Operation Power Play

by Justine Davis

  Damn. He hadn’t strayed down that painful path in a long time. So much for focus, he thought, and stopped the steady drumming.

  Just decide on the next step, he told himself.

  Rick Alvarado, his friend over at the county zoning-and-permitting office, had seemed as puzzled as he was.

  “What’s odd,” he’d said, “is that there’s no record of a study being done or even asked for that I can find. For that matter, I can’t find any record of the Days’ application either. It’s not in the approved, denied or pending files. We are a bit backlogged, though. I’ll keep checking.”

  When he’d warned Connie Day that he couldn’t promise anything, Brett hadn’t expected that there would be absolutely nothing. He wondered if the person she’d talked to had just been covering their backside, making up something because the paperwork had been lost. It happened—it was the nature of bureaucracies, he thought. He—

  “Hey, Dunbar!” The division clerk’s shout shook him out of his thoughts. “Aren’t you supposed to be giving a deposition this morning?”

  Damn. The Lester case. He had forgotten, even though he’d looked over his notes last night to refresh his memory. He looked at the clock, realized he had about twenty minutes to make a half-hour drive.

  “Thanks,” he said as he got up, grabbed his jacket and his phone, and headed for the door.

  He hit the button to wake up the phone and gave it a quick swipe with his thumb. The last screen he’d used popped into view, where he’d entered and saved Sloan Burke’s number. The blank silhouette seemed to chide him for not taking a photo for it when he’d had the chance. Not that he needed a picture. He remembered what she looked like. Perfectly.

  He pondered for a moment as he hit the button to unlock his car. He could call, tell her what he’d found.

  Hi, Ms. Burke. I just called to say...nothing.

  Yeah, that would go over well.

  He brought up the number for the prosecutor he was doing the deposition for and hit Call. Told the paralegal who answered he was on his way but might be a few minutes late. He was doing this only as a witness, because it wasn’t his jurisdiction and he had only happened to be outside the drugstore a few blocks from his place when the dispute that had preceded the assault had taken place. He hadn’t even had to break up the argument. One of the teenagers had sped away in his car. Only when he’d seen the vehicle description in the news that night did he find out the kid had later gone back after the other guy and beaten him pretty severely.

  So now he was on his way to the north end to officially give a statement on what he had seen. He hoped it would be enough. He didn’t really want to end up having to testify in court to his small part in it. There were witnesses to the actual crime, so they shouldn’t need him. But a cop’s testimony, even if he’d been off duty, could carry more weight, and he understood the prosecutor wanting to be thorough. Always better to have evidence you don’t need than not enough.

  He spent an hour recounting what he’d heard and positively identifying the two involved parties—and wincing at the photos of the battered face and bruised body of the kid who had taken the beating. He felt a flash of guilt. Maybe he should have guessed at something like this, but at the time it had been verbal only, and you couldn’t arrest somebody for what they just might do in the future. At least, not yet.

  “Not your fault, Brett,” the prosecutor said, reading him accurately. “Kid had no record of violence. No reason to expect this. But he went home, stewed about it, took a little taunting from a friend who threw some drugs into the mix, and voilà, we have assault and battery.”

  And a little more knowledge of how kids could go wrong, he thought.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  On his way back to the car he had his phone out and had that new number on the screen before he truly realized what he was doing. He had thought, in the middle of his recounting, that he did really have a reason to call but didn’t think he’d decided to do it. Except apparently some part of him had.

  Probably the same part that completely forgot that reason when he heard her voice answering.

  “Hello?” she said, in a tone that jarred him out of whatever cloud he’d slipped into; it was the tone of someone who had said it more than once. He realized he was standing next to his car and had yet to hit the button to unlock it. He shook his head sharply. Unlocked the car and answered simultaneously.

  “Sorry. Ms. Burke, this is Brett Dunbar. We met this—”

  “Of course,” she said quickly. “I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t have an answer, just a question or two that I should have asked before.”

  Except I was in a hurry to get away before I said or did something beyond stupid.

  “Of course. Do you need Connie? I can get her.”

  “Maybe you can answer these,” he said as he opened the door and got into the driver’s seat. “Do you know when they filed the application?”

  “October 15. Eleven in the morning.”

  His brows rose. “That’s rather exact,” he said.

  “I drove her there,” she said.

  “That was...kind of you.”

  “I could taxi her all over forever and never make up for how she’s looked out for me.”

  She said it so fervently it was all he could do not to ask why she’d needed looking out for. Or where the rest of her family had been.

  “Good for her,” he said inanely, belatedly reaching to pull his door closed as someone began to pull into the space next to him.

  “What else?” she asked, her tone brisk, as if she’d regretted her outburst. “You said a question or two.”

  He shook his head sharply. “Yes. Do you know if she happened to keep a copy of the application?”

  “Yes, she did. I made her.” She sounded a bit embarrassed. “I’m kind of zealous when it comes to that. Learned the hard way.”

  “Never a bad idea.” He wondered what that hard way had been.

  “Do you need it?”

  “No. Not yet, anyway. Just wanted to know if there was one.”

