Carla Neggers - Breakwater

A stiff Joe Riccardi was out on the front porch when Huck returned. Without a word, Joe took his wife into the house. Sharon, too, was silent.

Huck turned to start back down the steps but the door opened behind him, and Oliver Crawford stepped out onto the porch. He’d changed into loose, casual clothes and looked older in the harsh mix of night and porch light. “A minute, Boone?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Sharon and Joe Riccardi are on the skids. I don’t know if you’ve noticed.”

“Maybe they’re just feeling the pressure of getting Breakwater Security up and running.” Huck kept any critical note out of his tone. “Everyone’s worked hard, but they’ve worked the hardest.”

“You could have a point.” Crawford looked out into the darkness, the porch light casting long shadows onto the lush lawn. “Have you ever trusted someone and lived to regret it?”

“Haven’t we all?”

“I suppose so. I don’t like betrayals.”

Huck studied the man, but couldn’t tell what was on his mind. “No one does. Has someone betrayed you, Mr. Crawford?”

“I make the decisions here. I always have.” His voice took on an icy edge. “Any failures and mistakes-ultimately, they’re my responsibility.”

“The captain of the ship.”

Crawford didn’t even seem to hear him. “I’m a risk-taker by nature. That’s how I’ve gotten as far as I have. A small inheritance helped.” He waved a hand, as if taking in his entire bayside estate, the breadth of his wealth. “You don’t get to be where I am by sitting back and letting other people run ahead of you. You have to see the opportunities and seize them. Take action.”

“Understood,” Huck said. “Is there an opportunity you see now?”

But Crawford wasn’t focused on future operations. He shook his head sorrowfully. “Ultimately, the kidnapping was my fault. I wasn’t paying attention.” He clapped a hand on Huck’s shoulders. “Don’t ever let people make decisions for you, Boone. Don’t let them manipulate you. Even people you trust.”

“What about teamwork?”

“Ah, yes. The ‘there’s no I in team’ line. Always remember that a team is made up of individuals with their own personalities, their own agendas.”

“Mr. Crawford…is Sharon Riccardi out of control?”

Crawford relaxed visibly, as if he’d wanted Huck to guess Sharon ’s name, then smiled. “She would think I’m the one out of control.” He collected himself and started back toward the porch door. “Good night, Boone. Tomorrow should be interesting.”

Conversation over. Huck knew if he pushed Crawford, he wouldn’t get anything more out of him. “Uhhuh.” He forced himself to grin. “I’m parking cars.”

He waited until Crawford was back inside before he walked down to the converted barn. He wouldn’t sleep tonight. Quinn, Steve Eishenhardt, Sharon Riccardi’s night walk through the marsh, Joe’s reaction-and Crawford, that remark about being out of control. Huck had the same feeling he’d had before Alicia Miller’s death. It wasn’t a premonition-it was instinct.

Something was wrong. This time, he meant to find out what before another body turned up.

Steve parked his borrowed car in a far corner of the Yorkville marina parking lot and tried to act as if he belonged there. He didn’t want anyone looking for him-feds, goons, whoever-to spot him. He’d dressed in a baseball cap and bubba overalls, but doubted he’d pass for a redneck fisherman. If he was lucky, people would think he was some kind of boat hand, although he didn’t know a thing about boats.

Most of the fishing boats were already long on the Chesapeake. It was midmorning, bright and sunny, the cool wind gusting hard, as he trotted onto the wooden dock. He was ragged and stiff, frayed at the edges from lack of sleep and fear. He’d spent the night in the car, moving from place to place to keep cops from shining a flashlight in his window.

He wanted a hot shower, food. Pancakes would be nice.

Gerard Lattimore was up, Steve could see now, dressed in battered canvas pants and a long-sleeved polo as he stood on the small outdoor deck of his yacht playing a rich guy roughing it in the sticks.

Without waiting for an invitation, Steve jumped aboard.

The deputy assistant AG gaped at him and instantly went pale. “Steve, what are you doing here?”

“I really don’t look like a redneck fisherman, do I?”

“Are you trying to?”

“Not really.” Steve decided he didn’t have time to waste. “I like you, man. You did what you could to help Alicia. You’re a stand-up guy. I’m not. I’m pond scum.”

Lattimore lowered his voice. “Steve, the FBI wants to talk to you-”

“I know.” He glanced around. “You’re not under surveillance, are you?”

“What? No, of course not. I’d know-”

“Don’t be so sure.”

Some of Lattimore’s legendary self-control slipped. “What do you mean?”

“You really don’t know, do you? Shit.” Steve didn’t remember ever having sworn in front of his boss. “Your pal Ollie Crawford is under investigation.”

“That’s ridiculous. Start making sense or get out.”

“The feds think Breakwater Security might be a front for vigilante mercenaries. Real psychos.”

Lattimore was white now. He said nothing.

“Either your pal Ollie is involved with them or he’s being used by them.”

“That’s absurd.”

“No, it’s not. You know it isn’t, or you’d be screaming for the cops right now. Has Ollie talked vigilante crap to you?”

“No.”

“But you suspect something’s off about him, don’t you?” Steve didn’t relent, just stuck to what he’d come there to say. “You’ve been kept in the dark. Deliberately. In case you’re involved-voluntarily or involuntarily.”

“I won’t be manipulated by you, Steve. You’re obviously upset and desperate.” Lattimore was so tight, he hissed when he spoke. “What’s your role in this so-called investigation?”

“Weasel. That’s my role.”

Lattimore made a small choking sound. “Get off my boat.”

“If I were you, Gerry, I’d hide my money and make sure my family’s safe.” Steve paused a moment, watching his boss’s nostrils flare. “You’ve got daughters, right?”

“You bastard. Don’t you even mention my daughters.”

“I am a bastard. I have no illusions. Everything about me confirms Crawford’s Nazis worst prejudices about lawyers and federal law enforcement.”

“What the hell-”

“I’m trying to help you. I have my own selfish reasons, but most people do. Alicia’s dead because I couldn’t help her-she wouldn’t let me. The lunatics who work with Ollie-protect him, use him-thought she might be part of a federal investigation into their activities. Kind of an undercover agent.”

“Steve, for the love of God-” Lattimore’s voice held a note of panic. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Did you kill Alicia? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”

“I might as well have.” Steve could feel the regret well up in him. His compulsions, his desire to protect himself-he felt his throat constrict with fear and self-loathing and half wished he’d just have a stroke and drop dead on the spot. “I was in the car. The black sedan Quinn’s been going on about. Alicia saw me-she was supposed to see me. I was someone she trusted.”

“Dear God.”

“A couple of Ollie’s Nazis were up front. I didn’t know at the time who they were. They slipped up yesterday and told their names, except-except I don’t think it was a mistake. They wanted me to know. I haven’t figured out why.”

“Steve, you’re not making any sense-”