Читать книгу Breakwater - Carla Neggers, Carla Neggers - Страница 15

Joe Riccardi intercepted Huck outside the converted barn before he could get back to his room and change his shoes, not yet dry after he’d charged into the marsh. Quinn Harlowe’s screams of horror had stopped him dead in his tracks on his run. Diego had said he’d heard her, too, out on his boat.

A hell of a shock, finding her friend’s body.

One DOJ lawyer dead. A former DOJ analyst talking to the feds and the local police. Huck thought he could understand his new boss’s tight look.

“Where have you been, Boone?”

“I was out for a run. There was a problem in town.”

Riccardi’s face didn’t register any obvious emotion. “Alicia Miller. We heard the news about her death.” He paused, his eyes unchanged. “Police suspect she drowned.”

“I’d say so.”

“What was your involvement?”

“I was on my run. I’d just gone past Quinn Harlowe’s cottage when I heard her scream. I went to see what I could do.”

“She could have screamed for a dozen different reasons—”

“Didn’t matter.”

Riccardi nodded. “You’ll do well in this work, Boone.” But his voice was toneless. “The body—”

“There was no hope for Miss Miller by the time I got there. She’d been dead for a number of hours.” For some reason, Huck pictured Quinn barefoot, flapping at the gulls, her black hair whipping in her face as she’d tried to protect her dead friend. “Her body washed up in the marsh near a kayak—she must have been out during yesterday’s storms.”

“Why would anyone—” Joe shook his head. “It doesn’t make any sense. Why would she go kayaking in severe weather? Did this Quinn Harlowe have any ideas? What’s she doing in Yorkville?”

“She was worried about Alicia—Miss Miller. Apparently they had an encounter in Washington early yesterday afternoon. Sounds as if she was in even worse shape than when she showed up at the front gate here that morning at the crack of dawn. Harlowe tried to find her—checked her apartment, made a few calls. When she didn’t have any luck, she came down here to see if Miller had returned to the cottage.”

Joe inhaled sharply. “What a tragedy. Did you tell the police about our encounter with Miss Miller yesterday morning?”

“No. I didn’t actually see her myself. I figured—” Huck regarded Joe Riccardi, clearly nothing about this day sitting well with Breakwater Security’s chief of operations. “It wasn’t anything I wanted to get into.”

“Understood.”

“Alicia Miller worked for the DOJ. The FBI’s investigating. Her boss was Deputy Assistant Attorney General—”

“Gerard Lattimore. Yes, I know. He and Oliver Crawford are longtime friends. Law enforcement officials are welcome to ask questions of any of us.” Riccardi’s square chin came up slightly. “We have nothing to hide. Do we?”

“I sure as hell don’t.”

A flicker of impatience rose in Joe’s hard face, but his wife joined them, shuddering in the cool wind as she stepped out of the converted barn. “What an awful thing suicide is.” She crossed her arms on her chest, her windbreaker, with its prominent Breakwater Security logo, not warm enough for the cool temperature. “When I was in high school, one of my classmates killed himself. I’ll never forget it. There was no reason, not that any of us saw.”

“As far as I know, Alicia Miller didn’t leave a suicide note,” Huck said.

“Maybe there wasn’t one. Maybe she wanted her death to look like an accident.” Sharon shook her head, staring at the ground. “Maybe it was an accident, but she was reckless and didn’t care what happened to her, didn’t fight to save herself.”

Joe Riccardi’s jaw seemed to clamp down on itself. “We shouldn’t speculate.”

His wife didn’t seem to hear him. “I wonder if Miss Miller had an underlying mental illness—would that make her death easier for her family and friends? If they could latch onto a reason, maybe—”

“There’s never a reason to kill yourself,” her husband snapped.

Her head jerked up, and she looked taken aback at his sharp tone. “No, of course not. That’s not what I meant. A reason in her own mind—”

Joe broke in as if she hadn’t spoken. “You’d think if Miller had obvious emotional problems the Justice Department would have taken some kind of action. Insist she take a leave of absence. They wouldn’t just sit back and do nothing.” He stopped himself. “Now I’m speculating. We don’t know what happened.”