  The conversation ground to a halt, yet he couldn’t quite bring himself to say goodbye. Beyond stupid, but there it was. And after a moment she spoke, saving him.

  “How’s Cutter?”

  “Probably still snoozing. Unlike me, he gets to rest up after our run.”

  She laughed. It rippled over him. “How else will he keep you on your toes when you get home?”

  “He’s relentless. I’ve taken to going home for lunch and running him ragged some more,” he said. “He’ll chase a tennis ball until he drops.”

  He didn’t add that that very doglike behavior was one of the few reasons he was reassured Cutter wasn’t something spookily more than just a dog.

  “Where’s home? You must be local, unless you run a marathon every day.”

  For some reason he didn’t want to analyze, he liked that she’d asked. But still he hesitated, with that innate caution all cops had. He didn’t generally discuss where he lived with people he’d only just met.

  “Just off Cedar View,” he said, figuring she’d know the area, given where she lived. The small house he rented wasn’t much, more of a cabin, but it was all he needed. And since Cutter had come to stay, he’d made full use of the near acre it sat on. “Top of the hill.”

  “Wow. That’s still a good long way to us.”

  “Only five miles, out and back. But that last uphill bit is a killer.”

  “No wonder you—”

  She stopped so suddenly he wondered if something had happened. “Ms. Burke?”

  “Sloan, please.” She sounded odd, he thought. A little like he had when he’d realized she’d said hello more than once.

  “All right.” He f
elt absurdly pleased that in less than a day they were on a first-name basis. In the same instant, he wasn’t sure he should be glad that the formality of “Detective Dunbar” and “Ms. Burke” wasn’t still between them. “I’ll let you know what I find out, if anything.”

  “We appreciate that you’re even bothering,” Sloan assured him.

  “No problem,” he said.

  As he ended the call, he wondered just how big a lie that was. Because Sloan Burke was already nibbling around the edges of his mind the way a tough case did, always present, never far away. And that could be a problem.

  Chapter 4

  Cutter was sitting by the door when he opened it.

  This wasn’t strange. The dog had been right there every day since he’d been here. It didn’t matter what time he managed to break for lunch—the dog was ready and waiting. Brett supposed he must hear him coming.

  But today the usually present yellow tennis ball was absent. And instead of greeting him with a tail wag and a happy yip, the dog bolted past him and ran toward the car parked in front of the house.

  “You want a ride?” Brett said, puzzled.

  Cutter sat next to the back driver’s-side door. He looked back over his shoulder at Brett.

  “Buddy, I’m on duty. I can’t just take off for a leisurely jaunt.”

  Cutter just looked at him.

  “Seriously, dog, I can’t.”

  Cutter yipped, short and sharp. But didn’t move.

  Brett sighed. “I have a feeling I haven’t had enough sympathy for the Foxworth crew.”

  The moment he spoke the name, Cutter jumped up, letting loose a staccato series of barks. He rose up and put his paws on the car door.

  “I know you must miss them, but they’re not home yet.”

  Brett realized with no small amount of amazement that he was carrying on a conversation with a dog. A conversation that should have been one-sided yet felt anything but.

  Cutter stayed where he was, only now he was pawing at the door handle. With his luck, he’d probably put some scratches in the paint that Brett would have to answer for. It was a county car, after all, even if it was his for the duration.

  He glanced at his watch. Because he’d already been at this end of the county for the deposition, he had a bit more time. With a sigh, he gave in. It was for only a little while longer, after all. Then Cutter would go home, and his life would go back to the normal, quiet thing it usually was off duty. He needed that, with the kind of job that took up his working hours.

  Cutter leaped into the backseat the instant he opened the door. Once he was back in the driver’s seat, he pondered where to go. Maybe the dog just wanted to visit home, make sure everything was all right while his people were gone.

  He nearly laughed at his own thought. He was fairly certain that kind of thought process was beyond the average dog’s capabilities.

  But then, Cutter wasn’t an average dog.

  He decided it couldn’t hurt and started the car. The dog sat quietly in the back until he reached the intersection where he had to turn to get to Hayley and Quinn’s place. He’d been there only once. Actually, he hadn’t been there; he’d been to the next house over, which had been destroyed in an apparent propane explosion. When the firefighters suspected there might be a body inside, it had been all hands on deck until they’d sifted through the smoking ruin and determined there hadn’t been anyone inside after all. Once that was certain, the case had gone back to the fire department and their investigators.

  It wasn’t until much later, after he’d met Quinn and Hayley, that he’d gotten the full, dramatic story on that one. Hell of a way to start a relationship, he thought as he started to pull into the left-hand-turn lane to head toward their house.

  Cutter erupted into furious barking.

  The suddenness and the sheer volume nearly made him jump. He hit the brakes, thankful for being in a semirural area without much traffic. The dog stayed on his feet, apparently braced for the stop. The moment the car halted, the racket ceased.

  “What the hell, dog?”

  He turned to look into the backseat. Cutter was still on his feet, staring intently out the side window. The other side, facing the opposite direction. Away from home for the dog.

