Carla Neggers - Breakwater

“Why aren’t you in Fredericksburg?”

She cocked her head. “Do I hear a string quartet?”

“It’s for the party-”

“Well, then. That settles it. You have no reason to worry, Mr. Boone. Nothing can possibly happen at a party with a string quartet playing.” She teetered a bit in her strappy shoes. “Whoa. I forgot how high these heels are. And skinny. I might sink in the grass. But, with all you security guys here-”

Something about her was off. Heady. She was on the verge of spinning out of control. “Quinn-”

“If you can…” She paused, obviously debating just what she wanted to say. “You might want to talk to Special Agent Kowalski.”

Hell. “Quinn-what’s happened?”

Before she could answer, Vern Glover arrived with Gerard Lattimore, who just about jumped out of the SUV before it came to a full stop. Quinn greeted her former boss warmly, and he slipped an arm over her shoulders, telling her that he needed to talk to her. He was intense, stiff.

“Sure. Now?”

He nodded and the two of them went off together, along the brick walk to the main house.

Huck listened to the string quartet and watched the gleam of Quinn’s black hair in the sunlight, figuring he’d parked his last car. He had no intention of staying on the sidelines with Quinn and Lattimore there.

Vern got out of the SUV and shook his head, irritable. “Guy’s a wreck. I couldn’t wait to get here and dump him.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Must be that girl’s death. Being in Yorkville must bring up all the emotion.” Vern, however, wasn’t one to discuss emotions. “Unless he’s got something going on at work. He’s a scumbag federal prosecutor-I don’t know how he gets up in the morning.”

“Vern-I want in,” Huck said quietly.

Glover gave him a blank look. “What?”

“I’m not in this job just for a paycheck. Neither are you. If something’s going down, I want to be a part of it.”

“No, you don’t. It’s crazy-unless it works. Then we’ll all look brilliant.”

“Unless what works?”

But Vern nodded out at their boss’s well-heeled guests. “Not the kind of crowd to start a food fight or get drunk and throw each other into the bay, is it?”

After months of dealing with Vernon Glover, Huck knew he’d pushed him as hard as he could for the moment. He shrugged. “With any luck, it’ll be a boring afternoon.”

Quinn could feel Gerard’s tension as he swept a glass of champagne off a tray, smiling stiffly at the waiter before taking a gulp. “That man you were with-Boone,” he said. “Has he been following you? You two seem to keep bumping into each other…when you found Alicia, last night at the marina, just now.”

“He was parking cars.”

“Not your type, then, is he?”

“I’ve got a lot on my mind right now,” she said vaguely. “Have you heard from Steve Eisenhardt?”

Gerard tilted back his champagne glass. “Have you?”

She shook her head, noticing he hadn’t answered her question.

“Quinn-” He finished off his champagne too quickly and switched his empty glass for a full one from another passing tray. “If you knew anything, you’d tell me, wouldn’t you?”

“Anything about what?”

“Alicia’s death. Her relationship with Oliver. She was out here, screaming at the front gate, before she came to you in Washington. If you knew why-”

“I don’t. I’m not sure she knew why. She wasn’t herself that day.”

His gaze settled on her for a few seconds. “Quinn, what do you know?”

“Believe me, I’ve asked myself the same question over and over.”

Not wanting to endure Gerard’s glare any longer, she pretended to see someone she knew and excused herself, crossing the lawn to a minibar set up in the shade. The lawn was filled with tables and chairs and more waiters passing trays of hors d’oeuvres. Joe Riccardi had a small group clustered around him as he discussed the mission of Breakwater Security.

The pleasant music and surroundings-the soft laughter and beautifully dressed guests-reminded Quinn of Alicia and how much she’d have enjoyed such an event, but she felt edgy and out of place. With a glass of sparkling water in hand, she ambled toward a back entrance to the house and slipped inside, ducking into a short hall that led to the kitchen, its main work area out of sight. She could hear the rush of the caterers, the clatter of dishes, pots and silverware. She cut through a corner of the kitchen and down another hall, ending up in a sun-filled living room of soft yellows and blues, the furniture surprisingly informal. Two sofas faced each other, with chairs on either end and a tufted leather ottoman forming the main seating area. Along the walls were side tables, an antique grandfather clock, large-scale oil paintings and tall, immaculate windows that looked out across the lawn toward the water.

To her left was a dining room, more formal, quiet now. Quinn drifted toward a door in the right corner of the room. Another hall. She saw an open doorway just into the hall, another one farther down, and a graceful staircase. She wondered what she was doing, sneaking around Oliver Crawford’s bayside house.

Suddenly, Oliver himself was standing in the doorway, inches from her. “Quinn!” He smiled. “I thought I heard someone. Come-join me. I just had a call I had to take.”

“I don’t want to keep you from your guests.”

“And I don’t want to keep you from your spying.” With a chuckle, he stood back from the door and motioned her inside. “I can’t say I blame you. It’s a boring party.”

“No, it’s lovely-”

“‘Lovely’ is another way to say ‘boring.’”

She stepped past him into the library, all dark leather and wood, with framed black-and-white photographs on the walls. A stuffed owl stared at her from a shelf of vintage books.

“The original owner of the house was an amateur bird-watcher,” Crawford said behind her. “He left a number of stuffed birds here, but, fortunately, far more watercolors, many of which he painted himself.”

“Any good?”

“Not particularly, but I enjoy them nonetheless. They have an honesty and simplicity that I can appreciate.” He stood in front of a window overlooking a white lilac. “You and Gerry just got here, didn’t you?”

“Yes-but we didn’t come together.”

“No, of course not.”

Quinn heard the wry tone in his voice. “It’s funny how rumors get started, isn’t it? People get an idea in their heads, and suddenly they start thinking it’s reality. For instance, what was your real relationship with Alicia Miller?” she asked candidly.

“So, you’ve obviously heard rumors.” He dropped onto a leather club chair and crossed his legs, swinging one foot as he stared out the open window, the sounds of his party faint, the smell of the lilac in the air. “Alicia and I were friends. I was very fond of her. She was like a little sister to me. We got to know each other over the past month.”

“You weren’t having an affair?”

He didn’t seem surprised or offended by the question. “I won’t say it didn’t cross my mind, especially at first. But, no, we were not having an affair. Since my kidnap and rescue, the thought of romance, frankly, hasn’t appealed to me. I could feel normal around her. I like to think she could feel normal around me.” He sighed heavily, but his expression didn’t change. “But I couldn’t save her.”

“You knew she was troubled?”

“Yes. Yes, I knew.”

Quinn heard footsteps in the hall and turned, just as Huck materialized in the doorway. His gaze fell on her, his jaw set hard. He shifted his attention to his boss. “I’m sorry, Mr. Crawford. None of us saw her come inside.”