Instead, she dressed for the open house, again trying to imagine Alicia Miller and Oliver Crawford romantically involved—but she just couldn’t do it.
Another question, another loose end, another problem.
She waited until she was in her car, on her way out of the village, before dialing Brian Castleton’s cell-phone number; she hadn’t bothered erasing it from her call list.
He picked up on the first ring. “Quinn, my God, it’s good to hear your voice. How are you doing? I’ve been thinking about you.”
“I’m okay.”
“I’m really sorry about Alicia.”
“I know—it’s a tough one. Brian, Alicia told you about her reaction to the antidepressant she took in college, didn’t she?”
“Yeah, I remember the whole story.”
“Did you ever tell anyone?”
“Me? No, why would I? She repeated it not long ago. I think she was more matter-of-fact about it—not the reaction, but having suffered from clinical depression. She accepted it as a treatable illness, not an a sign of personal weakness. Attitudes have changed.”
“Was anyone else there?”
“Yeah. Yeah, the new guy. Steve Eisenhardt.” Brian, an experienced reporter, immediately turned suspicious. “Why? What’s going on? Eisenhardt stopped by yesterday and asked to borrow a car. He said his was in the shop and he couldn’t get a loaner. It was kind of weird, but what the hell.”
“You loaned him a car?”
“Shouldn’t I have? Am I never going to see it again?”
She gave him T.J. Kowalski’s number and suggested Brian call him.
“That’ll teach me to do anyone a good turn.” He spoke with a touch of dry humor. “You want to tell me what’s going on? You’re more tight-lipped than the FBI, I swear, but I’m here to help.”
“I’m attending an open house at the Crawford compound out here on the bay this afternoon.”
“Oh, yeah? Call me if there’s anything you need.”
“Let’s hope it’s just a regular garden party. Thanks, Brian. If I hear anything about Steve, I’ll let you know.”
After she hung up, Quinn realized that any lingering animosity between them had dissipated—and so had any attraction. They’d both moved on.
She dialed T.J. Kowalski, and not surprisingly, he didn’t like one thing she had to tell him.
“Special Agent Harlowe.” His tone was mildly sarcastic, but not angry or mean-spirited.
“The Scanlons are leaving soon, so if you want to talk to them—”
“I’ll handle it.”
“Can you still check Alicia’s blood for antidepressants?”
Kowalski ignored her. “Where are you right now?”
“In my car.”
“On your way back to Washington?”
She came to a four-way stop and waited for two boys with a mutt on a leash to cross in front of her. Normalcy. “I’m on my way to the Crawford compound. I’ll be one of dozens of guests. It’ll be fine.”
“That’s probably what your great-grandfather said before the avalanche hit him.”
Quinn smiled. The kids had reached the other side of the road. “I’ve got to go. You wouldn’t want me to have an accident because I was talking to the FBI on my cell phone.”
“I’m in Yorkville. Call me if you get into trouble.”
“Thanks,” she said, meaning it, and hung up, tossing her phone onto the seat.
She wondered if Kowalski would consider almost letting Huck Boone, aka Huck McCabe, undercover deputy U.S. marshal, make love to her, getting into trouble.
If he knew, Kowalski would find a reason to lock her up for sure.
33
H uck left a meeting with Joe Riccardi and Vern Glover to go over his car-parking duties—a serious matter, as far as his Breakwater colleagues were concerned—and spotted Cully O’Dell staggering out of the marsh, half falling over the barbed-wire fence.
With everyone else preparing for the arrival of guests, Huck moved in behind O’Dell and followed him to the indoor shooting range.
The kid had a swollen, bloody lip and left eye, and winced aloud as he walked, leaning to his right as if his ribs hurt. Huck had endured enough thrashings to recognize the signs of broken ribs in someone else.
Inside the range, O’Dell got out his gun box and set it on the counter. He was a dead shot, better than everyone Huck had seen at Breakwater, except himself.
“O’Dell?”
