Breakwater

16

Huck followed a mixed barbed-wire and white rail fence down to the water, where the rail fence gave way to just the barbed wire. As deterrents went, it was nothing elaborate, barely enough to warn off trespassers. Getting to Breakwater along the water would be difficult enough, given the surrounding marshes and the absence of a dock.

Joe Riccardi was smoking a cigar and staring out at the water. Without looking at Huck, he said, “I understand you met Quinn Harlowe in town just now.”

“I didn’t meet her. I ran into her.”

“She was in the diner when you arrived?”

“That’s right.”

“You didn’t go there because of her?”

“No, I went there for breakfast.”

Riccardi nodded, his gaze still on the quiet bay. “Mr. Crawford is here. We don’t want any problems. He’s met Quinn Harlowe several times, because of his friendship with Gerard Lattimore.”

“Did he know Alicia Miller?”

“Not really. They’d met.” Riccardi shifted his gaze to Huck, but his expression was difficult to read. “The FBI agent looking into her death was here. T.J. Kowalski. He’d heard Miss Miller was out here on Monday morning. I hate to see that story come to law enforcement’s attention. The scrutiny-” He looked back out at the water. “I don’t know what’s to be gained by that kind of scrutiny.”

Find out if she was murdered. During the night, Huck had brainstormed all the different ways Alicia Miller could have ended up in the marsh, drowned, with her kayak, that didn’t involve an accident or suicide. The thunderstorms could have provided a killer with cover, a reason for the authorities not to think murder.

But if he had a list of possibilities, speculative though they were, so did T.J. Kowalski and the local cops and probably half the village of Yorkville.

“Do you ever wonder how you got into this kind of work in the first place?” Riccardi asked quietly.

“Sometimes.”

“If I’d stayed home in Michigan, I don’t know.” He puffed on his cigar. “There was no work in town. I wasn’t that excited about college. I went, anyway, and got a useless degree. Then I joined the army.”

“How long did you stay in?”

“Twenty.”

“Miss it?”

Riccardi shook his head. “Not anymore. I lost a wife because of the demands. She just wasn’t suited to having a husband at war. Then I met Sharon. We’ve been married less than a year. I thought Breakwater would be a path to a more normal life. I’d have a chance to get ahead.” He stubbed out his cigar on a fence post and tucked it into his jacket pocket. “It’s beautiful out here. We sure as hell could do worse.”

“I guess so.”

“Alicia Miller’s death is a tragedy. Monday morning, when she came out here, Lubec and Rochester did what they could for her. She was ranting. They took her back to the cottage. They tried to get her to go to the emergency room or call a friend, but she sent them away. What more could they have done?” Riccardi didn’t wait for an answer. “She went back to Washington, then came back here. For whatever reason.”

“Tough break to get mixed up in her problems.”

“What about Harlowe? Is she going to stir the pot?”

She already has. Huck shrugged. “Once she gets back to Washington and resumes her normal routine, she should be fine.”

“She doesn’t want to believe her friend killed herself yesterday or died in a tragic accident, does she?”

“She’s operating under a lot of guilt.”

Joe Riccardi’s dark gaze fell on Huck. “Be careful of her.”

It wasn’t a statement that required a response.

Riccardi changed the subject. “Oliver Crawford is meeting with Sharon right now. I’m joining them in a few minutes. We’re updating him on where we are with the company. He wants to see you, Vern Glover and Cully O’Dell at the house in an hour.”

“Any reason?”

“He takes a personal interest in all of his employees.”

Huck couldn’t tell if Joe Riccardi was dead-on serious or indulging in a little sarcasm about his employer. He left, and Huck stayed by the barbed-wire fence, looking out across the marsh. He hoped Quinn had packed up her Saab and was on her way back to Washington. From what he’d seen of Special Agent Kowalski, he wouldn’t take to having her sticking her nose in his investigation, even one into a likely death-by-accidental-drowning. She’d already given Diego fits. Huck had managed to check in with him by phone before breakfast, and Clemente was spitting fire about her bumping into him last night.

Huck had made the mistake of reminding him that because of Quinn, they’d found Alicia Miller’s car. Diego had growled. “I’d have figured out it was Miller’s car without Harlowe’s help.”

Unable to resist, Huck had prodded his partner. “When?”

“You’re a prick, Huck. If you weren’t a prick, you couldn’t do what you do.”

Diego was just giving as good as he got, but Huck thought his partner and backup-his friend-had a point. The past months of deep undercover work had changed him. When Huck looked in the mirror in the morning, he didn’t know who he was.

A jackass.

If he had to be a jackass to get the job done, fine. If being nice would do it-he’d be nice. But he had no clear idea of how to win the trust of the vigilantes among his new colleagues at Breakwater enough to get them to let him in on their plans. What did the Riccardis know? What did Oliver Crawford know? Who were the key players? Or had Vern Glover landed in Yorkville just because he needed a job, and Huck was barking up the wrong damn tree?

Alicia Miller’s death had set everyone on edge.

Somehow, as unfeeling as it sounded, Huck knew he had to turn all the free-floating tension around him because of the tragedy into an advantage. Something that would help him get answers.

A soft breeze blew across the marsh, bringing with it tangy, earthy smells of salt and wet dirt. He was from northern California. As a deputy U.S. marshal, he could be assigned anywhere. But he wasn’t a part of the vigilante task force and didn’t like coming in through the back door.

He saw Diego Clemente’s wreck of a fishing boat out toward the horizon. Tough life. Diego didn’t know a damn thing about Alicia Miller’s death, either. That black-haired, hazel-eyed Quinn Harlowe, reportedly a very fine analyst and an expert on transnational crime, had managed to find the one other federal undercover agent in town last night didn’t sit well with Huck at all.

Diego’s decision to use his own name hadn’t seemed to be a big risk. There was no reason for anyone to run a background check on him. Now-he’d sparked Quinn’s interest. If she threatened their undercover status, Nate Winter and his team would yank Huck and Diego out of Yorkville, and the psycho vigilantes they were hunting would crawl back under their rocks.

Huck turned back to the house. He knew Diego would see him on shore. His primitive all-clear for his backup. Things were okay at the Crawford compound. He wasn’t scheduled for a beating or an execution. With all the technology they had at their disposal, they were working with smoke signals.

Back at the converted barn, he found Cully O’Dell preening in front of a mirror in the bathroom. He’d spent the morning in the classroom, taking written tests. “I look okay for Crawford?”

“Yeah, you look fine. What’s that smell?”

O’Dell sniffed. “Aftershave. Too strong?”

“Well, this place has chemical-attack sensors. Don’t want anyone thinking you’re trying to kill Crawford.”

The kid blushed. “Should I wash it off?”

“No, you’re fine.” Huck grinned. “Hell, Cully, you’re going to be a great bodyguard, especially for women. The bad guys will underestimate you, which will be their mistake, and the women will think you’re their little brother and undress in front of you. Either way, you’re good.”

If possible, Cully reddened even more. “I see myself as a professional, Mr. Boone.”

“Huck, okay?”

He nodded. “Yes, sir.”

No way, Huck thought, was Cully O’Dell a half-crazy vigilante mercenary willing to break the law and torture, even murder. He was just a kid from Virginia who wanted to make a respectable living. If the shit hit the fan, O’Dell wouldn’t be backup or an enemy-he’d be someone Huck needed to protect.

Unless all his instincts were wrong and the kid was plotting to kill him in his sleep.

This was no time to start questioning his instincts, Huck thought, then washed up and put on a fresh shirt for the big meeting.