“That was Lubec’s idea,” Joe Riccardi said.
Crawford nodded. “Was it? I’m sure he had his reasons. Quinn’s inquisitive-Gerry Lattimore thinks the world of her. I’ve invited them both to the open house here tomorrow.”
Huck forced himself not to react. “You spoke to her?”
“No, I invited her through Gerry. He’ll be here.”
And so will Quinn. Huck had no illusions. If invited, she’d come. Hell, if she wasn’t invited, she’d come-she’d paddle over in her kayak and jump over the barbed-wire fence, probably in her party dress.
“Quinn seems to have taken a liking to you,” Crawford said.
“I wouldn’t go that far. I was there right after she found her friend.”
“A terrible tragedy. Gerry’s very broken up about her death. Unfortunately-” Crawford set his wineglass down, pausing as he took a cookie from the plate Sharon had returned to the table. “Unfortunately, a rumor’s come to my attention that the federal government might be interested in what we’re doing here.”
Huck bit into his cookie. “Interested as in suspicious?”
Sharon answered, her voice quiet, no edge to her tone. “I wouldn’t go that far.”
“We have nothing to hide,” her husband said stiffly.
Sharon stood next to him. “That’s right. If the FBI or anyone else wants to investigate us, fine. We’re a legitimate operation. You’ve had a look at us from top to bottom, Huck. Wouldn’t you agree?”
He shrugged. “Absolutely.”
“However,” she went on, “an open investigation is one thing. Spying is another. We don’t want the federal government or anyone else infiltrating us, spying on us. No one would. If Quinn Harlowe is stirring the pot-”
“Then we need to know,” Huck finished for her.
Crawford tilted his head back, his eyes half-closed as he studied Huck. “I’d like you to keep an eye on her, Boone. She seems to get along with you. Check in with her from time to time.”
“That’s not exactly the kind of mission I had in mind when I signed on-”
“Nor did I,” Joe said quietly. He clearly didn’t like the idea.
“It’s not a mission,” Crawford said. “It’s an informal request. Quinn’s absorbing a difficult blow with the loss of her friend, and given Alicia Miller’s behavior in the hours, perhaps days, before she drowned, there are bound to be questions. I don’t want them backfiring on us here. We’re at a delicate stage.”
Joe nodded, reluctant. “That’s true. Bad publicity now could kill a start-up operation. We don’t have a reputation years in the making to fall back on.”
“That’s right,” his wife said. “If the first time people hear of Breakwater Security it involves the death of a Justice Department lawyer-well, that can’t be good. We don’t need Quinn Harlowe out there asking questions, spinning conspiracies, and turning what is clearly a tragic accidental drowning into something more sinister.”
“If you’re worried about Quinn Harlowe,” Huck asked, “why invite her to the party tomorrow?”
Sharon Riccardi’s eyes seemed to glow with intensity. Her husband was harder to read. Crawford ate his cookie, then answered. “It’s a way to reassure her about us, at least indirectly.”
“Okay,” Huck said. “Your call.”
“We’ll enjoy ourselves tomorrow,” Crawford added quietly. “I haven’t hosted a social event since I was kidnapped. Many of my guests will be seeing me for the first time since my rescue. What do you think, Boone? Do I look normal to you?”
This struck him as a strange question, but Crawford seemed intent on getting an answer. “You look fine,” Huck said.
Joe Riccardi excused himself and retreated through the living room. Huck couldn’t tell if Breakwater’s chief of operations approved or disapproved of the torture and execution of his boss’s kidnappers. Was he a part of the vigilante network-or not? Whose side was he on?
After a few more seconds, Huck decided his presence was no longer required, and said something innocuous about seeing everyone in the morning, and left, heading through the living room, back to the kitchen and out a side door.
As he walked down a brick path, he had to bank his frustration. If Oliver Crawford and the Riccardis were building their own private vigilante army, they sure were doing a damn good job of keeping him on the fringes.
He needed more than glowing eyes, tight lips, cryptic questions and locked doors.
He reminded himself that his job-his real job-required patience as well as a willingness to act.
“If Quinn Harlowe is stirring the pot…”
She was more than stirring, Huck thought. Knowingly or unknowingly, she’d turned up the heat on all of them.
She could trust him. But could he trust her?
The air was warm, pleasant, laced with the salty, fishy tang of bay and marsh at low tide.
Huck wondered if Quinn was back in Yorkville, ready for her party tomorrow. Then he remembered he’d just been tasked to keep an eye on her.
No time like the present.
29