Operation Power Play (6 page)

Chapter 9

S
he 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.

“I’ll just get this entered right away,” the beleaguered clerk said, taking the application. “We don’t want another mix-up.”

“Thank you, dear,” Aunt Connie said. “I’m sure it wasn’t
your
fault.”

Sloan didn’t think she’d mistaken the look of gratitude in the other woman’s eyes or the spark of pleasure she’d seen when Connie had been chewing her boss out as if he were a fourth grader.

Still, she was glad to get out of there. As, apparently, was her aunt.

“What a smarmy little man,” she said as they walked to the car, hurrying through the rain and holding their jackets closed against the wind. “‘Because you can’t.’” She mimicked his tone perfectly, and Sloan laughed.

“The typical nonreasoning answer of a despot, no matter how tiny his...domain,” she said with a purposeful leer.

Connie burst out laughing. “You are so bad, Sloan Burke. And I love you for it.”

“Where do you think I learned it?” she said, slipping her arm around the older woman’s shoulders, so delighted to see her spirit returning that she put everything else out of her mind for now. “Come along, and let me buy you lunch. The tea shop, maybe? Surely you wouldn’t turn down a nice hot cup of tea on a day like this? Then we can sneak down to the candy store in town and buy something evil.”

Sloan saw her aunt’s forehead crease slightly. “I should—”

“Ah-ah. Remember what Uncle Chuck said. You’re not to worry about him and take some time for yourself.”

“But—”

“He worries about you. This will make him feel better.”

There couldn’t have been a more persuasive argument, and her aunt surrendered graciously. They went off to the local tea shop, and once they were seated, Sloan allowed herself a mental pat on the back. She had been standing within mere yards of the sheriff’s office building for nearly an hour and had thought of Detective Brett Dunbar only maybe three times.

* * *

The sergeant was out, so Brett walked over to Lieutenant Carter’s office. She was on the phone and held up a finger to indicate it would be only a moment. He propped a shoulder on the doorjamb and waited standing up, indicating in turn he didn’t expect this to take long.

From what she was saying, the conversation was about a prisoner over in the county lockup involved in some kind of scuffle. She was mostly listening. She looked more annoyed than concerned, so he deduced it wasn’t anything serious.

He glanced at the three photos on the credenza behind her. To the left was the requisite formal family shot, she and her husband and the two kids, in the middle was her academy portrait, and on the right, rather whimsically, an amazingly detailed and ornate snow castle. He assumed her husband, an architect, was behind that one.

A happy family. He didn’t begrudge her that; she was good people, just tough enough but not hardened. But he still felt a pang whenever he saw that array.

“Be glad you didn’t take this job,” she said as she hung up the phone.

“I was never in the running.”

“Only because you didn’t want to be. You could have had it easily.”

“Too much desk time.”

“Amen to that,” she said rather fervently. “What’s up?”

“Just wondering if you know anything about Al Franklin.”

Her brow creased. “County guy?” At his nod her mouth quirked. “Honest opinion?”

Uh-oh. “Please.”

“He’s a bit of an ass,” she said. “Full of himself. Match what you thought?”

“Yes.”

“You run afoul of him?”

“He just wasn’t much help on a query I made. But it was personal, so I didn’t push too hard.”

“Problem?”

“Don’t know yet. Just wanted to know if my feel on him was right.”

“Well, tread carefully. He’s an ass, but he’s an ass with connections. He’s in tight with Harcourt Mead. And you know where that string leads.”

He did know. Straight from Mead’s county administrator office to the governor’s office. The two men had gone to school together, and in some circles the phrase
thick as thieves
was pointedly used to refer to them. God, he hated politics.

“Thanks for the heads-up,” he said as her phone rang again. She rolled her eyes at him as she reached for it. He left, glad once more he’d never even considered that job opening when it had come up.

He made a stop to talk to the victim of an armed robbery who was due to testify at the trial in a couple of weeks. Toby Markham was a feisty old guy, but Brett knew that often bravado broke down over time. He’d promised the man he would be there for him, and he’d meant it. After assuring himself the wiry war vet was fired up and ready, and drinking a cup of coffee he would swear could be used as lubrication for a jet engine, he excused himself.

A few minutes later he was outside Rick’s house. The tidy small cottage appeared quiet, but he supposed Rick could be holed up inside, feeling miserable.

Or worse. That family had been through so much; Brett didn’t like to think where his friend’s mind might be right now. Losing his job and likely his ability to keep Caro in school, with her finally safe and finding her way, he couldn’t be in a good place.

And apparently, he wasn’t here. Or wasn’t answering.

Brett walked around the house. There was no sign of lights on, despite the dark gray sky. He fixed the layout in his mind from the times he’d been here. He could see through the windows into several rooms, and all appeared normal, undisturbed. Only the back corner windows, where he thought the master bedroom was, were blocked with heavy drapes.

