Breakwater (Cold Ridge/U.S. Marshals #5)

“No one was hurt.”


“Tell that to her father,” the Nazi Youth said. “She was fifteen.”

“If Daddy sees a picture of his daughter with your dick in her mouth, you won’t just not work in Washington again.” The SS guard chewed his gum, obviously relishing this part of his job. “You won’t work anywhere.”

“The daughter was rebelling against her parents. That’s not my fault.”

True enough, but the ropes and the rough sex were his idea. She’d gone along at first, just itching to get back at her father for ignoring her, at her mother for putting image above anything else-at both of them for not understanding her. Steve had used her disenchantment with her life to his advantage.

He’d done it all before, and she hadn’t; his speed, his expertise, his excitement at her moans had frightened her. He’d gotten off on the risk of what he was doing and couldn’t make himself stop.

Several of the pictures showed her trying to get away from him.

She didn’t want anyone to know what she’d done. If nothing else, Steve figured he’d taught her a lesson about not getting ahead of herself in doing payback. She wanted to punish her parents by misbehaving, but the gain needed to be in balance with the pain.

He’d also promised himself he’d stay away from the troubled teenage daughters of powerful Washington types.

Two weeks ago, just when he thought he’d dodged this latest speeding bullet he’d fired at himself and his fun with the congressman’s daughter would stay their dirty little secret, the goons turned up. The pictures would embarrass the girl, too-not to mention her family-but they didn’t care. Steve didn’t know how they had managed to get the pictures. They must have followed him. Did he look like a pervert? Had one of his previous consensual partners talked?

Since seeing himself on a computer screen, he’d been celibate.

No wonder he couldn’t stand still, couldn’t think straight. Sex, especially kinky sex, relieved his stress.

They came to Pennsylvania Avenue, busy on the warm spring morning. Normal people, Steve thought, going to normal jobs.

The two Nazis flagged a cab and climbed in, ignoring Steve. The cab pulled away. He melted into a crowd crossing the street, his hand shaking wildly, his bowels clamping down. He didn’t know if he’d make it to the DOJ in time.

What would the atmosphere be like, with Alicia’s death? Word of the discovery of her body hadn’t reached the office until late in the day.

I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.

But it had, hadn’t it? And it was never going to end. Never, unless he did something, walked into Lattimore’s office and told him everything, or called this Brooker or Longstreet. At least maybe they could stop these guys from hurting anyone else.

Steve could hear his jail-cell door locking shut even now. If he talked, he faced a prison sentence as well as public humiliation.

He wasn’t going to do anything except what the two Nazis had asked him to. It was his only chance to save his own neck.





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.”