Breakwater

by Carla Neggers

  Bingo.

  Breakwater Security, isolated on Virginia’s Northern Neck, funded by a traumatized wealthy entrepreneur, was the perfect setup for a violent anti-everything criminal network.

  They could train new recruits—they could launch operations. They could do anything. A legitimate private security company run by a respected businessman gave them all the cover they needed. Did Oliver Crawford know? Shaken, Quinn closed all the files on her laptop and shut it down.

  Now, at least, she knew what Huck Boone/McCabe and Diego Clemente were doing in Yorkville, Virginia.

  They were chasing a particularly violent, lawless, ideological bunch of vigilantes.

  A stiff Joe Riccardi was out on the front porch when Huck returned. Without a word, Joe took his wife into the house. Sharon, too, was silent.

  Huck turned to start back down the steps but the door opened behind him, and Oliver Crawford stepped out onto the porch. He’d changed into loose, casual clothes and looked older in the harsh mix of night and porch light. “A minute, Boone?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Sharon and Joe Riccardi are on the skids. I don’t know if you’ve noticed.”

  “Maybe they’re just feeling the pressure of getting Breakwater Security up and running.” Huck kept any critical note out of his tone. “Everyone’s worked hard, but they’ve worked the hardest.”

  “You could have a point.” Crawford looked out into the darkness, the porch light casting long shadows onto the lush lawn. “Have you ever trusted someone and lived to regret it?”

  “Haven’t we all?”

  “I suppose so. I don’t like betrayals.”

  Huck studied the man, but couldn’t tell what was on his mind. “No one does. Has someone betrayed you, Mr. Crawford?”

  “I make the decisions here. I always have.” His voice took on an icy edge. “Any failures and mistakes—ultimately, they’re my responsibility.”

  “The captain of the ship.”

  Crawford didn’t even seem to hear him. “I’m a risk-taker by nature. That’s how I’ve gotten as far as I have. A small inheritance helped.” He waved a hand, as if taking in his entire bayside estate, the breadth of his wealth. “You don’t get to be where I am by sitting back and letting other people run ahead of you. You have to see the opportunities and seize them. Take action.”

  “Understood,” Huck said. “Is there an opportunity you see now?”

  But Crawford wasn’t focused on future operations. He shook his head sorrowfully. “Ultimately, the kidnapping was my fault. I wasn’t paying attention.” He clapped a hand on Huck’s shoulders. “Don’t ever let people make decisions for you, Boone. Don’t let them manipulate you. Even people you trust.”

  “What about teamwork?”

  “Ah, yes. The ‘there’s no I in team’ line. Always remember that a team is made up of individuals with their own personalities, their own agendas.”

  “Mr. Crawford…is Sharon Riccardi out of control?”

  Crawford relaxed visibly, as if he’d wanted Huck to guess Sharon’s name, then smiled. “She would think I’m the one out of control.” He collected himself and started back toward the porch door. “Good night, Boone. Tomorrow should be interesting.”

  Conversation over. Huck knew if he pushed Crawford, he wouldn’t get anything more out of him. “Uhhuh.” He forced himself to grin. “I’m parking cars.”

  He waited until Crawford was back inside before he walked down to the converted barn. He wouldn’t sleep tonight. Quinn, Steve Eishenhardt, Sharon Riccardi’s night walk through the marsh, Joe’s reaction—and Crawford, that remark about being out of control. Huck had the same feeling he’d had before Alicia Miller’s death. It wasn’t a premonition—it was instinct.

  Something was wrong. This time, he meant to find out what before another body turned up.

  32

  S teve parked his borrowed car in a far corner of the Yorkville marina parking lot and tried to act as if he belonged there. He didn’t want anyone looking for him—feds, goons, whoever—to spot him. He’d dressed in a baseball cap and bubba overalls, but doubted he’d pass for a redneck fisherman. If he was lucky, people would think he was some kind of boat hand, although he didn’t know a thing about boats.

