Operation Power Play (3 page)

Chapter 4

C
utter 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 had 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.

He was, he thought, losing his mind. Cutter might be the cleverest dog he’d ever seen, in a very different way than the well-trained and smart police dogs he’d known, but he was, in the end, still a dog.

“He’s got a way,” he said.

“And a nose for trouble,” Rafe said. “But so far, he’s never been wrong. Sometimes he drags us kicking and screaming into something, but it’s always somewhere we should be.”

For a moment Brett wondered what it must be like to work strictly toward justice for those who deserved it. So much of his time was spent dealing with scum that he had little left for the victims, who were his reason for being in the job in the first place. And so often when he had dealt with them, they got a slap on the wrist and were back destroying innocent lives all over again practically before he even got the paperwork done.

Cutter seemed finally satisfied that his friend was all right. He turned and sat at the man’s feet, staring up at Brett much as he had this morning. And so Sloan and her aunt popped into his mind again. His brow furrowed.

“Something?” Rafe asked.

“Just...someone he led me to this morning,” he said, indicating Cutter.

“Uh-oh,” Rafe said. “He give you that look? The ‘fix it’ look?”

Brett sighed. “He did.”

“What’s the problem?”

“It’s just a hang-up on a county thing.” He explained briefly about the aunt and ended with “I’ve got a guy I know over there looking into it, but so far nothing.”

“Anything I can do?”

“I don’t think so,” Brett said. He smothered a smile at the thought. A minor paperwork problem seemed a bit soft for the rugged former Marine, who looked as if he’d be more inclined to take on a herd of killers or an approaching army. Although he was Foxworth, and Brett knew he believed in the cause, and they took on some things that would seem insignificant to outsiders. “I’m hoping there’ll be a simple answer.”

Rafe’s mouth quirked, and he looked down at Cutter. “Not likely, when this guy’s involved.”

“I was afraid of that,” Brett said glumly.

“And he is one of us, so if he’s involved, we are.”

“You’re on vacation.”

“Boring,” Rafe said with a one-shouldered shrug. “I hate not working.”

Brett laughed. Then stopped when he realized he felt the same way. And that empty-lives thought came back to him.

“I’ll keep that in mind if my guy comes up empty,” he said quickly, quashing the unwelcome thoughts. “I’d like to be able to help Sloan out.”

He realized what he’d done the moment he’d said it, but somehow trying to correct it to
Sloan’s aunt
seemed as if it would only make it worse.

“Sloan?” Rafe asked.

“Sloan Burke. The niece,” he said, hoping the short answer would suffice.

Rafe went very still. Brett felt the change as much as saw it.

“Cutter led you to Sloan Burke? The Sloan Burke?”

Whatever was coming next, Brett didn’t want to hear it. But he knew he had to ask. “
The
Sloan Burke?”

“Wife of Chief Petty Officer Jason Burke?”

Brett absorbed it like a punch to the gut. He’d been right. She was married. The involuntary and instantaneous recoil at the words told him just how foolish he’d gotten. And in such a short time it was almost embarrassing. What the hell was he thinking?

“I don’t know,” he managed.

It shouldn’t have meant anything. She was a woman he’d spoken to for maybe fifteen minutes and seen a couple of times before. It meant nothing. He wasn’t in the mood or the market for anything more, hadn’t been since—

“About thirty-five now?”

“I... Yes.”

As if he’d just remembered he had it, Rafe pulled out his phone and began to key in a search. After a moment he selected one of the results, tapped the screen again, expanded an item and finally held it up for Brett to see.

It was a photograph. Of Sloan. Sitting at a table, in front of a microphone, rows of people sitting behind her.

Something stirred inside him, not because she was lovely in that picture, because in fact she was not. Her hair was pulled into a severe knot at the back of her head, she looked pale, and above all she looked tired. Exhausted.

She looked fragile, and it made his stomach knot.

She’s married,
he told himself. It was none of his business. He scanned the other people in the photo, wondering if one of the men was her husband. And how he could have let her get to this point.

“What is this?” he asked finally.

“Sloan Burke,” Rafe said, in a tone Brett could describe only as admiring, “is a crusader. Of the best kind. Ask anyone who’s in the service or has been, and I’ll bet he’s heard of her. And if she needed help, anyone who’s been in boots on the ground would come running.”