She waited until she was in her car, on her way out of the village, before dialing Brian Castleton’s cell-phone number; she hadn’t bothered erasing it from her call list.
He picked up on the first ring. “Quinn, my God, it’s good to hear your voice. How are you doing? I’ve been thinking about you.”
“I’m okay.”
“I’m really sorry about Alicia.”
“I know-it’s a tough one. Brian, Alicia told you about her reaction to the antidepressant she took in college, didn’t she?”
“Yeah, I remember the whole story.”
“Did you ever tell anyone?”
“Me? No, why would I? She repeated it not long ago. I think she was more matter-of-fact about it-not the reaction, but having suffered from clinical depression. She accepted it as a treatable illness, not an a sign of personal weakness. Attitudes have changed.”
“Was anyone else there?”
“Yeah. Yeah, the new guy. Steve Eisenhardt.” Brian, an experienced reporter, immediately turned suspicious. “Why? What’s going on? Eisenhardt stopped by yesterday and asked to borrow a car. He said his was in the shop and he couldn’t get a loaner. It was kind of weird, but what the hell.”
“You loaned him a car?”
“Shouldn’t I have? Am I never going to see it again?”
She gave him T.J. Kowalski’s number and suggested Brian call him.
“That’ll teach me to do anyone a good turn.” He spoke with a touch of dry humor. “You want to tell me what’s going on? You’re more tight-lipped than the FBI, I swear, but I’m here to help.”
“I’m attending an open house at the Crawford compound out here on the bay this afternoon.”
“Oh, yeah? Call me if there’s anything you need.”
“Let’s hope it’s just a regular garden party. Thanks, Brian. If I hear anything about Steve, I’ll let you know.”
After she hung up, Quinn realized that any lingering animosity between them had dissipated-and so had any attraction. They’d both moved on.
She dialed T.J. Kowalski, and not surprisingly, he didn’t like one thing she had to tell him.
“Special Agent Harlowe.” His tone was mildly sarcastic, but not angry or mean-spirited.
“The Scanlons are leaving soon, so if you want to talk to them-”
“I’ll handle it.”
“Can you still check Alicia’s blood for antidepressants?”
Kowalski ignored her. “Where are you right now?”
“In my car.”
“On your way back to Washington?”
She came to a four-way stop and waited for two boys with a mutt on a leash to cross in front of her. Normalcy. “I’m on my way to the Crawford compound. I’ll be one of dozens of guests. It’ll be fine.”
“That’s probably what your great-grandfather said before the avalanche hit him.”
Quinn smiled. The kids had reached the other side of the road. “I’ve got to go. You wouldn’t want me to have an accident because I was talking to the FBI on my cell phone.”
“I’m in Yorkville. Call me if you get into trouble.”
“Thanks,” she said, meaning it, and hung up, tossing her phone onto the seat.
She wondered if Kowalski would consider almost letting Huck Boone, aka Huck McCabe, undercover deputy U.S. marshal, make love to her, getting into trouble.
If he knew, Kowalski would find a reason to lock her up for sure.
33
Huck left a meeting with Joe Riccardi and Vern Glover to go over his car-parking duties-a serious matter, as far as his Breakwater colleagues were concerned-and spotted Cully O’Dell staggering out of the marsh, half falling over the barbed-wire fence.
With everyone else preparing for the arrival of guests, Huck moved in behind O’Dell and followed him to the indoor shooting range.
The kid had a swollen, bloody lip and left eye, and winced aloud as he walked, leaning to his right as if his ribs hurt. Huck had endured enough thrashings to recognize the signs of broken ribs in someone else.
Inside the range, O’Dell got out his gun box and set it on the counter. He was a dead shot, better than everyone Huck had seen at Breakwater, except himself.
“O’Dell?”
The kid didn’t look at him, but mumbled, “These guys aren’t about protection.” He shoved a fresh magazine into his Glock 17. “They’re a bunch of damn liars.”
“What the hell happened to you?”
He wiped blood off his lip. “Leave me alone.”
Huck stayed where he was. “Emptying a few mags into a target isn’t going to get you stitches in that lip.”
“I don’t need stitches.”
“At least come with me and get some ice.”
“I’m okay. I just need to think.”
“Cully, who pummeled you?”
“No one. I fell in the marsh.”
The kid didn’t even try to sound convincing. “What were you doing in the marsh?” Huck asked.
“Bird-watching.”
“You’ve done well here the past couple weeks. Do you like this work?”