Because, Huck thought, unbeknownst to Vern, he’d managed to tip off fellow U.S. federal agents who subsequently took his rescued emerald smuggler into custody. Turned out he was an American citizen wanted for a long list of wrongdoing.

“Wouldn’t you disappear if you were a smuggler?” he asked Quinn mildly.

“I don’t think rescuing a smuggler is such a good deed.” Quinn stopped in front of a small coffee shop with flowerpots and four round tables out front. “If you want, you can get us a table and I’ll buy coffee-”

“That’s okay.” In her mood, she could be out the back door in a flash, and he’d have to explain why he went for coffee by himself. “I want to see what’s on the menu.”

“Every kind of coffee you can think of.”

“I’m hungry.”

“Biscotti, croissants, muffins, cookies…”

He smiled at her. “I want to see what looks good. Let’s go.”

He followed her into the coffee shop, and she said a cheerful hello to a big guy she called Ivan, who looked at Huck as if he were a criminal. Huck tried to take Ivan’s suspicion as a positive signal that his deception was working. In any event, he figured it was good that Quinn had people looking out for her. She ordered an espresso. He ordered coffee, black, and a chocolate croissant.

“Make that two chocolate croissants,” Quinn said, giving him a quick smile. “I can’t resist.”

She put everything on a tray and carried it outside, all four tables vacant. She set the tray on the middle one and unloaded it. “I’m right-Boone isn’t your real name, is it?”

He wanted to tell her. McCabe. It’s Huck McCabe. He wanted to tell her about his family in San Francisco and how his parents had adopted him, then four more kids, all of them of different racial and ethnic backgrounds. How they ran a boutique hotel and had never understood his interest in law enforcement but always supported him, wished him well, worried about him, believed in him.

How they thought he was training police officers in Eastern Europe.

So much deception, and here he was, supposed to figure out what lies Quinn was telling.

“It’s all right,” she said quickly. “You don’t have to tell me.”

He picked up his coffee. “I suppose you have various scenarios to explain why I’m not using my real name. Assuming I’m not.”

“Six scenarios, at least for starters. One, you’re an ex-con. Two, you’re dramatic and just like the idea of using an alias. Three, you’re protecting your family, for whatever reason. Four, you’re wanted by authorities under your real name. Five, you’re making a clean break from a troubled past. Six, you’re a cop.”

“You met Joe Riccardi, right? Well, does he look like someone who’d hire a guy like me without having done a thorough background check?”

“Then either he knows you’re using an alias,” she said, picking up her tiny espresso cup, “or you’ve covered your tracks very, very well. Which these days would take money and help.”

Why couldn’t Alicia Miller have been best friends with a dental assistant? Nope. An expert in transnational criminal networks. “Going to take my coffee cup back to your fed friends and have them run my prints?”

“That’s an idea.”

“Of the six scenarios, do you have a favorite?”

She lifted her espresso to her lips. “Undercover cop. Federal. FBI, ATF, DEA, U.S. Marshals. Vern Glover associated with a California fugitive…” Her hazel eyes leveled on him. “Didn’t you say you were from California?”

“ San Francisco.” He leaned over the table. “How long have you known?”

Color rushed to her face. She had to set her cup down. “Damn.”

“Yeah. Damn.”

“Your real name-”

“McCabe. Huck McCabe. I have a brother named Boone. He’s a painter in northern California, as in canvasses, not houses.”

“You’re…what kind of-”

“I’m a deputy U.S. marshal working undercover.” He smiled at her. “And you, Quinn Harlowe, are suddenly a very big pain in my ass.”

“Not that suddenly,” she said, rallying. “I got suspicious when you told me to trust you. You wanted me to know who you were. If you hadn’t, you’d have handled the situation differently.”

“I’m not that deep. You’d had a shock. You were scared. I wanted to make you feel better.”

“That was decent of you.”

“There you go calling me decent again,” he said dryly. “Look what it gets me, a former DOJ analyst poking her nose into my investigation.”

She didn’t seem remotely guilt-ridden or even that concerned. “When I started digging into Breakwater Security and Oliver Crawford’s kidnapping-certain things didn’t add up right from the start. I doubt the Breakwater guys would draw the same conclusions I have. I have access to sources and materials they don’t.”

Not if Lubec has his way. Huck got rid of any hint of a smile. “Quinn, this isn’t some intellectual exercise. You’re not ten steps removed from an operation. You’re right in the thick of it.”

“Yes, I know.”

But she couldn’t sustain that cool demeanor, and Huck watched her break off a piece of her chocolate croissant, realizing that she hadn’t fully expected she was right about him. She was more shaken than she wanted to admit, which probably should have pleased him more than it did. He found himself wanting to reassure her-and yet he warned himself that he didn’t need that kind of distraction, that kind of emotional involvement. If she was a problem, he’d stick her with Nate Winter.

“I suppose you’re not going to tell me what you’re investigating at Breakwater?”

“Nope.” He smiled slightly. “I’m not sure I know.”

She eyed him. “Want me to take a guess?”

“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.”