Breakwater

15

Quinn noticed curious looks from a few people as she settled into her booth at Shippey’s, a diner in a former hardware store on Yorkville’s wide main street. With its red vinyl booths and Formica counter, its draw was its comfort-food menu and pleasant staff, not its decor.

The village did, however, have its quaint places. Some of the tourist-oriented seasonal shops weren’t open yet, but most of the mainstays-bookstore, pharmacy, antiques shops, galleries, sporting goods store-had out their welcome signs. Quinn had no intention of going shopping. She just wanted breakfast. She’d spent the night on her couch, sleeping in fits and starts, and woke up starving, with nothing to eat but Alicia’s abandoned yogurt.

After two years in Yorkville, with her scores of trips to yard sales and flea markets, she knew many of the locals and second-home people. Shippey’s was a gathering place, quieter on a weekday morning in early spring, but, still, half the stools at the counter and most of the booths were occupied. On a weekend morning in the summer, there’d be a line. Several people recognized her and told her how sorry they were about Alicia’s death, and Quinn quickly decided that coming to the diner, being among people, had been a good move.

Donna, the redheaded thirty-year-old daughter of Shippey’s owners, set a mug of coffee in front of her and took Quinn’s order of French toast and bacon. Food, she knew, would help steady her.

“You just missed your FBI agent,” Donna said. “He had the French toast, too.”

Shippey’s French toast, golden-brown and sprinkled with cinnamon sugar, was famous. “Special Agent Kowalski? He’s not my FBI agent-”

“I don’t know. He’s kind of cute.” Donna grinned, pointing her coffeepot at Quinn. “There. I knew that’d put some color back in your cheeks.”

“Did he say where he was headed?”

“No-I figure he’s gone to Breakwater. He was talking to some people in here, and he didn’t realize the woman who drowned-Miss Miller-” Donna suddenly grew awkward. “I’m so sorry about what happened. I know she was your friend.”

“Thank you.” Quinn left it at that. “What didn’t Agent Kowalski realize?”

“Oh. That your friend was acting weird all weekend. I don’t mean to speak ill-”

“It’s okay, Donna. Had anyone seen her?”

“A couple people saw her on Sunday and said she was real jittery. Then on Monday morning, I was up early as usual to get here for five-thirty, and I saw her out at the Crawford compound’s front gate. I go by there on my way to work. She looked pretty upset.”

“She was at the Crawford compound at five-thirty in the morning?”

“That’s right.” Donna blushed. “I’m not saying anything out of turn, am I?”

“No, no, of course not. I just hadn’t realized she was there, either.”

“I’m sure it doesn’t mean anything, her being out there. She’d walked from the cottage, I guess. It’s a couple miles, but she kept in good shape-we used to see her jogging around town all the time on the weekends she was down here. I didn’t think too much of it, except she was so upset.”

“Did anyone at Breakwater know she was there? They’ve tightened up security-”

“Oh, yeah. They knew she was there. You know they did. They’ve gone downright crazy with security, if you ask me. They’ve got snipers on the roof. I live three miles up the road, and half the time I don’t remember to lock my doors. And they’re just getting started. There’s way more to come.”

Quinn doubted Breakwater had snipers, much less any posted on the roof. Donna’s exaggeration, however, wasn’t unexpected. Obsessive about his privacy even before his kidnapping, Oliver Crawford was a popular subject of gossip, and his new private security venture only added to his aura of wealth and eccentricity. He had the money, freedom and connections to indulge any whim.

“Could you hear what Alicia was saying?” Quinn asked.

Donna shook her head. “I couldn’t make out any words. I was going to stop and help, but some of Crawford’s security guys came out the front gate. Bet they drove her back to your cottage.”

“Did you see which guys-”

She gestured with her coffeepot out the window. “Not those two. They’re new.” But she collected herself. “I’m talking too much. I should put your order in.”

As she sipped her coffee, Quinn turned to see who Donna had pointed to and watched Huck Boone and another man, just as buff, shut the doors to a black SUV that had pulled up in front of the diner. She was so startled, she dropped her mug, coffee spilling over her table. She jumped aside before it could hit her and pulled napkins from a dispenser, and began to sop up the coffee.

In an instant Huck was there, scooping up the wet napkins as she grabbed for more. “Got butterfingers this morning, huh?”

“Looks that way.” Using a fresh napkin, she took the wet napkins from him and tried to smile. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“A granola bar at 5:00 a.m. doesn’t go far. We were up early for training.” Instead of running clothes, this morning he wore neat khaki pants and a black lightweight jacket with Breakwater Security over his heart, in discreet gold lettering. He gestured to the man next to him, also in khakis and a black Breakwater Security jacket. “This is Vern, by they way-Vernon Glover. He’s another Breakwater flunky. Vern, meet Quinn Harlowe.”

