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

“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.





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.”