Operation Power Play

by Justine Davis

  That disappointed her.

  And that, in turn, set off a warning bell in her mind.

  With a stern self-directed lecture about foolishness, she ordered herself back to the task at hand and called the permit office once more.

  * * *

  Brett sat in the car where he’d pulled off to the side of the road, his phone still in his hand.

  That, he thought, had been a disaster of a conversation.

  No wonder she’d cowed half the top brass in a couple of military services. He had a feeling she would have eventually accomplished what she’d done even without the help of that battle-toughened senator. She was smart, determined and dedicated. She’d figured out he’d looked her up and tacitly, with her formal tone, acknowledged the distance he had put between them by using her married name. That didn’t surprise him; he’d guessed as much.

  What surprised him was how much it bothered him, that tone in her voice. It was what he’d wanted, wasn’t it? He’d wanted that safe distance between them.

  Well, he’d gotten it. And if he didn’t like it, that was his problem.

  He checked the highway, picked his spot and merged back into traffic. He made himself map out the rest of his afternoon so he wouldn’t dwell on one Sloan Burke. Or how the more he’d read, the more he’d admired her. Or how he had, against his better judgment, called up online video of those hearings, had watched with a pained sort of raptness as she told the story of her husband’s death and the cover-up it had revealed. Her testimony had been passionate, articulate and damning. She had never faltered, never let herself be diverted or intimidated. She had shamed them all with her courage, and in the end she had won.

  And with each moment he’d watched, he’d envied a dead man more.

  Chapter 8

  Brett arrived back at the office to a slew of messages, paper, voice mail and emails. Some were the kind that ate at him, queries on cases where there was no progress. One was a break—the suspect in the case where he’d given the deposition had pled out, saving him from any potential trial appearance. The last two were information he’d asked for on other cases.

  He sorted them out, prioritizing, making notes of requested details and happily deleting the one from the prosecutor freeing him. For once, the clerk didn’t come by to gripe at him for not giving everyone he dealt with his cell number. He was pondering that miracle when that cell phone rang.

  He recognized the number immediately. Stared at the small screen for a moment. Glanced around to see if anyone was within earshot, then grimaced at himself for doing it.

  Finally, he answered.

  “I’m sorry to bother you again,” she said without preamble. “And I’m probably being horribly presumptuous, but...”

  Her voice trailed off, and a dozen ways she might be presumptuous shot through his mind, most of which kicked his pulse up into territory it rarely visited unless he was running.

  And running was just what he should do. Far away from Mrs. Sloan Burke.

  “What is it?” He knew he sounded clipped, and with an effort, he added more evenly, “Do you need me to call Rick again after all?”

  “That’s just it. He isn’t there.”

  He frowned. “He’s not always. He has to visit sites sometimes. You might have to call him back later.”

  “No, I mean he’s gone. As in no longer working there.”

  Brett went still. “What?”

  “That’s why I called you back. It didn’t seem like you knew that.”

  “No, I didn’t. Did they say why?”

  “No. But they very pointedly didn’t say why, with that tone people get when there’s an unpleasant story behind it. You know what I mean?”

  “Yes.” He fought a sinking feeling. Rick had had that job for a long time, and he couldn’t imagine why he would leave it. Not when he was working so hard to help his daughter stay straight. “I can’t believe he’d just quit. He’s got a daughter in college, and he’s trying hard to keep her there, out of trouble.”

  “She was in trouble?”

  “A few years ago,” he said. “It was one of my cases.”

  It had been quite a mess Caro had gotten herself into, following some less-than-well-chosen friends into drugs and then into a small crime ring, stealing phones and tablets they would wipe and resell. He’d seen immediately she was in way over her head, scared, and had known there was a chance to save her. She’d just been reeling after the death of her mother. The girl had, with a little help, pulled herself free and turned her life around, he’d thought for good.

  He hoped some major problem with her wasn’t the reason Rick had left.

  “You helped her, didn’t you?” Sloan asked when he didn’t go on. “That’s why her father thinks he owes you.”

  She didn’t miss much, he thought. And he shouldn’t have said that about Caro getting into trouble. It wasn’t anybody else’s business. Not to mention she’d been a juvenile, not the kind of case he should be discussing with a civilian.

  “She helped herself,” he said. “I just gave her a little direction. That’s all they said, no hint as to why?” he asked, fending off any other questions he couldn’t or shouldn’t answer.

  “Nothing. But I’m a stranger. They’d probably tell you.”

  “I’ll call.” And after a moment’s hesitation, he added, “Thank you, Sloan.”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll ask about your permit, too.”

  “That’s all right. You need to deal with your friend’s situation. I think we’ll just forget it and start over. We’ll go in this afternoon when the visiting caretaker is here for Uncle Chuck.”

  “That’s generous of you.”

  “I’ve calmed down a bit,” she said, her tone wry. “Sometimes you just have to cut your losses. And in the grand scheme of things, a lost application isn’t much.”

