Doesn’t add up.
If the events of the past few days didn’t add up for him, they didn’t add up for Quinn Harlowe, either. What had she been up to this week? But Huck stopped himself from going any further. His curiosity wasn’t just professional-it was personal. If she’d been at her cottage, he’d have whisked her off for crab cakes, and he didn’t need to be doing that. He’d been nearby when she yelled for help after finding the body of her friend. Otherwise, they’d have no reason even to know each other.
Not that Quinn did know him. As far as she was concerned, his name was Boone and he worked for a startup private security company and a man she didn’t really like.
He took the loop road past Clemente’s dump of a motel and saw him out on the dock having a cigarette with the crotchety owner.
Huck bit back his impatience. Diego Clemente and Huck McCabe, two of the U.S. Marshals Service’s finest, and here they were, smoking cigarettes and off to eat crab cakes.
Sharon Riccardi, sitting on the porch steps of the main house at the Crawford compound, called to Huck as he headed up the brick walk after his dinner out, the night black under an overcast sky. Several lights were on in the house, but as he approached Sharon, he saw that she was drinking wine in the dark, wearing a long black, filmy sleeveless dress with a shawl and no jewelry. She tilted her head back and raised her glass at him. “I’ll bet the mosquitoes don’t dare to bite you.”
“I don’t know about that, Mrs. Riccardi.”
“You’re very fit, aren’t you?” She rose, somewhat unsteady on her feet; she wasn’t wearing shoes, although the night temperature was cold to go barefoot. “I like fit men.”
“Mrs. Riccardi-”
“ Sharon.” She sipped her wine, her black shawl falling into the crooks of her elbows. Her gaze drifted over him. “All that hard muscle. You’ll be an inspiration to the new men when they arrive.”
“Where’s your husband?”
“Inside, asleep.” She gestured toward a second-story window. “We get to live here in luxury. Don’t you think we’re lucky?”
“It’s a nice house.”
“Joe doesn’t even seem to notice. I think he’d be happiest living in a foxhole. All I’d need to do is drop in once in a while.” Her eyes raised to his. “Conjugal visits.”
Huck wondered how many glasses of wine she’d had and decided to keep asking questions. “He ever see combat?”
“I have no idea. I don’t know him that well.” She laughed at her own comment. “An odd thing to say, isn’t it? He’s a very private man. He was wounded by his first wife. Now he’s more careful about what he reveals.”
“You two seem to have a good thing going here with Breakwater.”
She gave a dismissive shrug. “Oliver always has something new for me to do. He’s had a rough time since he was kidnapped.” This time, she took a bigger drink of wine. “I remember those terrible days.”
“Did you ever lose hope?”
“No, I didn’t. He says he didn’t, but I don’t know. The kidnapping still haunts him. I believe it will until the day he dies. All he can hope for now is to see justice done.”
“The kidnappers-”
“Strange how fate works. We heard just this week that two of them were found recently in a remote camp in the Colombian Andes. They’d been tortured and executed.”
“Who found them?”
“A couple of emerald miners.” She tossed back her head, letting her hair curl down her back. “It looks as if the two thugs had enemies of their own.”
“Why were they tortured?”
“For information, I assume. Perhaps for the fun of it. Revenge. I don’t know.”
“You think they deserve what they got?” Huck said.
She raised her chin to him. “Yes, I do. Don’t you?”
“Absolutely.” Huck could feel his crab cakes, fries and coleslaw heavy in his stomach, but he’d stayed away from alcohol. “I’m not saying you torture and execute people for no reason. If these guys had useful information, why screw around? If they’re guilty of kidnapping, murder, drug dealing-hell. I’d pull the trigger myself.”
“Who would have to give the order?”
“I’m not a lapdog. I think for myself. I base my decisions on the situation and the existing options.”
Sharon Riccardi gave him a cool look. “What if the kidnappers had committed their crimes here, on U.S. soil?”
From his briefings, Huck knew what to say. “Doesn’t make any difference.”
“It’s not our job as private contractors to conduct interrogations and executions.”