“How well did you all know her?” Huck asked.

Sharon turned to him. “We met last month at a party Gerard Lattimore held at the marina restaurant here in Yorkville. Joe and I were there with Oliver.”

“Quinn Harlowe?”

“She was there, too.”

Joe straightened, even more rigid than usual. “Let’s leave the investigating to the authorities. We have our own job to do. Boone? You all set? If the police have further questions to ask you—”

“I’ll be in the shower.”

His deliberately flip answer got a reaction out of Lieutenant Colonel Riccardi. He made two fists. Huck thought he’d end up with at least one of them coming at his jaw, but his new boss restrained himself.

His wife touched his hand. “Joe.”

Neither Riccardi said anything as Huck ducked into the converted barn. A straight hall ran down the middle, with rooms on either side, like horse stalls. There was a kitchen with cafeteria tables, an office, a men’s room, a shower room. The bedrooms were at the far end—mostly singles, but a few doubles and one triple with its own private bath, apparently for any women who showed up. So far, Sharon Riccardi was the only female on the premises, but she stayed in the main house with her husband.

Huck ran into Vern Glover at the far end of the hall. “I heard about the dead woman, Boone. Damn. Couldn’t you have picked a different route for your morning run and kept us out of this thing?”

“Sure. Next time I’ll check my crystal ball to find out where the dead people are.”

“You ran past the body and didn’t see it?”

Vern had him there. Huck had noticed the red kayak in the tall grass out by the water, but hadn’t thought much of it. If he’d investigated, he could have spared Quinn the trauma of discovering her friend’s body.

“Hindsight’s twenty-twenty,” he said.

Travis Lubec emerged from the room across the hall from Huck’s. Lubec had just moved into the converted barn. He had worked security for Oliver Crawford for a couple of years and wasn’t among those fired after his kidnapping—apparently, Crawford had ignored some piece of sage advice Lubec had given him before his trip to the Caribbean.

Nick Rochester, a kid maybe a hair older than Cully O’Dell, joined the men in the hall, coming in through the back door. He and Lubec were scrubbed, serious and ultrafit, wearing Breakwater Security polo shirts and khakis, their weapons in shoulder holsters.

Lubec’s gaze fell on Huck. “You’re bad luck, Boone.”

Rochester nodded. “Hell, yeah. You’re here, what, three days, and you’ve already managed to stumble on a body and end up under the hot lights, talking to the feds.”

“Just one fed,” Huck said. “The rest were local guys.”

“You’re a cheeky bastard, aren’t you?” Travis took a step closer to him. “I’d watch that mouth if I were you.”

“Cheeky. That’s a PBS kind of word, isn’t it?” Huck replied. “Shouldn’t you say ‘cheeky bastard’ with an upper-crust British accent?” Huck yawned. “You know that Lubec and Rochester are both names of towns, right? Lubec, Maine. Rochester, New York.”

Vern rolled his eyes at Huck’s taunting the two meats. Lubec’s fair cheeks turned red, but he didn’t say anything. The kid told Huck to fuck off.

“Boone’s had a rough morning,” Vern said. “Don’t kill him.”

Lubec took a couple of breaths through his nose, then glared at Vern. “I’ll excuse him this time. Next time, I’m not cutting him any slack.”

After Lubec and Rochester left, Vern stuck a thick finger in Huck’s face. “I’m not bailing you out again. If you want to mouth off, you can take the consequences.”

“I was just stating a fact. Lubec and Rochester—”

“Shut up, Boone. I don’t care if you did find a dead woman this morning. Just shut the hell up.”

Huck thought he was displaying just the right amount of rule-breaking attitude for the vigilantes among Breakwater Security to take notice. On the other hand, he could just be pissing people off. He couldn’t make himself care. He pictured poor dead Alicia Miller and her friend Quinn Harlowe, fighting tears and panic—and guilt. A lot of guilt.

Not that he had much hope for Harlowe heading back to Washington and minding her own business. Huck knew a few research analysts and he’d never met one who’d leave well enough alone.