“My pleasure,” Vern said, but he didn’t offer a hand, nor had he helped clean up the spilled coffee. He turned to Huck. “I’ve got a few things to do in town. I’ll be back for you in thirty minutes.”

He left abruptly. Huck smiled at Quinn. “Looks as if Vern’s not having breakfast with me.”

Quinn started to invite him to join her, but Donna arrived with a damp towel and he took a stool at the counter. Donna mopped the table, nervously glancing at Boone. She leaned close to Quinn and whispered, “Him and the one that just left-they’re armed to the teeth.”

“I’m sure they have permits for any weapons-”

“Shh.”

Quinn started to say something else, but Donna scooted off dramatically, giving Huck a dazzling smile as she disappeared into the kitchen.

With her table wet, Quinn moved to the counter, deliberately sitting next to Huck. He glanced sideways at her. “How are you this morning? Besides jumpy.”

“I’m doing okay. Thanks for asking. I thought getting out would do me good.” She smiled. “Plus, I had no food. Alicia left a yogurt…”

“You need a real breakfast. You look pale.”

Donna returned with two mugs of coffee and set them on the counter. “Your breakfast will be right up,” she told Quinn, then took Huck’s order of eggs, home fries and wheat toast.

As she peeled open a thimble of half-and-half, Quinn was aware of him so close to her. “What exactly do you do at Breakwater?” she asked.

“Whatever I’m told.”

“You don’t give the orders?”

“No, ma’am,” he said with an undertone of amusement. “I take orders. I’m just a low-level bodyguard.”

“Whose body do you guard?”

His eyes settled on hers, then drifted lower, taking her in with a frankness she wasn’t used to. He shifted back to his coffee, drinking it black. Without looking at her, he said, “Makes no difference to me.”

“How does one get to be a bodyguard?”

“I fell into it.”

Quinn persisted. “How?”

“Harvard didn’t want me.”

“You’re using sarcasm to avoid answering my question. Is that your custom?”

His dark green eyes narrowed on her. “You’re asking questions to avoid thinking about your friend.”

She felt heat rise in her face. “I wouldn’t know if that kind of avoidance is typical for me because I’ve never had a friend drown.”

“I’m sorry,” he said abruptly. “That wasn’t very nice of me.”

“Are you a nice man?”

He gave her a quick, unreadable smile. “You ask a lot of questions for someone who hasn’t had breakfast. Aren’t you hungry?”

Donna returned with a plate of French toast and a glass shaker of cinnamon sugar, but this time she kept any comments she had to herself.

Quinn picked up a knife and spread butter across the golden toast. “Whatever training you did this morning must not have been too rigorous. You were a lot sweatier yesterday. And you don’t look as if you just got out of the shower.”

Sudden humor sparked in his eyes. “How would I look just out of the shower?”

Oh, hell. She set the knife down quickly, before she ended up dropping it. “More avoiding of the subject. My point is,” she went on, “that I don’t believe your story. I think you and your friend Vern saw Special Agent Kowalski coming in the front door and you went out the back door. So to speak. I don’t even know if the Crawford compound has a back door.”

Huck drank his coffee without responding.

As she sprinkled cinnamon sugar onto the melting butter, Quinn tried to regain her appetite. The smell of food combined with the tension of interrogating this man-who probably was armed, if not to the extent Donna assumed-had turned her stomach. “Why didn’t you tell me Alicia was at the Crawford compound early Monday morning? Never mind me-did you tell Special Agent Kowalski?”

“I didn’t see her.”

“Did Vern?”

“No.”

Donna brought his breakfast and refilled the two mugs, her knuckles white on the handle of the coffeepot. Quinn wondered how much she’d overheard.

After Donna retreated nervously, Huck picked up a slice of bacon. “What are you now, Kowalski’s helper? Think the FBI can’t investigate, and they need your help?”

“I was just making conversation.”

“No, you weren’t.”

She cut into her French toast. She needed a sugar boost. Something to help get her back to normal. “The police found Alicia’s car last night up on the loop road.”

“So I heard.”

“She must have taken the kayak up there-”

Huck turned to face her. “Quinn, just stop. Don’t do this to yourself. Go back home, resume your life and mourn your friend. Let the authorities figure out what happened to her.”

“She drowned.”

Quinn jumped off the stool, ready to bolt.

He touched her elbow. “I’m sorry. Sit down. Finish your breakfast. I’ll leave you alone.”

“I can’t eat. It’s not you…” Her throat caught. “Good luck with your job. I’m sorry we had to meet under such difficult circumstances. If you stay at Breakwater-” She didn’t know what she was saying. “Well, who knows.”