  “I suppose not,” he said. Not compared to what she’d been through before, he thought as they disconnected. Maybe he should just show them who they were dealing with. Perhaps a clip of that video from DC would help them realize they did not want this woman coming after them.

  He found Rick’s work number quickly, since he’d just called it. Instead of the usual businesslike recording of Rick’s words, he got a mechanical voice telling him to leave a message at the tone. He left a brief, innocuous message asking him to call. He found the cell number and called it. It went straight to voice mail. Then he tried the home phone with the same result.

  He debated for a moment over his next step. He didn’t really want to call Rick’s boss, an autocratic guy his friend had complained about more than once, but his gut was beginning to fire. He checked the county directory on the wall and got the number. As he listened to the ringing, it occurred to him that perhaps Rick might have had good reason for leaving. Maybe another job, one that paid more, would make things easier on both he and Caro. He hoped that was the case.

  Another encounter with a recording, this one declaring rather importantly that Mr. Franklin was at a meeting with the county administrator. He didn’t leave a message this time.

  There was one other call he could make, he thought. Caro. He did call occasionally anyway to see how she was doing, offering support if she needed it. She was a success story in his book, even if his involvement was exactly the kind of thing some at LAPD had tried to grind out of him. “Finish the case and forget it” was a philosophy he’d never been able to adhere to very well.

  He brought up Caro’s number and hit the call button, expecting voice mail again. She wasn’t as bad as some her age about texting only, but she often didn’t answer right away. But she always checked messages, so he mentally ran through what he would say when the recording came on.

  Instead he got a cheerful “Hey, you, what’s up?”

 
“That’s what I was calling to ask you. Everything all right?”

  “I’m fine, for somebody on their way to statistics class,” she said. “How are you?”

  “Fine. Have you heard from your father?”

  He heard the honest puzzlement in her voice as she answered, “Not for a few days. But he knows I’ve been busy, and so has he. Why?”

  “I just needed to talk to him about some paperwork thing,” he said, “and he’s not answering. And it was time to check in on you anyway.”

  “You worry too much,” she said, but her voice held that note of appreciation he recognized by now. It warmed him. If he’d gotten an early start, he could have had a daughter her age by now. Normally that idea would have frightened him; now it just made him feel oddly wistful. “Anyway, Dad’s probably at some site out in the sticks somewhere with no reception.”

  “Maybe.” If Rick hadn’t told her yet, he wasn’t about to. Besides, maybe there was some mistake. Or maybe he was going to surprise her with some great news about a new, better job. “How’s everything else? Any problems with anyone, friends or anything?”

  “Not that I know of. What’s going on? You sound weird. Like you’re in cop mode or something.”

  “I guess I am,” he said. “You’d better get to class.”

  She sighed audibly. “Unfortunately.”

  She had sounded fine, he thought after the call ended. No sign of stress beyond that of any normal college student. No reason to think she was hiding anything. But clearly she didn’t know about her father and his job. Which worried him; if it had been a good thing, wouldn’t Rick have shared it with her?

  He tapped a finger on his desk, his brow furrowed. There could be such a simple explanation for it all. One that could easily turn out to be true. One he might have assumed would turn out to be true if it hadn’t been for that instinct nagging at him. He couldn’t explain it—he never had been able to—but it was there, it was real, and it was right most of the time, in one way or another.

  Still mulling, he picked a black dog hair off his sleeve. He’d more or less given up worrying about the fur for the duration. At least half the hair blended with his usual dark suits.

  He wondered idly if Cutter’s bizarre instincts were anything like his own. Maybe he did what he did because his gut wouldn’t leave him alone either. He shook his head sharply; he was starting to sound like Foxworth, attributing human traits to a dog.

  He picked up the phone and redialed Rick’s boss. Reacting to that instinct again, he used the main line to call out instead of his direct one. This time a harried-sounding voice answered. He asked for Rick, on the slight chance it was all a misunderstanding.

  “Rick Alvarado?” the man said, as if he had several by that name working in his office. “Uh...he’s not here.”

  “When will he be back?”

  “He won’t be.” A bit of the overweening boss crept into the man’s voice. “He no longer works in this office.”

  “Did he transfer to another department?”

  “No. I can assure you he won’t be working for the county in any capacity again.”

  Brett frowned. “Are you saying he was fired?”

  The thought of Rick doing anything that could result in that was absurd. The man was a workaholic in the way only someone using his job to get through his grief could be. Brett knew a little something about that. It was probably why the man had gotten through the normal barrier between cop and citizen.

  “Who is this?” Something sharper had come into the man’s voice.

  “I’m a friend of his,” he answered.

  “Then wouldn’t you know?”

  If the man had been a suspect in something, Brett would have said he was stonewalling.

  “If I did, I wouldn’t be asking you.”

  “How do I know you’re really his friend? You could be anyone.”

  Brett sighed. “I’m with the sheriff’s office, as you can see by the number I’m calling from. Now can I get an answer?”

