“That might not be a good idea.”
“Maybe not. I have a high-level security clearance. I keep secrets well.” She ate her small bite of croissant. “You don’t have to stuff me in a trunk for the duration of your investigation.”
“You have a lot of guts, Quinn, and you’re curious by nature-your profession requires it. But you’re not removed from the action. You knew Alicia Miller. You know Oliver Crawford. Gerard Lattimore has a soft spot for you, maybe a romantic interest in you.”
“No romantic interest.”
Huck didn’t let up on her. “You have to stop asking questions, calling up sources. Do your job-”
“You’re telling me to mind my own business.”
“I’m suggesting that you’re in over your head and you need to swim away to safer waters.”
“What about Alicia?”
“There’s just no indication her death wasn’t an accident-”
“Or suicide. That’s what you all believe, isn’t it? That she killed herself, if just by not caring if she lived or died-just by being reckless and agitated.”
“‘You all’ would be-”
“Your superiors, the local police, the FBI, the Breakwater Security guys. Everyone.” Quinn didn’t wait for a response. Tears, which she hadn’t seemed to expect, shone in her eyes. “What about the black sedan?”
“Quinn, I’m not going there. I’m not speculating with you-”
She pointed at the street. “The Town Car met her at that intersection. Right there.”
“You said she got in on her own. She wasn’t pulled in. No one forced her.”
“Were you in the car? The fisherman, Diego Clemente-Buddy Jones said he saw him have a cigarette with you that afternoon. Before five. It wouldn’t give you much time to get back to Yorkville and into your running shorts, but it’s possible.”
Huck said nothing. What had she done, diagrammed time lines?
Quinn shot to her feet. “Oh. Damn.” She almost knocked over her espresso. “Clemente-he’s with you. That’s why the anonymous tip about Alicia’s car.”
Hell.
She put a hand on one hip and blew out a lungful of air. “I didn’t get that one until just this second. Don’t worry, it’s not like anyone else in Yorkville will figure it out. Your guys at Breakwater-whoever you’re after-none of them will necessarily put two and two together. I just happened to be in the right place at the right time with Clemente and asked the right questions.”
“Don’t screw around with Diego, Quinn. He will stuff you in a trunk.”
She nodded, taking his comment seriously. “I’ve put together a basic dossier on Oliver Crawford and Breakwater Security. And on you, although nothing speculative-nothing that would blow your mercenary bona fides.”
“Anything in writing?”
“Just notes. Everything’s on my laptop.”
Huck stood. “Let’s go back to your office and take a look.”
“I can’t have dug up anything on Crawford and Breakwater that you all don’t have already, but you’re welcome to take whatever files you want.”
“Quinn, Oliver Crawford’s guys know you’ve been poking around. How?”
“I have no idea-”
“Who have you talked to?”
“No one who’d know them.”
“Did you tell anyone you were looking into Crawford and Breakwater?”
She hesitated.
“Lattimore?” Huck prodded.
“No-I haven’t seen him. We’ve talked once since last week, but just about Alicia and how much we miss her.” When Huck started to say something else, she held up a hand. “Steve Eisenhardt. I told him a little about the research I was doing. We met here yesterday. He started working for Gerard after I left Justice.”
“You’re friends?”
“Sort of. I don’t know him that well. He was half in love with Alicia-” She broke off, frowning. “He wasn’t at Lattimore’s party in March, when Alicia met Oliver Crawford. She asked to use my cottage right after the party. I suppose Steve could have wondered what was going on and hooked up with Crawford’s guys somehow.”
“He ever mention Crawford?”
She shook her head. “I’ll talk to him-”
“Hell, no, you’re not talking to him.”
“I meant as a friend.”
“If he’s ratting you out to Travis Lubec, he’s no damn friend. Let’s go.”
25
Sweating, heart thumping, Steve hit some keys to wake up Quinn’s laptop on her desk.
Password protected.
He’d expected as much and didn’t waste time moaning and groaning. He grabbed the spiral notepad next to the laptop and flipped it open.
He’d never been in Quinn’s office before. Very Sherlock Holmes, he thought, glancing up at the oil portrait of a man identified as Quinn Harlowe in raised lettering at the bottom of the frame. Steve couldn’t help thinking the hazel eyes were boring right through him, seeing that he was a soulless piece of dung.
And why not? That is what I am.
He’d sold his soul to the Nazi devils who were waiting for him.