He headed for the garage and peered in through one of the rain-stained windows. Empty, except for a lawn mower, a bicycle and a workbench with some tools and what looked like an oil filter sitting out.

He wasn’t sure if the empty garage made him feel better or worse. But at least it made it less likely Rick was lying dead inside. And for a moment he envied people who wouldn’t even think of that, because such things never happened in their lives. He’d seen too much too often.

And once, it had happened in his own life.

He shook his head sharply. He was not going there. It was pointless.

He called Rick’s cell again. And again it went to voice mail. He dug out a business card and wrote a note on the back. He stuck it above the doorknob on the back door. It was the closest to the garage, where he knew Rick usually came in from.

He walked slowly back toward the front of the house. He had a decision to make. He could play with what could turn into a nasty political football or opt out. Let it be. Wait and see. Maybe Rick would come back and there would be some mundane explanation. He didn’t know the man so well that he knew every aspect of his life. Who knew what else might have come up? Or maybe he was out on job interviews.

He hoped Franklin wouldn’t screw Rick over on that. But after the lieutenant had confirmed his assessment of the man, he didn’t hold out much hope that he wouldn’t enjoy twisting the knife. He wondered if Al Franklin was the type who couldn’t stand to have an honest, decent man around.

“Too much contrast,” he muttered.

Pushing this could land him in hot water. But he’d been in hot water before, and dropping it went against every instinct he’d developed over the years. His gut was insisting there was more to this, and anytime he’d ignored this kind of insistence in the past, he’d regretted it.

He’s an ass with connections...

Connections.

It occurred to him then there was a third option. He grabbed his phone and made the call.

Again with the voice mail, he thought as Quinn Foxworth’s voice spoke. No identifying remarks, not even a name, just a brusque “Message, please.”

“Rafe, this is Brett Dunbar. If you’re there, I need some discreet Foxworth help after all. I can’t explain why, but I think—”

He heard a click, then Rafe’s voice. “No explanation needed.”

“Thanks. Because my gut’s saying my friend Rick’s in trouble.”

“Good enough. Give me what you’ve got.”

He did, and when he’d hung up, he marveled a little at the faith he’d gained in Foxworth in such a short time. And they in him, for that matter.

Maybe, one day when it all became too much, he might talk to Quinn about making that offer.

Chapter 10

“W
hat are you, living here?” Brett asked, noticing the plate and glass set to one side on an end table. He’d been surprised when Rafe had called him back that same evening, then told himself he’d seen Foxworth in action before—he shouldn’t be surprised that he had news already. He’d loaded up Cutter for the visit and headed out.

Now Rafe gave him a one-shouldered shrug. “Pretty much. Hayley’s not around to nag me to go home.”

Brett wondered where home actually was for the man. He had a feeling it was perhaps even less impressive than his own small place. Which in turn was less impressive and not quite as comfortable as the living quarters here at Foxworth. He remembered that Quinn had been living here, before Cutter literally dragged Hayley into his life.

As if he’d heard his name in Brett’s thoughts, the dog lifted his head. He was almost getting used to it, that uncanny timing the animal had.

It was a cold, windy, rainy evening, and they’d tacitly agreed the living area in front of the fireplace would do nicely. The laptop open on the table before them chimed an incoming message. Rafe leaned forward and hit a key, held it, then tapped another, and an image popped up on the flat-screen monitor on the wall in the same instant the small webcam above it looking back at them went live. Brett saw a young man, thin, with sandy hair that looked a bit rumpled. He had a small patch of beard below the center of his lower lip. And looked quite awake and alert, given it was two hours later where he was.

“Have you two met?” Rafer asked.

“No,” Brett said, “but I assume you’re the famous Tyler Hewitt?”

The young man grinned. “That’s me. And you’re Detective Dunbar, right?”

Brett nodded. “You do some impressive work.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“That’s how it was meant.”

“Some cops don’t appreciate some of the things I do.”

“I appreciate the job getting done and no damage being done in the process.” One corner of his mouth quirked upward. “But I’m probably better off not knowing exactly how you do it.”

Tyler laughed. “Hey, I like him,” he said, shifting his gaze to Rafe.

“We all do,” Rafe said quietly. And Brett felt an odd sort of warmth at that. These were good people, the best, and their good opinion meant more to him than he would have ever thought.

“What did you find out?” Rafe asked.

“There’s no record of any flight reservation in the name of Rick Alvarado and no charges to any airline on either of his credit cards, at least not in the last three months.”

“Any uptick in gasoline purchases?” Rafe asked. “Or anything else?”

“No. No unusual purchases at all, based on the pattern I can see.”

