give you a personal tour of our training facility.”

  In other words, Huck thought, no sneaking around. Quinn didn’t seem to take offense. “Thanks.”

  “We want to be as open as possible about what we’re doing.” Riccardi sipped his drink, an amber-colored liquid. “We don’t want people creating fantasies about what we do.”

  “Not even good fantasies?”

  Riccardi smiled at her, but not warmly. “We play by the rules.”

  “Whose rules?” She gave him a sharp look. “Oliver Crawford isn’t known for his patience. He’s known for pushing himself and everyone else. I’ll bet he wants a state-of-the-art, high-quality security firm up and running with the snap of his fingers.”

  “He understands the importance of laying the proper foundation. We’re dealing with people’s safety. Their lives. Integrity and competence matter in this business more than all the bells and whistles.” Riccardi’s gaze bore into Quinn, but she didn’t flinch. “I didn’t realize you knew Mr. Crawford that well.”

  “We’re neighbors, more or less.” She raised her water glass. “I’ve been doing a little research on my own, talking to my contacts, checking the public record. Makes sense, doesn’t it? I just found a friend dead under unusual, if not criminal, circumstances. If you were in my position, wouldn’t you look into the people who’d seen her last?”

  And she says she doesn’t like playing with fire. Huck debated hauling her out of there and dumping her with Diego.

  Riccardi polished off the last of his drink. “From what I understand, Ms. Harlowe, that would be you.”

  She didn’t give up. “Whoever picked her up in the black sedan saw her after I did. I wouldn’t be surprised if we all traipsed out to Ollie’s place in the suburbs, we’d find shiny black Lincoln Town Cars—”

  Huck broke in. “Drink’s on me, Joe. I’ll see you back at Breakwater.”

  Riccardi set his empty glass on the table, muttered a good-night and stalked out of the restaurant.

  “He seems lonely,” Quinn said, unrepentant.

  Huck shook his head at her. “You’re a pain in the ass, Harlowe. If he’d decided to throttle you, I’d have helped him.”

  She shrugged. “I’m sure that would have enhanced your reputation with your Breakwater buddies.”

  “You had to let him know you’ve been doing your homework on them, didn’t you?”

  Her wine arrived. When she picked up her glass, Huck saw the spots of pink in her cheeks, the sparkle in her eyes. She’d stayed cool, but she wasn’t unaffected by her encounter with his retired army colonel boss.

  She sipped her wine. “Think Joe Riccardi’s the one who put Steve up to searching my office?”

  “Uh-uh, Quinn. I’m not going there.” Huck kept his voice low and calm, not because she’d care if he shook his finger in her face and yelled, but because he didn’t want the few stragglers around them to notice he was on his last nerve. “You’re done. You have a nice dinner. Then I take you back to your cottage, and you lock all your doors and windows, and I get my friend Diego to watch you. And in the morning, you get a coffee-to-go at the local gas station and you drive back to Washington.”

  She drank more of her wine. “Now that I think about it, I have no idea what you did after you left me at my office.”

  “Quinn—”

  “Did your guys put Steve up to sneaking into my office?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “I told Special Agent Kowalski about him. Do you suppose he’d tell me if Steve turned up?”

  “I wouldn’t,” Huck said.

  She smiled. “Relax. Quit worrying about me. I promise—” She leaned over the table, her eyes shining. “I’ll do up my hair and wear makeup and underwear and everything tomorrow. I’ll blend in. I’ll behave. I’ll dazzle. I’ll do whatever one does at an Oliver Crawford party, but I’ll definitely stay out of your way.”

  Their meals arrived, and she dug into her crab cakes as if she hadn’t eaten in days—or just needed something to do besides argue with him. “Do you think Riccardi is in over his head at Breakwate
r?” she asked.

  “No. I think you’re in over your head.”

  She waved her fork. “By Harlowe standards, I’m not even close.”

  “Keep it up, Quinn. Diego’s out there.” He nodded toward the water out their window. “He’s not as patient as I am. He doesn’t have a sense of humor.”

  “He’s also very protective of you.”

  “That’s his job.”

  “I’m glad.” She sat back in her chair. “It must be good to know someone you trust is out there.”

  “You can trust him, too, Quinn. And you can trust me. Stop, okay? Take a step back. Let us do our jobs.”