The kid didn’t look at him, but mumbled, “These guys aren’t about protection.” He shoved a fresh magazine into his Glock 17. “They’re a bunch of damn liars.”
“What the hell happened to you?”
He wiped blood off his lip. “Leave me alone.”
Huck stayed where he was. “Emptying a few mags into a target isn’t going to get you stitches in that lip.”
“I don’t need stitches.”
“At least come with me and get some ice.”
“I’m okay. I just need to think.”
“Cully, who pummeled you?”
“No one. I fell in the marsh.”
The kid didn’t even try to sound convincing. “What were you doing in the marsh?” Huck asked.
“Bird-watching.”
“You’ve done well here the past couple weeks. Do you like this work?”
“Protective service work, yeah. Sure. I like it a lot. I’m good at it. But this place—” O’Dell glanced around, as if he was afraid someone might be eavesdropping, then pulled goggles out of his gear box. “This place has guys who are batshit insane.”
Not something Huck was about to argue. “If someone I worked with beat me up, I’d quit.”
“I told you—”
“You didn’t get that cut lip bird-watching, O’Dell.”
“I was jumped from behind. I wasn’t paying attention and shouldn’t have let it happen.” He got out his ear protection. “I don’t know if this place will ever get off the ground. The training’s been good. Joe Riccardi seems like a stand-up guy…”
“Are you sure you didn’t see who hit you?”
Cully shook his head, moaning in pain, as if he’d forgotten for a second how much he hurt. “If I saw anything, I don’t remember. I went into the marsh. I was—I don’t know what the hell I was doing. I saw Sharon Riccardi go in there last night. She was drunk.”
“I ran into her in town and brought her back here.”
“So I’m not crazy. She was out there. I was beginning to wonder. I had no idea what she was doing in the marsh, especially at night, so I thought I’d follow her. But I didn’t see anything. Just tall grass, underbrush, birds. Next thing, I’m in the mud, covered with mosquitoes.” He ran a surprisingly steady finger over the barrel of his gun. “I want out, Boone.”
“Then go. Now. Pack up your gun and get out.” Huck managed a smile. “I’ll clean out your room and mail you your stuff.”
Overwhelmed by emotion, the kid set his gun on the counter, the barrel pointed toward the targets. Even beat-up and clearly distraught, he put safety first. He was thorough—but, as Huck had suspected, not one of whatever was really going on at Breakwater.
“I hoped I’d fit in here,” O’Dell said. “I thought I could make a go of it.”
“There are other firms. They’re more established, they’ve figured out how to screen out the crazies. You’ll do fine.”
O’Dell turned to him. “What about you?”
“I’m not a kid like you. I have a track record. It’s not as easy for me to land somewhere else. I can hang here and draw a paycheck until things go south, and it won’t come back to haunt me.”
O’Dell tried to put on the goggles, but he smeared blood on them, and set them down, frustrated, the reality of the beating he’d taken finally sinking in. “Why do you care what I do?”
“I don’t, except you remind me of myself when I was your age.”
“How old are you now?”
Huck grinned. “Older than you.”
/>
“I don’t want to turn into a Travis Lubec, mad at the world. It’s no way to live.”
“Go, O’Dell. Get out of here now. Just say you’re not cut out for this work and leave. You have a cell phone?”
He nodded.
“Call me if you get into any trouble.” Huck tore off the corner of a paper target and jotted down his cell number.
“Who are you?” O’Dell asked, taking the number.
Huck was willing to go only so far. He winked. “Be good, O’Dell.”
The kid dismantled his Glock and put it back in the metal case, along with the goggles and ear protection. Then he left without another word. Huck followed him out the door and watched him walk sullenly back toward the converted barn. The kid would get out of there. Getting his head smashed in had put Cully over the edge, forced him to question what was going on at Breakwater Security.
Huck noticed Travis Lubec falling in behind O’Dell and called to him. “Hey, Lubec. What’s up?”
Lubec hesitated, then abandoned O’Dell and joined Huck at the shooting range. “What are you doing?”