  Most of the fishing boats were already long on the Chesapeake. It was midmorning, bright and sunny, the cool wind gusting hard, as he trotted onto the wooden dock. He was ragged and stiff, frayed at the edges from lack of sleep and fear. He’d spent the night in the car, moving from place to place to keep cops from shining a flashlight in his window.

  He wanted a hot shower, food. Pancakes would be nice.

  Gerard Lattimore was up, Steve could see now, dressed in battered canvas pants and a long-sleeved polo as he stood on the small outdoor deck of his yacht playing a rich guy roughing it in the sticks.

  Without waiting for an invitation, Steve jumped aboard.

  The deputy assistant AG gaped at him and instantly went pale. “Steve, what are you doing here?”

  “I really don’t look like a redneck fisherman, do I?”

  “Are you trying to?”

  “Not really.” Steve decided he didn’t have time to waste. “I like you, man. You did what you could to help Alicia. You’re a stand-up guy. I’m not. I’m pond scum.”

  Lattimore lowered his voice. “Steve, the FBI wants to talk to you—”

  “I know.” He glanced around. “You’re not under surveillance, are you?”

  “What? No, of course not. I’d know—”

  “Don’t be so sure.”

  Some of Lattimore’s legendary self-control slipped. “What do you mean?”

  “You really don’t know, do you? Shit.” Steve didn’t remember ever having sworn in front of his boss. “Your pal Ollie Crawford is under investigation.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Start making sense or get out.”

  “The feds think Breakwater Security might be a front for vigilante mercenaries. Real psychos.”

  Lattimore was white now. He said nothing.

  “Either your pal Ollie is involved with them or he’s being used by them.”

  “That’s absurd.”

  “No, it’s not. You know it isn’t, or you’d be screaming for the cops right now. Has Ollie talked vigilante crap to you?”

  “No.”

  “But you suspect something’s off about him, don’t you?” Steve didn’t relent, just stuck to what he’d come there to say. “You’ve been kept in the dark. Deliberately. In case you’re involved—voluntarily or involuntarily.”

  “I won’t be manipulated by you, Steve. You’re obviously upset and desperate.” Lattimore was so tight, he hissed when he spoke. “What’s your role in this so-called investigation?”

  “Weasel. That’s my role.”

  Lattimore made a small choking sound. “Get off my boat.”

  “If I were you, Gerry, I’d hide my money and make sure my family’s safe.” Steve paused a moment, watching his boss’s nostrils flare. “You’ve got daughters, right?”

  “You bastard. Don’t you even mention my daughters.”

  “I am a bastard. I have no illusions. Everything about me confirms Crawford’s Nazis worst prejudices about lawyers and federal law enforcement.”

  “What the hell—”

  “I’m trying to help you. I have my own selfish reasons, but most people do. Alicia’s dead because I couldn’t help her—she wouldn’t let me. The lunatics who work with Ollie—protect him, use him—thought she might be part of a federal investigation into their activities. Kind of an undercover agent.”

  “Steve, for the love of God—” Lattimore’s voice held a note of panic. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Did you kill Alicia? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”

  “I might as well have.” Steve could feel the regret well up in him. His compulsions, his desire to protect himself—he felt his throat constrict with fear and self-loathing and half wished he’d just have a stroke and drop dead on the spot
. “I was in the car. The black sedan Quinn’s been going on about. Alicia saw me—she was supposed to see me. I was someone she trusted.”

  “Dear God.”

  “A couple of Ollie’s Nazis were up front. I didn’t know at the time who they were. They slipped up yesterday and told their names, except—except I don’t think it was a mistake. They wanted me to know. I haven’t figured out why.”

  “Steve, you’re not making any sense—”

  “Quinn’s been researching them. You know what she’s like—she’s got the mind for this sort of thing. They sent me to collect what I could from her office. Now they want me to get names.”

  “What names?” Lattimore twisted his hands together in controlled frustration. “Slow down. Start making sense.”

  “I told you—you’ve been kept in the dark. There’s a task force investigating these wing nuts. Your pal Ollie.”

  “Good God.”

  “Gerry, my friend, you’re screwed. You’re out here on your boat, expecting to go to a nice party—and the shit’s hitting the fan all around you.”

