Joe nodded, reluctant. “That’s true. Bad publicity now could kill a start-up operation. We don’t have a reputation years in the making to fall back on.”

“That’s right,” his wife said. “If the first time people hear of Breakwater Security it involves the death of a Justice Department lawyer-well, that can’t be good. We don’t need Quinn Harlowe out there asking questions, spinning conspiracies, and turning what is clearly a tragic accidental drowning into something more sinister.”

“If you’re worried about Quinn Harlowe,” Huck asked, “why invite her to the party tomorrow?”

Sharon Riccardi’s eyes seemed to glow with intensity. Her husband was harder to read. Crawford ate his cookie, then answered. “It’s a way to reassure her about us, at least indirectly.”

“Okay,” Huck said. “Your call.”

“We’ll enjoy ourselves tomorrow,” Crawford added quietly. “I haven’t hosted a social event since I was kidnapped. Many of my guests will be seeing me for the first time since my rescue. What do you think, Boone? Do I look normal to you?”

This struck him as a strange question, but Crawford seemed intent on getting an answer. “You look fine,” Huck said.

Joe Riccardi excused himself and retreated through the living room. Huck couldn’t tell if Breakwater’s chief of operations approved or disapproved of the torture and execution of his boss’s kidnappers. Was he a part of the vigilante network-or not? Whose side was he on?

After a few more seconds, Huck decided his presence was no longer required, and said something innocuous about seeing everyone in the morning, and left, heading through the living room, back to the kitchen and out a side door.

As he walked down a brick path, he had to bank his frustration. If Oliver Crawford and the Riccardis were building their own private vigilante army, they sure were doing a damn good job of keeping him on the fringes.

He needed more than glowing eyes, tight lips, cryptic questions and locked doors.

He reminded himself that his job-his real job-required patience as well as a willingness to act.

“If Quinn Harlowe is stirring the pot…”

She was more than stirring, Huck thought. Knowingly or unknowingly, she’d turned up the heat on all of them.

She could trust him. But could he trust her?

The air was warm, pleasant, laced with the salty, fishy tang of bay and marsh at low tide.

Huck wondered if Quinn was back in Yorkville, ready for her party tomorrow. Then he remembered he’d just been tasked to keep an eye on her.

No time like the present.

29

When Quinn parked in the driveway next to her cottage, for a split second everything seemed quiet and peaceful, as if she were arriving for a normal getaway weekend of work and relaxation.

But as she stepped out of her car, she saw an osprey soar above the bay and felt a pang of loss-and a surge of frustration. There were so many unanswered questions about why and how Alicia had died. Now one of her colleagues had maneuvered his way into Quinn’s office, perhaps had searched it, and wasn’t returning her calls. Quinn had left messages on every phone number she had for him-office, cell, apartment. She took his non-response as a confirmation of his culpability. He had looked through her stuff.

Quinn felt a gust of chilly air, the temperature on the bay much cooler than in the city. The lilacs, she noticed, had come into bloom, the breeze tinged with their soft, soothing fragrance.

Normally, she would tell herself she didn’t mind being on the sidelines. By staying out of the center of the action, she could maintain a clear mind and a level of objectivity. She didn’t have to plunge herself into the fray.

This is different.

Alicia had come to her for help, and Quinn still didn’t know why, what she was supposed to have done to keep her friend from drowning in the bay.

Now there was Huck McCabe, the undercover federal agent. Quinn pictured his dark green eyes, not at all unreadable-he didn’t like her knowing his status.

One of your brighter moves, Harlowe. Telling him.

He didn’t like having her on the periphery, never mind in the middle, of his investigation, whatever it was. If she meddled, he wouldn’t hesitate to put her under surveillance or arrest her or something.

Unless…

She didn’t want to finish the thought, but it had hung around in the back of her mind for hours.

What if the feds were investigating her?

She knew Oliver Crawford. She’d let Alicia stay at her cottage. Alicia had come to her for help. Quinn had found her friend dead. Now, Steve Eisenhardt had searched her office. On his own? Or had someone put him up to it?

Did he believe she was involved in Alicia’s death somehow-or was he acting on behalf of someone else? Someone at Breakwater? Lattimore? The FBI?

As unsettling as any of those prospects were, Quinn knew exactly what she’d done and hadn’t done.

Maybe, she thought, worrying about staying on the sidelines was a moot point.

She grabbed her backpack of work and tote bag of clothes out of the car and carted them into the cottage, dumping them onto her bed, then headed back to the kitchen. Evening was coming fast. Hungry, distracted, edgy, she put on a kettle for tea, hoping to clear her head. She dug out a mismatched teacup and saucer and a white linen napkin, all at least fifty years old, and set her small table.

As she waited for the water to come to a boil, she fought back an unwelcome sense of loneliness. She’d never meant for the cottage to be an isolated retreat. She’d always pictured friends, family, joining her, if not all the time-a lot of the time. But who would want to visit now?

She looked out at her cove, gray-blue with the fading sunlight, and thought she saw baby ospreys in the sprawling nest.

“The osprey will kill me.”

Her throat tightened. “Oh, Alicia. What were you up to here in Yorkville?”

But no answer came, just the wash of the tide and the cry of seagulls out on the open bay.

After her tea, Quinn resisted taking an evening walk. She didn’t want to run into Diego Clemente. If she said something she shouldn’t, who knew what he’d do. She had no desire to end up in the bottom of his boat, out of circulation. As much as she tried to tell herself she was being dramatic, she didn’t know how Clemente had reacted to the news she’d made him and Huck. Surely Huck would have told him by now. Clemente was Huck’s backup-his eyes and ears in the village. It was his job to protect Huck and their investigation.

Drama, Quinn thought, heading for the shower.

An hour later, her skin was still pink from her shower. She’d turned the water up as hot as she could stand it. She shook out her dress for Oliver Crawford’s open house and tried to remember when she’d last worn it. She’d attended social functions at least once a week when she was at Justice, but, more often than not, would end up wearing whatever she’d had on at work, running from office to cocktail party.

Since leaving Justice, she’d felt more pressure, not less, to join the Beltway cocktail circuit. There’d been no shortage of invitations. Although she liked parties and recognized the importance of networking, lately she’d find herself digging around in the Society’s musty, cluttered attic, glancing at her watch as party time approached, and ending up just not going-or hitting the road to Yorkville, a list of local weekend yard sales in hand.

Quinn slipped into the silky champagne dress. At least it still fit, although she didn’t remember the neckline having such a deep V.

The silk brocade of her 1930s shawl reminded her of the blues of the bay, with a thread of champagne that matched her dress. She wrapped it over her bare shoulders, its long fringe tickling her arms, and spun out into the living room, pretending she had nothing more serious on her mind than an upper-crust open house in a beautiful bayside location.