  She didn’t respond. Her mood had darkened. Huck studied her, realized that she wasn’t easily pegged. He remembered the feel of her mouth, her soft skin, her hand on him, exploring, tempting. He wondered how far they’d have gotten if she hadn’t brought up that bit about nerves. Would he have made love to her?

  In a heartbeat, he thought, not feeling any better.

  Suddenly, everything about his assignment seemed crazy and so unorthodox that he was tempted to drive back to Nate Winter’s house and give it up. Help the Winters move. Talk to the ghosts.

  But he was hungry, and he wasn’t about to walk out and leave her to Gerard Lattimore.

  31

  Q uinn figured she had two choices. Either she had to get back into the Rover with Huck, in the dark, and let him drive her back to her cottage, or she had to walk the two miles by herself—also in the dark.

  “I can call you a cab,” he said, as if he’d been reading her thoughts.

  “All the cabs in this town smell like dead fish.”

  He didn’t answer right away. “Hell, Quinn.” He spoke almost in a growl, slipping both arms around her waist, kissing her softly, gently. “I keep thinking I’ll come to my senses, but I’m not even close. Must be this East Coast climate. It’s not nerves. That’s for damn sure.”

  “That’s why you can do the work you do.” She smiled. “Nerves of steel.”

  He pulled back, ripping open the passenger door. “Nothing about kissing you makes me nervous.”

  Quinn stepped past him and climbed into the Rover, and when Huck sat next to her in the driver’s seat, he kept his eyes forward. He drove out the loop road, along the waterfront. Quinn rolled down her window and let in the night air, the smells of low tide.

  By the time they reached her cottage, she was in a pensive mood. “There’s a difference between strong emotions and recklessness,” she said, almost to herself.

  He leaned toward her, touched her hair, her mouth. “You lost a friend. You don’t know what’s happening on the other side of the marsh. You don’t like sitting on the sidelines.” His gentle tone took her by surprise, but with an abrupt sigh, he sat back. “And you know you’re out of your mind to have spent so much time with me today.”

  “Who’s the one who keeps popping up? Are you keeping an eye on me for the Breakwater guys—or for the marshals?”

  “Does it matter? Maybe a certain amount of recklessness goes with strong emotions.”

  “All the more reason to beware.”

  His eyes seemed almost black. “Yes. All the more reason. Stop asking questions. Stop sticking your thumb in people’s eyes.” He didn’t smile. “Quinn, you didn’t fail Alicia. She’s not dead because of you.”

  Feeling the sudden sting of tears, Quinn fumbled for the door latch. “She came to me for help.”

  “Help her by standing back. No more calling up sources in Venezuela, okay?”

  “I suppose I could go to Fredericksburg in the morning and do battlefield tours with my grandfather.”

  “Quinn, if I could, I’d go with you. I’d like nothing better.”

  She gave him a sceptical smile. “Except finding your bad guys. If I hear from Steve I’m going to ask him what he was doing in my office.”

  “If you hear from him, call Kowalski. If you’re still here, there’s always Clemente.”

  “Don’t worry about me, okay?” She turned to him, made herself smile. “Go do your thing. Track down your bad guys.”

  “What if my bad guys are fixated on you?”

  “I’ll lock my doors.”

  Huck tensed, looking past her out the passenger window. He put his hand at the base of her neck. “Get down.” Almost as a reflex, Quinn spun around, but he shoved her head down, reaching for his weapon. “Stay put.”

  “Boone?” The voice outside, toward the road, was more of a croak.

  He swore under his breath. “It’s Sharon Riccardi,” he said to Quinn. “Don’t move until I say so.”

  She nodded, staying low. There was no car on the dead-end road—how had Sharon Riccardi gotten out there?

  Huck climbed out of the Rover, leaving his door open. “Mrs. Riccardi—”

  “Sharon, Sharon, Sharon.” She laughed awkwardly, sounding half-drunk. “How many times do I have to tell you?”

  “Are you alone?”

  “Yes, I walked through the marsh. There’s a path. It winds all over the place. I’m afraid I stepped in water and mud. My God, I’m covered in mosquito bites.”

  Quinn edged up toward the window, staying out of sight as she peered in the side-view mirror. She could see Sharon Riccardi, unsteady on her feet, wobbling behind the Land Rover, waving her arms as if swatting at mosquitoes. She wore an ankle-length skirt and sandals that were totally inappropriate for a night walk through a salt marsh.