  “What do these people have on you?” Gerard asked abruptly.

  Steve felt his head spin, but he couldn’t turn back now. “Don’t think about me right now. Think about yourself. Think about whether you’ve done anything—told Ollie anything—that you’ll live to regret. Decide whose side you’re on.”

  “Steve, are you wired?” Lattimore dropped his hands to his sides in a kind of sad resignation. “Are you waiting for me to betray myself somehow?”

  “I only wish I were working for the feds.”

  “If what you say is true, you took a hell of a risk to come here. Why?”

  “Because you’re innocent.”

  “Bullshit, Eisenhardt.” Lattimore’s voice croaked now. “You’re trying to save your own skin. You need to talk to the FBI. Tell them everything.”

  “Not without a deal.”

  “So that’s it.” Lattimore seemed almost relieved that Steve had finally said something he could understand. “You want my help to cut a deal.”

  Steve gulped, hating himself—hating the position he was in. “My only chance is to disappear or turn state’s evidence. The more I have to offer, the better. I’m not as big a creep as these guys think.”

  “My God, Steve. You think I am involved with these vigilantes. You want me to give you something you can use to save yourself.” He inhaled sharply, maintaining his self-control now. “I’m calling the FBI.”

  But Steve was already onto the dock, running. He knew Gerard Lattimore wouldn’t follow him—and if he was smart, he wouldn’t call the feds. Instead, Gerry Lattimore would find his own way of running.

  Quinn shoved her hands into the pockets of her oversize sweatshirt, the hood protecting her head against a stiff, cold wind as she walked up her narrow dead-end road. The wind had whipped up whitecaps on the water, even in her quiet cove, but it was supposed to calm down by midday and turn warm.

  If the undercover marshals in town had their way, she’d be up on Lee’s Hill by then, talking Civil War history with her grandfather. But it wasn’t going to be that way.

  Over her morning tea, she’d opened up the small spiral pad in which she’d jotted notes and found the top three pages missing.

  The shock of her discovery was still fresh. “Steve,” she whispered, shoving her hands even deeper into her sweatshirt pockets. “The bastard.”

  He had searched her office. She had confirmation now. She spotted Maura Scanlon on her hands and knees in her side yard, pulling weeds in her vegetable garden, obviously absorbed in her work. But she sat back on her heels, wiping her brow with the back of her wrist. “I saw you coming up the road.” She peeled off bright orange garden gloves that matched her bright orange overshirt, then got up stiffly.

  “I’m trying to give everything a good weeding before we leave for North Carolina. Don’s packing. We’re off to visit our daughter for a few days.”

  “Is this a spur-of-the-moment trip?”

  She averted her eyes. “We’re not having an easy time putting Alicia’s death behind us.”

  “It’s been difficult, I know.” Quinn gestured at the small, tidy garden. “Your peas look great.”

  “Don’t they?” Maura concurred, but there seemed to be no pleasure in her response. “They’ll be ready by the time we get back. I’ve been working in the garden day in and day out since last week. There’s nothing quite like gardening to soothe the soul.”

  “I haven’t touched my garden at all this spring.”

  “Well, that’s understandable. Alicia was a beautiful young woman taken from us too soon.” A gust of wind whipped her gray hair. “How are you managing?”

  “Better.”

  “I don’t mean to bring up a difficult subject…”

  “No, it’s okay. Actually, I’m here because I wanted to talk to you about Alicia. I’ve had the impression that you and Don know something that you didn’t want to talk about. Maybe you thought it was inappropriate under the circumstances.”

  Maura looked away. “Sometimes neighbors see and hear things. It happens. Don and I don’t pry—”

  “Nosy neighbors you are not,” Quinn said with a quick smile.

  “Alicia was sweet. She tried to pretend she loved it here, but we never thought she did. At first, she seemed just to want to keep to herself. She was obviously unhappy…depressed.”

  “A lot of people thought she was burned out at work.”