“Target practice. Want to join me before I have to go park cars?”
“O’Dell—”
“Looks like he had his face smacked against a tree.” Huck shrugged, nonchalant. “I figure he had it coming.”
Lubec didn’t respond, just stepped past Huck into the range. He got ear protection out of a closet, pulled a Heckler & Koch USP out of his belt holster and started firing at a paper target. No vest, nothing on his eyes, his face as pale and expressionless as ever. One-handed, he put ten rounds into the target at twenty-five yards, hitting center mass with every shot.
“Bet the marines would love to have you,” Huck said.
Travis shrugged. “Too old.”
“The feds’ll take you up to thirty-six.”
“I don’t see myself toeing that particular line, do you?”
Huck grinned. “No. Me neither.”
Travis, almost as good a shot as O’Dell, seemed to take no pride in his skill. He peeled off his ear protection and put a fresh magazine into his H & K. “We need to get moving.”
“Party time, huh?”
Lubec didn’t take the bait and comment further. When he got outside, he headed for the main house, not inviting Huck to join him, not waiting for him.
As he headed for the barn, Huck risked using his cell phone to call Diego. “Cully O’Dell is on his way out of here. Pick him up.” He squinted up at an osprey hunting over the marsh. “Quinn?”
“In her party clothes driving in your direction.”
“She doesn’t listen, does she?”
“That’s why you like her.”
Gerard finished getting dressed for the open house at Breakwater and told himself that Steve Eisenhardt was burned out, insane, paranoid or all of the above. Alicia’s death must have affected him more than anyone had realized.
But Gerard couldn’t ignore a gnawing feeling in his gut that told him that Eisenhardt was on the level. What if something was going on under the surface and he was being shut out? He’d been fighting a growing sense of uneasiness about Ollie ever since the kidnapping. Yet, over and over again, Gerard would tell himself that he needed to let any investigation take its course. Ollie Crawford was too high-profile, too wealthy, too invested in the system to do anything totally outlandish.
Denial.
Gerard climbed out onto the marina dock, the wind having finally died down. A dozen gulls had clustered around a small fishing boat. The sun glistened on the water. He loved this spot for its lack of glamour, its simplicity, but often found himself restless here for the same reasons.
“You’re never happy. You’re always striving.”
His wife’s words. He could hear her voice, sad more than angry, resigned more than accusatory.
What would happen to him if he lost everything? He’d already lost his wife. He didn’t see his children nearly often enough. The family life he’d envisioned for himself had been a myth. All he had now was his work. His reputation. His ambitions.
If Ollie had gone over the edge in some way, if trouble was brewing, Gerard knew that his own name and reputation would be tarnished. Guilt by association. He and Ollie had been friends for twenty years. There was no way to downplay their friendship.
He pushed back the glum thought. He hated the fear that gripped him. What wasn’t he being told? What more did Steve know?
And Quinn, what did she know?
Gerard knew he had enemies. Rivals. People who resented his access to power, his success. People who wanted his job. People who wanted the jobs he would have after the Justice Department, who’d slice and dice him now, just to get him out of the way.
He had never imagined that Ollie would be his downfall.
Out on the parking lot, a Breakwater Security SUV waited to take him to the open house.
Before he headed across the parking lot to meet his ride, Gerard took out his cell phone and dialed the number he had for T.J. Kowalski. He’d tell the FBI agent about Steve’s visit. Then truth would prevail.
But Gerard had no illusions.
If Oliver Crawford was under investigation, he was under investigation.
34
H uck half thought Quinn would change her mind and head back to Washington, or go visit her grandfather in her party dress, but he spotted her Saab coming toward him and directed her to a parking place.
She got out of her car, strappy high heels in hand. “I can’t drive in these things,” she said, kicking off a pair of water shoes. She scooped them up and dumped them on the back seat of her car, then put one hand on the driver’s side door as she lifted a bare foot and slipped on the high-heeled sandal.
Huck noticed that somewhere between dancing with him last night and now, she’d painted her toenails a dark red.
