If Ollie had gone over the edge in some way, if trouble was brewing, Gerard knew that his own name and reputation would be tarnished. Guilt by association. He and Ollie had been friends for twenty years. There was no way to downplay their friendship.

He pushed back the glum thought. He hated the fear that gripped him. What wasn’t he being told? What more did Steve know?

And Quinn, what did she know?

Gerard knew he had enemies. Rivals. People who resented his access to power, his success. People who wanted his job. People who wanted the jobs he would have after the Justice Department, who’d slice and dice him now, just to get him out of the way.

He had never imagined that Ollie would be his downfall.

Out on the parking lot, a Breakwater Security SUV waited to take him to the open house.

Before he headed across the parking lot to meet his ride, Gerard took out his cell phone and dialed the number he had for T.J. Kowalski. He’d tell the FBI agent about Steve’s visit. Then truth would prevail.

But Gerard had no illusions.

If Oliver Crawford was under investigation, he was under investigation.

34

Huck half thought Quinn would change her mind and head back to Washington, or go visit her grandfather in her party dress, but he spotted her Saab coming toward him and directed her to a parking place.

She got out of her car, strappy high heels in hand. “I can’t drive in these things,” she said, kicking off a pair of water shoes. She scooped them up and dumped them on the back seat of her car, then put one hand on the driver’s side door as she lifted a bare foot and slipped on the high-heeled sandal.

Huck noticed that somewhere between dancing with him last night and now, she’d painted her toenails a dark red.

“You don’t want to lean against your car.” He grabbed her hand as she balanced herself to put on her other sandal. “You’ll get your dress dirty.”

If she noticed his mix of irritation and pleasure at seeing her, she pretended not to. She stood up straight and smiled. “Thanks.” She adjusted her shawl over her shoulders, polite, as if last night hadn’t happened. “I had to pop my trunk at the gate. No Uzi in back, no gate-crashers in the trunk.”

“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.’”