“You’re heading back to Washington?”

“Yes, as soon as I pull myself together. I have work today, and there’s nothing-I guess there’s nothing for me to do here.”

She left money on the counter for her breakfast and a generous tip. As she headed for the door, Huck didn’t stop her. Once she was outside, she let herself sob, brushing back tears as she started down the main street. She’d walked into the village, which meant she had to walk back. The gorgeous morning made her want to stay on the bay for a few days. Hide there, she thought. Pretend she was on vacation and Alicia was at work in Washington, not on a slab in some medical examiner’s office.

Pushing the image out of her mind before it could take hold, Quinn focused on the pretty scenery, walking along the loop road past the motel where she’d met Diego Clemente last night. She stood on the dock, pretending to look for birds, but she didn’t see him or his boat. She recognized Buddy Jones, the motel’s owner and a Yorkville fixture, a wiry, leather-skinned man in his late sixties, a cigarette hanging off his lower lip as he tied a boat with a thick, worn rope.

“Excuse me,” Quinn said. “Have you seen Diego Clemente?”

“Who?”

She repeated the name. “He was out here last night. I think he’s a guest at your motel-”

“Oh, right. Yeah. The Yankees fan.” Buddy paused, removing the cigarette from his lip. “I hate the Yankees. Diego’s a nice guy, though. He went out early this morning. He does most mornings.”

“In his boat?”

“Yeah, in his boat.”

“He’s here alone?”

Buddy regarded her with curiosity more than suspicion. “Why do you want to know?”

“I don’t, really. I was just asking.”

“He’s a good-looking fella.”

“That’s not why-”

“He and his wife split up. He’s taking some time to get his head screwed on straight. Nothing like fishing for that.” He flicked ashes into the water. “You fish?”

“No-I kayak.”

“Kayaking.” He grimaced with disdain. “I hope you know what you’re doing. Half the kayakers I see out here are a menace. A wonder more of them don’t get killed. That girl yesterday-you hear about her?”

Quinn felt the blood run out of her head, but she nodded. “What a tragedy.”

He sighed. “An unnecessary tragedy, if you want my opinion. Now she’s gone, and her family and friends have to live with what she did. Sorry. I don’t mean to speak ill of the dead. You want me to tell Diego you were asking for him?”

“Oh, no, that’s not necessary. How long has he been in Yorkville?”

“Couple weeks.” The old man stabbed a callused finger at her. “You take my advice and stay away from him, okay, missy? He’s on the rebound from a bad marriage. Nothing but heartache in it for a pretty girl like you.”

“Thanks. I’ll remember that.” In spite of his old-fashioned attitudes, Quinn couldn’t help but like the man. “He doesn’t have anything to do with Breakwater Security, does he?”

The old man grunted. “Those psychopaths? No, not that I know of.”

“The security guys-do they sometimes do training runs out this way?”

“A few do-”

“A rough-looking guy with short dark hair? He was out for a run yesterday morning-”

“I think I know the one you mean. He found that woman’s body yesterday-he and her friend from D.C. I heard his name’s Boone. I can’t remember if it’s his first name or his last name. He just got here. I saw him running Monday, before the storms hit.”

Quinn took a breath. “What time, do you remember?”

“Before five.” He grinned, stained teeth showing. “I wasn’t drinking a beer, and I don’t drink beer until after five.”

“A sensible rule.”

“He stopped to stretch. Diego was out here having a cigarette-they talked for a minute or two. That’s it. Why?”

“I’m just curious.” It was the truth, but she remembered Kowalski’s warning about interfering. “To be honest, I’m not sure how I feel about having the Crawford compound turned into a private security facility.”

Buddy waved a hand in dismissal. “A day late and a dollar short on that one, if you don’t mind my saying so. It’s a done deal.”

Quinn couldn’t argue. Thanking him for his time, she continued her waterfront walk back to her cottage. Finding Alicia yesterday was horrible. She’d been in shock most of the day and wasn’t doing that great now, but if she didn’t pull herself together soon, people like T.J. Kowalski would either think she was on the verge of a breakdown herself or hiding something.

A sound overhead-close-drew her out of her thoughts.

A helicopter. Private. Flying low over the cove.

Oliver Crawford.

Quinn pictured Huck in his neat khakis and Breakwater jacket, rushing out to meet his boss, and found something about the image was off, simply didn’t work.

She didn’t know the man at all, but she’d learned to be a quick judge-to trust her instincts. And he hadn’t struck her as bodyguard material. Not that she knew anything about bodyguards.

Huck Boone is not your problem, she told herself.

She’d take a shower and head back to Washington.

There was no reason to stay in Yorkville another minute.