“Quinn?”

“If Alicia had her head together enough to drive out to the boathouse to launch, don’t you think she’d have checked the weather? At least worn a life vest?”

“Happens all the time. People don’t pay attention.”

“But she must have just arrived back from Washington -”

“If she’d been agitated, then stuck in a car for three or four hours, she could have cut corners in her rush to get out on the water,” Kowalski reasoned.

Quinn sat on a 1950s wooden-armed chair, its cushions covered in a flowered fabric that went with the plaid on the couch. Alicia had helped her pick it out. “Alicia always wore a life vest. I insist anyone using one of my kayaks wear one. I keep several sizes in the shed. It’s not like her to go without.”

Kowalski didn’t respond right away. “Have you had anything to eat?”

His question took her by surprise. “Crab stew-”

“Uh-uh.” He pointed to her bowl, still on the side table. “You’ve had, what, three bites?”

Not even that much. She didn’t answer him. “Does Huck Boone know you found Alicia’s car? He was with me this morning-”

“I know. I can’t discuss the details of an ongoing investigation with you.”

“The black sedan that picked Alicia up in Washington -it hasn’t turned up?”

Kowalski sighed at Quinn. “You are tenacious, aren’t you? Why didn’t you sign up for the FBI? What are you now-thirty?”

“Thirty-two.”

“You still could. You’ve got four years. Then you can run an investigation and ask people questions.”

“If I weren’t a former Justice Department employee-”

“I treat everyone the same.”

She snorted. “Ha.”

“I know a couple guys planning to sit in on your workshop at the academy.”

“If you tell me things you’re not supposed to, I’ll give them A’s.”

That got him to crack a smile. “Good to see you have your sense of humor. It’ll help you in the coming days.”

But she sensed he was trying to tell her something more. “And?”

“And leave the investigation into your friend’s death to law enforcement. Don’t meddle.”

“What makes you think I’ve meddled?”

“Good night, Miss Harlowe.”

“A minute ago it was Quinn.”

He leaned toward her. “Eat. Get some sleep. Go back to Washington in the morning and make up a hard test for my friends.” But he sighed, shaking his head. “I know it’s been a rough day for you. I’m truly sorry about your loss.”

“Thank you.”

After Kowalski left, Quinn took her crab stew to the kitchen and popped the bowl in her ancient microwave. If she had something to eat, she thought, she might be able to figure out how T.J. Kowalski had discovered that his anonymous tipster was Diego Clemente and she’d asked him about Alicia’s car, because obviously he had. Otherwise why read her the riot act about minding her own business?

Kowalski must have gone to the waterfront motel himself and asked people hanging around if they saw anything. Ordinary legwork. He’d talked to Clemente and figured out he’d provided the tip about Alicia’s car. Had Clemente actually told him that Quinn had been asking questions?

The microwave dinged. The stew was bubbling hot, but she didn’t think it had come to a boil. She opened another sleeve of saltines and sat at the table, and after three spoonfuls of the rich, flavorful stew, she knew what she was doing and why Kowalski had warned her off. She was grasping at straws and looking for distractions-meddling in a law enforcement investigation-in order to alleviate her own guilt, to take her mind off her shock and grief and, even for a few moments, the image of Alicia in the marsh.

However she’d died, she was gone, and Quinn didn’t want to accept that reality.

T.J. Kowalski hadn’t made the effort to come to her cottage and tell her in person about the discovery out of any sympathy for her, or because he’d needed to ask her more questions.

He’d wanted to tell her to butt out.

Message delivered, message received.

Quinn stared at her crab stew. It had turned gloppy, and she had lost any urge to eat. She forced herself to take a few more bites, but couldn’t really taste anything. Finally, she gave up and, as she washed out her bowl, she wondered what T.J. Kowalski knew that he wasn’t telling her. Or was she just grasping at more straws?

She thought of Huck Boone. He worked for Breakwater Security-he could have his own read on the investigation.

Maybe she’d look him up tomorrow and ask him what he thought.

Feeling better, Quinn fell back onto the couch and wrapped up in her quilt, listening to the wind and the tide and trying not to think.

Steve Eisenhardt bought a tall coffee-to-go at a Starbucks between his apartment and the Department of Justice and hoped the caffeine jolt would help clear his head.

Alicia was dead. He might as well have killed her himself.

After he’d heard the news, he tried to rationalize his behavior and absolve himself of any guilt. But he knew what he’d done.

The devil’s come for you…

Rain-soaked fallen cherry blossoms rotted on the sidewalk. He drank his coffee through the plastic lid and noticed his hands were trembling, a mix of fear and self-loathing, he thought, eating away at him. He would never be the same. There was no going back now. All he could do was hope these scumbags who had him by the short hairs had finished with him.

But as if he’d conjured them up himself, the two Nazis from Monday eased in next to him, the older one on his left, the younger one on his right. The three of them walked down the street together, like tourists who’d met by accident.

“Quinn Harlowe,” the older goon asked. “Tell us about her.”

“Quinn?” Steve snorted. “She’s a pain in the ass. If you stupid assholes left a bread-crumb trail, she’ll find it and follow it right back to your hidey-hole.”

The goon didn’t react at all. “What’s her relationship with Lattimore?”

“He worships her. Thinks she’s brilliant. Thinks she can help him shine. He’d do damn near anything to get her back at Justice.”

“Any romantic interest?”

“Have you had a good look at her? Who wouldn’t have a romantic interest in her?”

The kid to Steve’s right sneered. “Not everyone wants to screw every woman he sees, Eisenhardt. You’re a piece of work, aren’t you?”

A squeaky-clean type. Steve ignored him. He looked up at the superfit goon on his left. “Quinn doesn’t like to sit on the sidelines.”

“That doesn’t surprise me. Keep an eye on her. If she meets with Gerard Lattimore, we want to know.” The SS guard took another few steps. He spoke mildly, never raising his voice or giving his words any emphasis. Just stating the conditions under which Steve got to live. “We don’t want the Justice Department to use Alicia Miller’s death as an excuse to start nosing around in our affairs.”

Steve felt sweat breaking out on his brow, the back of his neck, his lower back. “I don’t know her that well. What if I can’t find out what she’s up to?”

“You’re a well-connected, intelligent, successful attorney. You’ll find out.”

They walked a few more steps in what would look to anyone on the street like companionable silence. Finally, Steve licked his lips. “This wasn’t part of the deal.”

“There was no deal.”

“We had a verbal agreement-”

“Lawyer talk,” the kid said.

The older guy-the SS guard-seemed to like that one. “One more thing. We want you to find out if anyone at Justice is investigating what they would call a vigilante network.”

“What?”

“Names. We want names.”

“What vigilante network?”

The SS guard didn’t react. “Last fall. You remember. Deputy U.S. Marshal Juliet Longstreet and Special Forces Army Major Ethan Brooker uncovered a vigilante plot to expose traitors. One of the vigilantes was killed. Another-a low-level thug, really-was taken into custody.”