  “I think it was more than that.” Maura clearly was reluctant to say too much. “She became more animated in the past couple weekends here. I’m not sure I’d say she was any happier. Oh, Quinn. I hate to gossip about someone who’s passed on.”

  “I understand. Alicia came to me before she died. She was very upset—anxious, frightened. I couldn’t make sense of much of what she said.” Quinn squatted and plucked up a dandelion, then stood up, tossing it into the pile Maura had made of her weeds. “I can’t help but feel I could have done more to save her.”

  “I wonder if there’s anything Don and I could have done too.”

  “Please, Maura. I knew Alicia for a long time. I won’t pretend we didn’t have our problems in recent months.” Quinn brushed the dirt off her hands. “It’s possible there’s more going on here than any of us wants to believe. I think that’s why you and Don are heading to North Carolina.”

  Maura sighed, nodding. “It’s as if things are bubbling under the surface.” She stared out at the water a moment. “We suspect that Alicia and Oliver Crawford were having an affair.”

  “Alicia and Crawford?”

  “Well, we can’t be sure, of course, but we saw him here several times. He came alone, without his usual entourage.”

  Quinn tried to picture Alicia and Oliver Crawford as a couple. Alicia had always gone for powerful men—but Crawford? Quinn couldn’t see it.

  “We could be wrong,” Maura added quickly. “But he did come here alone—we were surprised he was alone, especially after what happened to him over the winter. The kidnapping and everything.”

  “Maybe he just feels safe in Yorkville. Do you know if he ever stayed overnight?”

  “Oh, no. I’m sure he didn’t. Perhaps affair is too strong a word.”

  “Did Alicia ever meet him at Breakwater?”

  “We think she would kayak over there. She’d pretend to go into the marsh, but you know Alicia had no interest in bird-watching or nature walks.” Maura’s face had reddened. “I’m not condemning either of them. If she found some happiness in the weeks before her death, then that’s a good thing.”

  “When did you first see Crawford over here?” Quinn asked.

  “Mid-March. The second or third weekend Alicia started to stay out here.” She smiled faintly, her color subsiding somewhat. “Truly, Quinn, we don’t like to spy on our neighbors.”

  “You don’t? That’s no fun.” Quinn tried to lighten the mood. “I spy on you and your husband all the time. One morni
ng, you’ll be having coffee on your porch. Another morning, he’ll be watering the garden and you’ll be taking a walk—”

  Maura laughed, finally relaxing again. “We worked hard to be able to lead such boring lives in retirement.” But she fumbled with her garden gloves, avoiding Quinn’s eye. “We didn’t tell Special Agent Kowalski or the local police any of this. If they’d asked, of course we’d have told them what we saw, but otherwise—” She shook her head. “It’s just gossip among friends.”

  Kowalski and the locals would want to know, Quinn thought. So would the undercover marshals in town. “Maura, I can’t keep this secret. I think you know that.” She glanced at her friend and neighbor and smiled gently. “That’s why you told me.”

  “Don and I have been fretting over what to do for days. It doesn’t feel like such a betrayal of Alicia to tell you. We know you have to do what you feel is right.” She shrugged, looking as if a burden had been lifted from her. “We see what we see.”

  “Alicia was burned out—”

  “She was more than burned out, Quinn. I’ve been thinking about what we saw of her over that last weekend and what you say she was like when she came to you in Washington. It’s pure speculation on my part.” Maura hesitated. “Let me just say that I wouldn’t be surprised if she was on something that didn’t agree with her. When I was a nurse, I saw a lot of that sort of thing.”

  “What do you mean, Maura? When Alicia was in college, she was prescribed an antidepressant. She had a negative reaction. She told me about it when I first knew her. She said she’d never go on antidepressants again.”

  “Then I must be wrong. I should mind my own business.”

  But when Quinn pressed her, Maura explained in detail what she knew about antidepressants and the kind of reactions, although rare, she’d seen during her years as a nurse.

  When she returned to her cottage, Quinn didn’t call T.J. Kowalski right away. She didn’t flag down Diego Clemente’s boat or charge up to the motel and have Buddy Jones go find him.