Breakwater

32

Steve 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 morning, 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.

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.