Murder, corruption and a second chance at love…

When his dog, Cutter, leads Brett Dunbar to a dead body during a routine property check, it’s the detective’s hardest case yet. Because the victim was found on Sloan Burke’s land. Now Brett must balance professionalism and attraction—something nearly impossible when the beautiful widow’s determination puts her directly in the line of fire.

Seeing the heroic qualities she valued in her late husband reflected in Brett makes the protective wall around Sloan’s heart crumble. Brett won’t risk another relationship to his dangerous job, and Sloan refuses to have a future with a man constantly in danger. But solving the crime might be easier than letting each other go…

Sloan looked up at him steadily, a world of gentle understanding in her eyes.

Brett was moving before he even realized it. It had been so long since he’d felt the urge, he didn’t recognize it until his mouth was on hers.

He felt her little jump of surprise, and a tiny part of his mind suggested he should stop this before he regretted it. But that cause was lost the moment he felt her lips under his, and turned to ash the moment her mouth softened, the surprise fading.

She was kissing him back. Lighting a fire in him that made the one on the hearth seem no more than a flickering match.

She leaned into him, and a gentle, quiet sound came from her, almost a moan. Need exploded in him, unlike anything he’d felt in longer than he could remember.

It was hot, swift, consuming, and he wanted nothing more than to hit the floor and take this woman here and now.

***

Be sure to check out the rest of the books

in this miniseries—Cutter’s Code: A clever

and mysterious canine helps a group of secret

operatives crack the case.

Dear Reader,

One of the things I love about writing connected books is how various secondary characters take shape and eventually demand to have stories of their own. I especially love it when one I never expected to write a full book about develops into such an appealing character I just have to find out more about them.

In the Cutter’s Code series there is one of those characters. He began simply as a device of sorts, someone I knew this string of suspense stories was going to need: a friendly cop. And the more times this character appeared in the books, the more fascinated with him I became, until I knew he was going to have to have his own story.

That time has finally come. After all the times he has helped the Foxworth family, they now have a chance to repay the favors, and in the process realize that they’ve become his family, as well. Brett Dunbar is one of my favorite secondary characters I’ve ever written, and I’m delighted to give him the heroic woman he deserves. I hope you enjoy their story.

As always, happy reading. And woof!

Justine Davis

Operation Power Play

Justine Davis

www.millsandboon.co.uk

JUSTINE DAVIS lives on Puget Sound in Washington State, watching big ships and the occasional submarine go by and sharing the neighborhood with assorted wildlife, including a pair of bald eagles, deer, a bear or two and a tailless raccoon. In the few hours when she’s not planning, plotting or writing her next book, her favorite things are photography, knitting her way through a huge yarn stash and driving her restored 1967 Corvette roadster—top down, of course.

Connect with Justine at her website, justinedavis.com, at twitter.com/justine_d_davis, or on Facebook at facebook.com/justinedaredavis.

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I’m stealing this dedication spot back from my readers for this book. If you read the first Cutter’s Code book, Operation Midnight, you might remember the dedication included a dog named Murphy, who was instrumental in bringing my own sweet girl into our lives. He was also my first grand-pup. We sadly lost Murphy a few weeks ago, and I’m turning this space over to his mom.

A little more than twelve years ago a silly, baby-faced chocolate Lab puppy came into my family’s life. The name Murphy seemed to suit him. Deliciously adorable, he was a goofy, fun-loving Lab puppy, digging up plants in the garden, stealing raw chicken breasts on the kitchen counter and developing an addiction to tennis-ball retrieving. He was gentle and loving around the elderly, and incredibly patient with children. The ultimate host, he ensured you had a good night’s sleep by keeping watch outside your door. Murphy greeted every friend at the door with a welcoming bark and a wagging tail…right before he dropped his ball in your lap to throw for him. A mere ninety-eight pounds, he was the master snuggler of lapdogs. He loved road trips from California to Washington, spending the majority of it standing on the center console while sticking his head out the sunroof. His exhuberance for play was unwavering—at the beach, at the park, at home—ball in mouth, he was ready ALL THE TIME. He provided a daily reminder that unconditional love and happiness can exist. His absence is greatly noticeable in our house, but heaven just got a little brighter because of him.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

Chapter 1

Is this really worth it?