Yes, he was definitely better off not knowing how Tyler got information that it would often take him a week and a warrant to manage, Brett thought. If he hadn’t trusted Foxworth completely to be on the side of the angels, he’d have had a problem with it. But they’d never put a foot wrong, in his view, and he did trust them. How completely he hadn’t realized until this moment.

“You want me to check airline manifests?” Tyler asked, as if it were no more complicated than a web search. And perhaps for this guy it wasn’t. But still...

“No,” he said. That was federal territory he didn’t want to tread on unless he absolutely had to. “Not yet, anyway.”

“Okay. There’s also no significant activity recently on his checking account. In fact,” Tyler added, “there hasn’t been any financial activity at all.”

Brett drew his brows together. “What was the last transaction?”

Tyler looked to his right, apparently at another screen. “A debit for $9.27 at something called The Mug. Coffee place, I guess?”

Brett nodded. “A chain. Rick’s a regular.”

“Must have been for two, or food,” Rafe observed. “Even they’re not that expensive.”

“What time was it? It’d be like him to grab something quick for lunch there.”

Tyler looked, then nodded. “Processed at twelve thirty-two.”

“What day?”

“Tuesday.”

Brett went very still. No explanation. No contact with his daughter. Empty house. Car gone. No record of a flight or even a reservation. No financial activity.

And the last trace of Rick was the day after Brett had asked him to look for the Days’ paperwork. Coincidence? Or connection?

He had been a cop too long to believe much in coincidence.

* * *

Every step of his run so far this Saturday morning had been spent wondering where to look next. There had still been no word from Rick. Tyler was still monitoring his bank account and credit cards for activity, but there had been nothing. The barista at the espresso stand had remembered Rick from that day—he’d bought a muffin with his usual latte—but said he hadn’t stopped by since. His neighbors hadn’t seen him. It had been four days now.

A woman with one of those small fluffy dogs was walking toward them on the trail. She grabbed up the white puffball and looked warily at Cutter. There was no leash law in this unincorporated area, but some people got huffy anyway.

“He’s fine,” Brett called out, hoping he wasn’t lying.

Cutter didn’t even look at the dog, or the woman, just kept up the steady pace. The woman relaxed, nodded but waited until they passed to put her dog down again.

“Thanks, buddy,” he said to Cutter when they were out of earshot.

He went back to his pondering. Yes, Rick’s car was not in the garage at his house. But nothing else looked amiss there—he’d inspected as thoroughly as he could without breaking in. And yes, Rick was an adult and free to drop out of sight if he wanted. But he would never do it without telling Caro. He just wouldn’t. He’d nearly lost the girl once and wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize the good relationship they had now.

And Brett couldn’t stop thinking that Rick was the perfect sad case. No family except a daughter across the state, and the man had been so focused on saving her that he’d had little energy for anything else in life, such as friends or other activities. And now to lose his job—he hated to think of how he must be feeling. Cut adrift. Lost.

Brett knew the feeling himself. Because in fact, Rick had more than he did.

He dodged the root from a big cedar tree that had started to grow across the surface of the trail. A walker headed the other way nodded at him. He nodded back as he passed.

Once more he ran that last conversation he’d had with Rick through his mind, looking for any sign something was up with him. Other than being puzzled at the misplaced application, he’d sounded perfectly normal.

Basic logic said there was no reason to assume there was a connection, to link Rick’s disappearance with the discovery of the explainable missing application just because they had both happened at about the same time.

But his gut had never been very good at logic, and his brain didn’t like coincidences.

He was going to have to do it soon if nothing turned up. He was going to have to call Caro and tell her and suggest she should file a missing-person report. And he dreaded that idea in a way he hadn’t dreaded anything in a while. The girl was doing well now, but he wasn’t sure how solid it was. Or how solid it would stay if she lost her dad. Losing her mother was what had sent her on that spiral downward in the first place.

He swore under his breath. Cutter, his usual distance ahead, looked back at him.

“What are you now, the language police?” he complained.

The dog woofed, then resumed trotting ahead.

It was, he thought as he tried to regain his rhythm, a double-edged sword. A report would make it official, but it would also take it out of his purview. Rick lived in one of the towns in the county that had their own police department. And while effective, it was also small and lacked the county’s resources. But he knew a couple of guys there. They’d probably let him consult, at least, if they knew his interest was personal as well as professional.

He supposed he could argue Rick was so far last known to be in county territory, at the espresso stand, and get the case moved in-house. Of course, technically it still wouldn’t be his. He didn’t normally work missing persons unless it was a high-risk or child situation where all hands were called in.

He’d have to—

Damn. Cutter had turned up the hill.

He opened his mouth to call the dog back, realized the absurdity of thinking he would come and shut it again.

“Should have put you on the leash anyway,” he muttered.

