Breakwater

31

Quinn 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.

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.