If she called the police, Quinn knew they’d ask if Alicia had gotten into the black car voluntarily, and she would have to say yes. Alicia hadn’t screamed for help. She’d been agitated and semicoherent, but she’d somehow found her way from Yorkville to Washington and Quinn’s office, then her favorite coffee shop. If Alicia was having some kind of breakdown, she wouldn’t want the police involved. And Quinn wanted to help, not to make Alicia’s life more difficult.
She crushed the temptation to let her mind spin ahead of the facts and took the Metro Connection bus back to Dupont Circle, a few blocks from both her office and her apartment. She loved being able to walk to work in the morning, one of her favorite perks of self-employment.
She was so preoccupied with the bizarre scene at the coffee shop that she almost walked past the ivy-covered 1896 Italianate brick headquarters of the American Society for the Study of Plants and Animals. Her eccentric great-great-grandfather was one of the founders, and her slightly-less-eccentric marine archaeologist parents were directors, their latest project, funded by a private grant, having taken them to the Bering Sea for most of the past year.
During college and graduate school, Quinn had worked on and off for the Society, and when she decided to go out on her own, she negotiated use of a vacant second-floor office in exchange for modest rent and help with cataloguing the mountains of stray stuffed carcasses, drawings, journals, musty papers, old clothes and junk tucked in the building’s attic, basement and closets, a task the Society’s directors had meant to get to for decades. So far, she had filled more trash bags than Society treasure chests.
A cherry tree shaded the gracious building’s front entrance, its pale pink blossoms fluttering onto the sidewalk in a humid breeze. Quinn mounted the steps, waving to Thelma Worthington through the glass-front door. Thelma had served as the Society’s receptionist since John F. Kennedy was president, the only occupant of the White House to acknowledge its existence when he referred to it as one of the country’s great institutions. Nowadays, its well-managed endowment more than its contemporary relevance kept the American Society for the Study of Plants and Animals operational.
Thelma buzzed her in. When she tugged open the heavy door, Quinn entered another world, one of tall ceilings, ornate moldings, crystal chandeliers, Persian rugs, curving staircases and a respect—an encouragement—of eccentricity and risk-taking. Glass-fronted cabinets lined the center hall. As a child, Quinn remembered displays of glass jars of pickled organs and stuffed wild rodents and raptors. A new director, however, had replaced them with graceful porcelain figurines of wildflowers and songbirds.
Thelma took off the gaudy purple reading glasses she’d picked up at a drugstore. Despite the warm spring weather, she wore a sage-green corduroy ankle-length skirt and an argyle sweater vest over a white turtleneck. She had short gray hair and a Miss Hathaway face. Every summer, she picked ten mountains to climb.
“Any luck finding your friend?”
Quinn sighed heavily, suddenly tired. “Afraid not. Nothing new?”
“I’m sorry, no.”
Alicia had stopped by the Society first, apparently not as agitated as she was by the time she’d arrived at the coffee shop. Thelma thought nothing of telling her that Quinn was just down the street, but she’d already apologized for not having paid closer attention to Alicia’s frazzled emotional state.
“Did she go up to my office?” Quinn asked. “I wonder if she might have left a note, anything that could help—”
“She didn’t go any farther than where you’re standing right now. I almost didn’t recognize her. I’ve only met her once. She hasn’t seen your new office, has she?”
“No. We haven’t been that close lately.”
Thelma’s eyebrows arched, but she kept whatever questions she had about the friendship between the two younger women to herself. She leaned forward, glancing toward the stairs. “You have company. He got here about ten minutes ago. He said he’d wait for you. I don’t know how he has time—”
“Who, Thelma?”
She made a face. “Deputy Assistant Attorney General Lattimore.”
“What? You didn’t let him into my office, did you? All I need is for him to catch me cleaning out files on buffalo bones—he’ll never let me hear the end of it.”
“Relax. He’s in the library.” Thelma lowered her voice. “He’s even better looking in person than he is on television. If I liked lawyers…”
Quinn tried to smile. “Thelma, you are so bad. I’ll go see what he wants.”
Resisting the urge to run up the stairs, Quinn contemplated what she would say to Lattimore. Steve wouldn’t have told him about Alicia, but Gerard Lattimore was the type—alert, always waiting for the next shoe to drop—to have guessed.
She found her former boss in a high-back leather chair in front of the massive stone fireplace in the walnut-paneled library at the top of the stairs. He looked as if he belonged there.
“All you need are a pipe and slippers,” Quinn said.
He didn’t smile as he rose, studying her. He had on an expensive dark gray suit and looked every inch the high-powered Department of Justice official he was, but Quinn could see the strain in his eyes. Although he was only forty-two, he seemed ten years older this afternoon. He was the newly divorced father of three preteens and a talented attorney with awesome responsibilities. On most days, he had the ego, ability and ambition to meet all his obligations.
He took her hand. “It’s good to see you, Quinn.”
She reminded herself that he didn’t have to be there because of Alicia. It could be anything. She let her hand fall back to her side. “Mr. Lattimore—”
“Gerard. No more formalities.” He glanced around the old library, largely unchanged since the late nineteenth century. “What a great room this is. This whole building is like stepping into a simpler past.”
“I’m not sure it was that simple. We do tend to run into the errant skull around here.”
He laughed stiffly. “Museum-quality animal skulls only, I hope.” He sighed, shaking his head. “Ah, Quinn. We miss you in the department.”
“Thanks. I’d hate to have spent three years there and not be missed. I can just hear it: ‘Harlowe? Not a minute too soon did she get her arse out of here.’” But when she saw that her stab at humor only elicited a tense smile from him and realized how awkward and phony the banter felt, she gave it up. “What can I do for you?”
His gray eyes settled on her. “Alicia Miller.”
Quinn licked her lips. “What about her?”
“I’m worried about her. She spent the weekend at your cottage in Yorkville. She didn’t come in today. She didn’t call in sick. Steve Eisenhardt—you’ve met him, haven’t you? He says he tried to reach her on her cell phone, but she hasn’t answered or returned his calls.” He studied her a moment. “Quinn?”
“I saw Alicia this afternoon. Around one o’clock.”
He motioned for her to sit down, but they both remained standing. “Tell me,” he said, his expression even tighter.
Quinn resisted the impulse to pace. How much should she tell him? She’d promised Alicia to be discreet, but never expected her to bolt the way she did. If she was in any trouble, Lattimore needed to know. He was in more of a position to help than Quinn was.
“Quinn,” he said quietly, “I know Alicia hasn’t been herself recently. I’m worried about her mental health. She left early on Friday. She was agitated, anxious. She couldn’t sit still. I caught her crying, hyperventilating, before