“‘Elite’ usually means small,” Longstreet said.

“That’s right. Both Riccardis say they’re not looking to be one of the big players in the security field.”

“This Joe Riccardi has a lot of responsibility,” Brooker said. “Breakwater is a start-up with no reputation-he’s building it from the ground up. One mistake-a training accident, anything-and they’re out of business. He’ll be living off his military pension.”

Winter looked out at the landscape, at the height of its spring beauty. He seemed preoccupied. “The network we’re trying to penetrate is loosely coordinated, which makes the people involved more difficult to track. When they act, they’re brazen.”

“It’s their arrogance.” Brooker stood, his eyes on Huck. “I ran into some of these guys in Afghanistan. They set up their own torture chamber to interrogate people they detained, under no authority whatsoever but their own. They were so convinced they were right that they assumed we would applaud their efforts and give them carte blanche. They were surprised and outraged when we turned them over to the Afghan government. Too bad we weren’t able to break open their entire network then.”

“They’re not total whack jobs,” Huck said. “If I’m on the right track, they’re rational and very deliberate. They believe they’re preventing, not sowing, chaos and self-destruction.”

Nate turned from the view of the yard he’d be leaving within hours. “What about Quinn Harlowe?”

Huck didn’t mince words. “She’s made me. And Diego.”

Winter had no visible reaction, but Juliet Longstreet threw up her hands and groaned. “How? If she-”

“She was focused on me. She has access to information the Breakwater guys don’t. She’s an expert on this sort of thing. She’s a natural bird dog. Once she’s got the scent, she won’t let go.” Huck realized he didn’t like being in the position of defending her, or vouching for her. “She still has a high-level security clearance.”

“You trust her?” Nate asked.

“It’s not a question of trust. My first instinct was to pull her off the street. But if we shut her down now, these guys will crawl back under their rocks just as they’re starting to come out into the light. If they blame her for upsetting their plans, she’ll be worse off. I’m willing to keep going. Clemente is, too. A couple Californians like us-we went to a lot of trouble to make ourselves fit in out here.”

“We’re not risking this woman-”

“It’s safer for her if we don’t interfere with her.” Huck picked up a couple more pimiento-cheese triangles; nobody else seemed interested. “She’s not on the government payroll anymore. She answers to herself. What she does is up to her.”

“I don’t like it,” Nate said.

“I’m not worried about me-or Diego. And we’re not going to do anything to endanger Harlowe. Last thing we need is to have to put on the brakes to rescue her.”

Juliet stirred. “I’ll bet having you rescue her is right there with having her fingernails plucked out with pliers. My take? Quinn Harlowe’s asking questions because she’s trying to get used to her friend’s tragic death. She’ll settle down.”

Ethan Brooker and Nate Winter didn’t look as optimistic.

Finally, Winter sighed. “I’ll pull you out in a heartbeat, McCabe, if I think you’re taking unnecessary risks.”

Huck finished off his pimiento-cheese triangles. Winter, Longstreet, Brooker. He had to trust them.

And they had to trust him.

“Relax. I can do my job.”

27

Quinn splashed more champagne into Thelma’s glass, an antique crystal flute that, according to legend, the first Quinn Harlowe had used to drink a toast in celebration of the discovery of a triceratops fossil in South Dakota.

After her close call in keeping herself out of Huck Boone/McCabe’s trunk, Quinn decided she was in the mood to think about dinosaurs. The fiercer the better.

It was early afternoon, but the Society, in keeping with long-standing tradition, shut down at 2:00 p.m. on Fridays from mid-April through Labor Day weekend. A little early in the day for an end-of-the-week drink, but Thelma didn’t seem to mind. She tipped her champagne glass to Quinn. “May your sanity return. Cheers.”

“I’m going to the Breakwater open house, Thelma.” Quinn had taken Gerard’s call with Thelma next to her, opening the champagne, not bothering to disguise the fact that she was eavesdropping. As a result, Quinn now had no plausible deniability. “I’m a neighbor.”

“Lattimore’s going to think you’re his date.”

“No, he’s not. I’m meeting him there. You’re being very old-fashioned, you know. He and I are colleagues. There’s nothing romantic between us. Zip. Zero.”

“You’re both attractive and available.”

“Available.” Quinn wrinkled up her face, trying to keep the conversation lighthearted, which was not even close to how she felt. “I’m not sure I like that word. Think about the layers of different meaning.”

Thelma settled deeper into the slouchy modern chair that Quinn had insisted on adding to her office, although it went with none of the stiff, late-nineteenth-century antiques. “Are you sure you don’t want any of the champagne?”

“Positive. I’m my own designated driver, and a Friday afternoon in Washington in springtime-what are the odds I get to Yorkville in under four hours?”

“Slim to none.” Thelma narrowed her eyes. “You’ll need a champagne-free brain. Do you suppose Oliver Crawford knows Lattimore’s invited you?”

“He says it was Crawford’s idea.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better, Quinn. Why would he invite you to a party after he caught you trespassing?”

“Maybe he understands the emotional state I was in at the time.”

And still am, Quinn thought. Her grief wasn’t as raw and volatile as in the first hours after finding Alicia, and the shock had eased. Digging into Oliver Crawford and Breakwater Security had helped occupy her mind as she’d processed what had happened.

Of course, now she was in hot water with the marshals. Were they discussing, even now, what to do about her?

“You’ll notice Lattimore keeps inviting you to parties,” Thelma went on. “The marina party in March, and now this one. And you keep going.”

Quinn changed the subject. “What are you doing this weekend?”

“Several friends and I are going birding in the mountains.”

“That sounds like fun. You’ve never married, have you, Thelma?”

“No, I haven’t.” Her eyes sparkled. “Although I came close a few times. Why do you ask?”

“I have no idea. I suppose-” She thought of Huck, but didn’t go there. She smiled at Thelma, who seemed not to have changed since Quinn’s first memories of her as a child. “I suppose I’m just trying to distract you. Any regrets about not marrying?”

Thelma sipped her champagne. “Why, I wonder, do we never ask married women if they have any regrets?”

Quinn shrugged. “I’m not sure we don’t. Isn’t divorce a way of saying they regret having married?”

She sat back, eyeing Quinn. “I have a full life. I realize I have more days behind me than ahead, but that just makes me even more determined to live each one I have to its fullest.”

“If you didn’t have to work-”

“I love my work. This place.” With a wave of one hand, she took in the Octagon Room, with its fireplace and oil portrait, its brass candlesticks, its worn wood floors. “I come to work, and I feel as if I’ve stepped back in time to my grandmother’s day. She used to work here, too, you know. Some days, I swear I can hear her talking to me. It’s very comforting.”

Quinn looked up at her great-great-grandfather’s dour face. “I’m not sure I’d want to hear him talking to me.”

Thelma smiled. “He died before my time here, but in the early days, there were many people who remembered him. They said he wasn’t at all a crazy adrenaline junkie. He was thoughtful, very intelligent. He had a purpose. He knew what he was here on earth to do, and he accepted the risks involved as part of the challenge.” Her plain, frank eyes zeroed in on Quinn. “He didn’t shrink from his duties and responsibilities, whether he’d had them foisted upon him or took them on by choice.”