  It took him a moment to realize what lay in that direction. The Foxworth building.

  “There’s nobody there either,” he said. “Quinn gave everybody the time off while they’re gone.”

  Cutter never moved. Never even looked at him when he spoke. Just stared in that same direction.

  “Okay, okay, I get it. Hang on.”

  He looked around to be sure they were clear and made a right turn instead. Cutter immediately settled down once more, seemingly happy that his temporary custodian—or should that be servant?—had finally understood. Brett’s mouth quirked as he shook his head at himself. At least there was that big clearing behind the building, he thought. He could run Cutter as well there as at home. There seemed to be no shortage of tennis balls in his car these days.

  The dog stayed still until he made the last turn, onto the narrow road toward the secluded Foxworth location. Cutter got up then but remained quiet, eager, but satisfied Brett knew where they were going.

  He was sure if he stopped to think about the fact that he had just skipped lunch, gotten back in his car, driven twelve miles and then changed his destination, all at the direction of a dog, it would seem ridiculous. Trying to explain it to anyone who had never met Cutter would be impossible. He knew trying to explain it to, say, one of his fellow detectives would result in jokes about psychiatric committal.

  Yet here he was, about to turn down the curving gravel drive that led to the green three-story building hidden among tall trees that was Foxworth’s Northwest headquarters. And utterly certain this was what the dog had wanted. That he was doing what a dog wanted was something he was just going to have to come to terms with.

  Then again, doing what the dog wanted this morning had ended up with him on a first-name basis with Sloan Burke.

  There was no sign of anyone around. There was only one car, a slightly battered silver coupe he’d seen here before parked at the far end of the gravel lot. It was still wet from last night’s heavy mist, so it had been here at least overnight.

  He parked in front of the building. Cutter was practically dancing in the backseat, so he opened the door quickly. The dog leaped out and started at a dead run, not toward the main building but toward the warehouse, where the silver car was parked. Halfway there he let out an oddly rhythmic sound, a short yip, a full-on bark, then another yip.

  Seconds later the smaller door on the warehouse opened, and Rafer Crawford looked out. Brett saw him spot the dog, then him. Then he reached back into the warehouse as if he was putting something down. Knowing what he knew of the man, had it been a weapon, he wouldn’t be surprised. He must have heard the car on the gravel long before Cutter’s distinctive greeting.

  Cutter raced toward Rafe, tail up, bounding with obvious joy. Even the taciturn former Marine couldn’t help smiling at the dog’s demeanor. Brett remembered that moment at the wedding when Hayley, more radiant than any bride he’d ever seen, had found the two of them together.

  “You two smiling, and at the same time? My work here is done,” she’d said with undisguised delight.

  “We were just talking about how beautiful you are,” Rafe had said, deflecting her into a blush neatly.

  In fact, they actually had been talking earlier about how wonderful she looked, but at that moment they had been speaking of Foxworth itself. Rafe’s smile had been quiet, proud of what they were doing, while Brett’s had been amazed acknowledgment. Doing what he did, seeing what he saw every day, he sometimes found it hard to believe that there was a group of people dedicated to helping those who had nowhere else to turn, who ha
d fought until they could not fight any longer and lost hope. Those who were abused by either the system or people who wielded it like a club, those who were collateral damage in backroom deals, or those simply caught in the grinding wheels of bureaucracy.

  Like Sloan’s aunt.

  And there she was again, popping into his mind like a persistent earworm of a song that wouldn’t let him be. Not the most flattering of comparisons, he thought wryly. Put that on the list of things never to say to her.

  “He driving you crazy yet?” Rafe asked as Brett caught up to the dog and the man who was scratching that sweet spot behind his right ear.

  “Nah. He’s really a lot of company.”

  “I know.” Something in the way he said it told Brett the man truly did. It was probably a good thing they’d had the wedding as distraction that day, or they could have ended up comparing a couple of empty lives.

  Now, where the hell did that come from?

  He wasn’t usually morose about his life, most of the time successfully thought he liked it the way it was. His work was enough. At least, it always had been. Or maybe it had been too much, as Angie had always said.

  He gave himself a mental shake, trying to rid himself of the odd mood.

  “Didn’t expect anyone to be here,” he said. “Aren’t you all supposed to be on vacation?”

  Rafe shrugged. “Just catching up on things that never seem to get done with everyone around.”

  “Figured you’d be off to somewhere warm, like everyone else.”

  “No place I wanted to go,” he said simply. “And it’s nice and peaceful around here now. Thanks to you.”

  Brett laughed. “I didn’t seem to have much choice about it.”

  “Nope, when this boy—” he ruffled the dog’s fur as the animal leaned into him “—makes up his mind, he’s pretty much unstoppable.”

  “He’s...different.”

  “Hayley says to quit trying to put dog interpretations on his humanlike actions. To just accept he’s unique, and then we’ll all be happier.”

  The man wasn’t usually this talkative, and Brett wondered for a moment if this was too much isolation even for him. If maybe that was why Cutter had wanted to come here, to make sure this particular person of his was all right.