  “My husband used to run this way before he got too busy with you all. Before that girl was found dead.” Her tone was angry, accusatory, but then she gave a sudden, harsh laugh. “That takes the bloom off, doesn’t it? Finding a dead woman out here, in such a beautiful spot.”

  “It’s dark,” Huck said. “Must have been a rough hike—”

  “Your eyes adjust. And the moon—did you notice there’s a half-moon? You’d be surprised what a difference it makes.” She thrust her hands onto her hips. “Where’s your Quinn Harlowe?”

  “She’s here. I had her duck in case—”

  Sharon snorted. “What, did you think I was some kind of wild animal or worse?”

  He didn’t answer. Quinn pushed open her door and stepped out onto the driveway, noticing now that Sharon Riccardi was shivering from the chilly evening air. “Hello, Mrs. Riccardi. Huck kept me from having to eat dinner alone.”

  “Now, wasn’t that nice?” She spoke with a sardonic edge, crossing her arms on her chest, as if to ward off the cool wind. “Boone’s got quite the soft spot for you. You two must have bonded when you found your friend drowned…”

  Huck moved in next to her, everything about him on alert. “I’ll take you back to Breakwater, Sharon. The mosquitoes are eating you alive.”

  Her teeth chattering now, Sharon stayed focused on Quinn. “You’re coming to the open house tomorrow, aren’t you? Oliver’s expecting you.” She slapped a hand in Huck’s direction, missing him. “I’m having Boone here park cars.”

  He didn’t react. “I’ll do whatever you need me to do. Come on. Let’s go.”

  “Parking cars—” Sharon Riccardi staggered back a couple of steps. “It’ll give you the chance to meet the kind of people who Oliver socializes with. His equals.”

  “Fine. I’ll park cars. Guess you wouldn’t want me pouring champagne or teaching the guests how to shoot.”

  She gave him a cool look. “You’re a flip bastard, aren’t you, Boone?” She swooped toward the Rover, hanging on to the door as Quinn stepped out of her way. “Miss Harlowe. You’re prettier than I realized when you were at Breakwater the other day. You were in shock, of course, after your friend’s death. But Oliver tells me you’re very good at what you do.”

  “I appreciate that,” Quinn said.

  “Being out on your own—at least now you can think independently.”

  “I’ve always done my best to think independently, Mrs. Riccardi.”

  “Sharon.” She smiled, visibly straining to stay upright. “Sharon, Sharon.�
�

  Before Quinn had a chance to respond, Huck pretty much shoved Sharon Riccardi into the Rover and shut the door. He turned to Quinn. “You’ll be okay? I’ll wait until you’re inside—”

  “That’s not necessary.”

  “Give my best to your grandfather.”

  There was no undertone of humor in his words. They were, she realized, a strong recommendation—go to Fredericksburg in the morning. Skip the Breakwater open house.

  Leave the Riccardis—and everything else—to him.

  “Don’t worry about me.” Quinn gave him an irreverent smile. “Have fun parking cars.”

  Alone in her cottage, Quinn knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep and set up her laptop and notes on the kitchen table. When she caught her reflection in the window, she winced and quickly pulled the curtains, remembering, with a jolt, how Alicia had approved of her choice of curtain fabric. “Cute, but not cutesy.”

  Forcing back more tears, Quinn opened a file on her laptop that included all the research she’d done in the days since Alicia’s death on Breakwater Security and her neighbors across the marsh. She’d jotted down a list of key words and phrases, hoping that, together, a pattern would emerge—something.

  The Caribbean. The Dominican Republic.

  A kidnapped American entrepreneur with close ties to Alicia’s former boss.

  Venezuela. A kidnapping and rescue there.

  Emerald smuggling.

  Colombia. Mercenaries tortured and executed.

  More emerald smuggling. The finest, most valuable emeralds in the world were found in the Colombian Andes.

  “What am I missing?” Quinn asked aloud, pulling up a Washington Post article she’d stored in a separate file.

  The piece detailed a sensational case last October involving vigilante mercenaries and a long list of crimes.

  As she read the article, Quinn remembered more details of the case and the reaction within the halls of the Justice Department when people realized the vigilantes hadn’t acted alone, but instead were part of a network.