But he knew deep down that if he’d really wanted to avoid this, he would have followed through on his vow to measure out another route and taken it. But he liked this one. He hadn’t gotten bored with it yet, and it was the perfect combination of distance, terrain and variation.

But he’d sworn he would never again take this detour.

Right. Too bad Cutter had other plans.

The hill was still a challenge, at least to maintain his steady pace. He focused on that, telling himself it was unlikely Sloan would be there, or if she was, she wouldn’t be outside. Then again, it was one of those rare severely clear winter days that taunted with the promise of spring and generally drew everyone in the Northwest out to bask in that infrequent visitor, the sun. There had been more people out on the trail than he’d seen in a month.

So maybe Sloan Burke would be outside, maybe pruning those roses of her aunt’s or something. Or did you do that this time of year? He knew next to nothing about gardening. He could tell an apple tree from an evergreen, but that was about it. Flowers were beyond him, except for the purple crocuses that were the first harbinger of spring and were even now beginning to pop up in some protected areas. But once you got past those and roses and daisies, he was reduced to colors. And according to Angie, he’d been helpless at that, too. Women had more names for colors than there were colors, he thought. They—

Cutter burst into a run, tail up and bouncing happily. In seconds he’d rounded the corner and was out of sight.

Brett knew long before he made it to the corner himself. She was there.

She was sitting on the front steps, lacing up a pair of lightweight boots, as Cutter raced up to her. Brett picked up his pace, kept his eyes focused on her as she greeted the dog. When she straightened up, her bangs had fallen forward, nearly masking her right eye behind a red-gold curtain. He found it oddly appealing, sexy somehow. Not that she needed that to make her sexy.

She had looked unhappy until she’d seen the dog, he thought. He hoped nothing else had gone wrong.

A smile curved her mouth as she reached out to pet the dog.

Lucky dog.

Damn. Where had that come from?

By the time he caught up, Cutter was fairly wiggling with obvious delight at her touch. And Brett was thinking he didn’t blame the dog one bit.

She stood up as he came to a halt.

“He got that wild hair again,” he said. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. I think I needed a bit of doggy cheer this morning.”

So he’d been right about her unhappy expression.

“Problem?”

She gave a one-shouldered shrug as she shook her head. “Nothing to bother you with. You’ve already done enough. Did you talk to your friend?”

“Not yet. He’s lying low, apparently.” He didn’t expand. It really wasn’t his place to broadcast Rick’s personal problems. “And his boss wasn’t much help.”

“If he’s the same guy we ran afoul of, I’m not surprised.”

“Is that it? The application?” he guessed.

“It was denied.”

“Why?”

She gave him a sideways look. “Trust me—you don’t want to get me started on that absurdity.”

Cutter made a small sound that drew his gaze. The dog was giving him that look again. Apparently he did want to get her started. Brett sighed inwardly. This was the most insane thing. Letting the dog choose their route was one thing; letting him control conversations and actions was...well, crazy.

And yet he said it. “Tell me.”

She gestured up the hill behind the house. “They said there’s a wetland area up there. And that is, pardon the word, bu...unk.”

He nearly laughed at her asking pardon for the innocent word until he realized the hesitation and shift midword meant she had been about to say something else less socially acceptable. Then he did laugh.

“So there’s no wetland?”

“I grew up in this house. I know every inch of that land up there because I played there almost every day. There has never been anything even remotely close to the proper definition of a wetland.”

He glanced at her feet. “I gather you’re about to head up there?”

“With my camera.” She gestured at a small digital camera on the top step next to where she’d been sitting. “I want video proof there’s no such thing before I take them on.”

Cutter turned and sat down at her side, waiting.

That she would indeed take them on was something Brett didn’t doubt for a moment. “I’m sure a small county official seems like nothing compared to the entire federal government and the armed forces.”

She didn’t look at him. “I just did what anybody would have done.”

“No,” he said. “Not everybody would have. Many would have given up, thought the fight too big.”

She let out a compressed breath. “If they’d only told the truth, I would have been angry, but I would have eventually let it go. But they lied, then lied about the lies, then about those lies. So I kept on. I owed Jason that much.
They
owed him.”

She picked up the camera from the steps. Cutter got to his feet. The dog was stuck to her like a barnacle. She glanced down at him, stroked his head, then looked at Brett.

“I think he wants to go with you,” he said, his mouth quirking. “So I guess I do, too.”

“You always let him decide?”

“I’ve been told it’s best to just agree and cooperate,” he said wryly. “He’s a very unique dog.”

“Obviously. Come on, then. I want to get this done before the sun decides to disappear again.”

She started walking along the side of the house, headed toward the hill behind. Cutter trotted beside her, not even looking back, apparently confident he would follow.