  There was a moment of stark silence. He couldn’t even hear the man breathing, but he could almost sense his mind racing.

  “So...is this an official inquiry?”

  Brett had purposely not said he was a detective or given his name, all the while wondering if his own imagination was running wild for no good reason. But his gut was telling him to keep his identity as vague as possible, so he pushed to get past the point where it would be easily asked for. He took what Rick had told him about the guy and chose the approach that usually worked the best with those types.

  “Make it official,” he said sharply, “if that will get me an answer. Now. Unless you want me there in person, shoving my badge in your face in front of anyone in the vicinity.” Not that he would. This wasn’t really official, and he was already walking a fine line.

  “He was terminated.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t give you details. The investigation isn’t completed yet.”

  Investigation? “Are you saying there was malfeasance involved?”

  “I truly cannot discuss it. This is being kept completely in-house. For PR reasons, for the county. You understand, I’m sure.”

  Oily. The man sounded oily. Trying to establish a rapport as if they were colleagues. He told himself that not liking a man’s attitude wasn’t reason enough to be suspicious. But stonewalling was.

  “What is he being accused of that he’s been terminated rather than put on leave until your ‘investigation’ is finished?”

  “I can’t discuss that either. I assure you, it’s no business of the sheriff’s office. Unless you suspect him of something?”

  He sounded almost hopeful. I’d sooner suspect you, Brett thought. “No. I told you, he’s a friend.”

  He considered, as he ended the call, bringing up the permit situation despite Sloan’s assurance it wasn’t necessary. But something stopped him. He wasn’t sure what it was.

  The only thing he was sure of was that his gut was now screaming that something else was going on here.

  Chapter 9

  She was just being paranoid, Sloan thought. There were a million gold cars on the road, and this one was a frequently seen model. It was just her imagination working overtime, although you’d think it would have been worn-out by now, with all the imagining she’d been doing about Brett Dunbar.

  She had herself convinced until the car, some distance back, took the same exit. But she tamped down the feeling again. They weren’t being followed; it was simply that this was the way to the county offices and lots of people went there every day. And when she made the turn to go to those offices, the gold car slid past without even slowing, proving she’d been being silly.

  That sense of foolishness vanished soon after they went inside. She didn’t like the man running this place. He wasn’t bad looking, although his hair looked a bit determinedly blond, and if he was any taller than her own five foot six, she’d be surprised. But he had the same sort of arrogance that so many of those she’d encountered back in DC had. As if they knew best, and you, the mere peon, should be grateful they deigned to even speak to you. She’d called it sit-down-and-shut-up syndrome.

  When Sloan had asked the beleaguered-looking clerk about making copies of the application, the man had rudely butted in and told them the copy machine wasn’t working, even though the clerk had been using the thing when they’d come in. And then he’d glared at the woman, as if warning her not to contradict him.

  “I don’t like the way he talks to that poor woman,” Aunt Connie whispered.

  “Me either,” Sloan agreed, feeling a twinge of guilt that she’d thought so ill of the woman when obviously she was at least in part the way she was because she had a jerk for a boss. No wonder Brett’s—Detective Dunbar’s—friend had left
. Jason had always said the tone was set by the leader, and that certainly seemed true here.

  Her aunt went back to the form she was filling out. Sloan had brought the copy she’d made of the original because it had all the necessary details already filled in. She’d thought on the way here that had it been her alone, she would have just shown them the copy and demanded a better explanation than “We have no record of it.” But Connie was in a fragile-enough state already. She’d decided this was not a battle to fight just now.

  When it was done and signed, she took the form from her aunt and got out her phone. She began to take photos of the document.

  “Excuse me—what do you think you’re doing?”

  The man burst out of his office, sounding as outraged as if she had started to climb over the counter and into his domain.

  Since the answer to the literal question was obvious, Sloan didn’t answer it. She took her last photo before she even looked at him. “Merely making a record for our own files, since your copy machine is broken,” she said, keeping her voice even. “Surely you have no problem with that.”

  “You can’t take photographs in here!”

  She had started to slip her phone back into her purse, but something about the man made her decide to slide it into her jeans’ front pocket instead. If he decided to come after it, he’d have a tougher time.

  “Why not?” she asked, feigning mere curiosity.

  “Because you can’t,” he said.

  “Oh. You do realize that kind of answer makes you sound no better than a petty tyrant?” she asked with a sunny smile.

  A bright red flush rose in the man’s face. “You—”

  Aunt Connie cut him off. “Young man, I’ve paid property taxes in this county for forty years,” she said, giving the man the glare that had straightened up many a child during her years as a teacher. “Taxes that built this building and help pay your salary, I might add. I’ll thank you for a little respect.”

  Sloan had to fight a smile, not so much for what her aunt had said but because she had roused with such spirit. It was the first sign she’d seen that Connie had some of her old fire left, and Sloan rejoiced in it. And quickly decided to let her run with it. Especially when the man glared at her but scuttled back to his office and pointedly shut the door without saying another word.