“You don’t want to lean against your car.” He grabbed her hand as she balanced herself to put on her other sandal. “You’ll get your dress dirty.”
If she noticed his mix of irritation and pleasure at seeing her, she pretended not to. She stood up straight and smiled. “Thanks.” She adjusted her shawl over her shoulders, polite, as if last night hadn’t happened. “I had to pop my trunk at the gate. No Uzi in back, no gate-crashers in the trunk.”
“Why aren’t you in Fredericksburg?”
She cocked her head. “Do I hear a string quartet?”
“It’s for the party—”
“Well, then. That settles it. You have no reason to worry, Mr. Boone. Nothing can possibly happen at a party with a string quartet playing.” She teetered a bit in her strappy shoes. “Whoa. I forgot how high these heels are. And skinny. I might sink in the grass. But, with all you security guys here—”
Something about her was off. Heady. She was on the verge of spinning out of control. “Quinn—”
“If you can…” She paused, obviously debating just what she wanted to say. “You might want to talk to Special Agent Kowalski.”
Hell. “Quinn—what’s happened?”
Before she could answer, Vern Glover arrived with Gerard Lattimore, who just about jumped out of the SUV before it came to a full stop. Quinn greeted her former boss warmly, and he slipped an arm over her shoulders, telling her that he needed to talk to her. He was intense, stiff.
“Sure. Now?”
He nodded and the two of them went off together, along the brick walk to the main house.
Huck listened to the string quartet and watched the gleam of Quinn’s black hair in the sunlight, figuring he’d parked his last car. He had no intention of staying on the sidelines with Quinn and Lattimore there.
Vern got out of the SUV and shook his head, irritable. “Guy’s a wreck. I couldn’t wait to get here and dump him.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“Must be that girl’s death. Being in Yorkville must bring up all the emotion.” Vern, however, wasn’t one to discuss emotions. “Unless he’s got something going on at wo
rk. He’s a scumbag federal prosecutor—I don’t know how he gets up in the morning.”
“Vern—I want in,” Huck said quietly.
Glover gave him a blank look. “What?”
“I’m not in this job just for a paycheck. Neither are you. If something’s going down, I want to be a part of it.”
“No, you don’t. It’s crazy—unless it works. Then we’ll all look brilliant.”
“Unless what works?”
But Vern nodded out at their boss’s well-heeled guests. “Not the kind of crowd to start a food fight or get drunk and throw each other into the bay, is it?”
After months of dealing with Vernon Glover, Huck knew he’d pushed him as hard as he could for the moment. He shrugged. “With any luck, it’ll be a boring afternoon.”
Quinn could feel Gerard’s tension as he swept a glass of champagne off a tray, smiling stiffly at the waiter before taking a gulp. “That man you were with—Boone,” he said. “Has he been following you? You two seem to keep bumping into each other…when you found Alicia, last night at the marina, just now.”
“He was parking cars.”
“Not your type, then, is he?”
“I’ve got a lot on my mind right now,” she said vaguely. “Have you heard from Steve Eisenhardt?”
Gerard tilted back his champagne glass. “Have you?”
She shook her head, noticing he hadn’t answered her question.
“Quinn—” He finished off his champagne too quickly and switched his empty glass for a full one from another passing tray. “If you knew anything, you’d tell me, wouldn’t you?”
“Anything about what?”
“Alicia’s death. Her relationship with Oliver. She was out here, screaming at the front gate, before she came to you in Washington. If you knew why—”
“I don’t. I’m not sure she knew why. She wasn’t herself that day.”
His gaze settled on her for a few seconds. “Quinn, what do you know?”
“Believe me, I’ve asked myself the same question over and over.”
Not wanting to endure Gerard’s glare any longer, she pretended to see someone she knew and excused herself, crossing the lawn to a minibar set up in the shade. The lawn was filled with tables and chairs and more waiters passing trays of hors d’oeuvres. Joe Riccardi had a small group clustered around him as he discussed the mission of Breakwater Security.
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