Brett Dunbar was at the stage of his morning run where he always doubted it. The stage when even the beauty of his surroundings as the trail paralleled an inlet of Puget Sound didn’t help.

His new companion was no help either. He’d thought Cutter would be a distraction at least. That the dog might act as dogs do, slowing to sniff everything in sight, thus allowing him to give in to the urging of his body to slow down, enjoy the morning quiet, make this a nice leisurely stroll. But this dog was acting like a demanding trainer, pushing, prodding, running ahead and turning to wait, subtly implying that Dunbar was slacking off.

“Darned dog,” he muttered.

That was what he got for somehow ending up dogsitting while Quinn and Hayley Foxworth were on their honeymoon.

He kept going as he came out of the thick trees and saw the gleam of the water. Sunrise was coming, heralded by the lightening of the sky across the sound. He knew that he was almost past the tough part, that just about here the endorphins would kick in and he’d hit that pace that was perfect, that seemed as though he could keep going forever. But every time, he had to get through this part first, this section where his entire body screamed at him to stop.

People had told him once he hit forty it would get harder. Now, with his forty-second birthday looming, he had to admit the change wasn’t in his pace or his stamina but in the increase in mental discipline it took to keep going. And yet the bottom line never changed. He did this six days a week, rain or shine, for one simple reason. He was a cop, and one day his life could depend on it.

The radiance began to grow from behind the distant ridge of the Cascade Mountains. There were enough remnants remaining from yesterday’s storm to give the sun lots of clouds to light up. He watched the show as he ran. Orange, pink and bright blue streaked across the sky, clouds turning from gray to bright white as the light grew stronger. Some clouds stayed darker, appearing like black puffs against the white clouds behind, a stark counterpoint to the brilliant display of sunrise.

Cutter stopped just ahead, where the trail curved away from the water to run below a small group of houses up the hill. The dog’s head was up, and if he’d been looking toward the sunrise, Brett might have thought the clever dog was enjoying the view, as silly as that seemed. He’d seen this dog at work—literally—and it wouldn’t have surprised him.

But instead Cutter was looking up toward the houses. Intently, his ears as focused as his eyes, not moving at all. His nose was twitching and his ribs moving as he took in deep breaths, no doubt tangy with whatever had caught his attention.

The dog looked at him then, and novice though he was with this, even Brett could see something had changed. He slowed to a stop. The dog was no longer that taunting, teasing physical trainer. Something intense and focused had come into those amber-flecked dark eyes, and Brett suddenly remembered all the times he’d heard the Foxworth people talk about the dog willing people to do something.

As if he’d been waiting to be sure he had Brett’s attention, Cutter started up the side path. Brett’s brow furrowed. He took that path some days, because it led up to those houses and a sidewalk that was better to run on when the rain was coming down hard. But he’d never taken it in the four days Cutter had been with him, so where had the dog gotten the idea?

He picked up the pace as the animal opened up a lead on him. It wouldn’t do for Hayley and Quinn to come home and find out he’d lost their dog.

“Should have put the leash on,” he muttered as he started up the hill.

The leash was mainly for other people. While he wasn’t huge, Cutter wasn’t a small dog. And he tended to draw attention with his striking coloring, black head and shoulders turning to a russet brown over his back and hindquarters. But it was more than just his looks—his very intensity drew people’s eyes, and the reaction ranged anywhere from fascinated to wary.

If the dog had been a cop, Brett would have called it command presence. That might be the right term anyway.

The dog never slowed his steady trot even as the path headed up the rise. Brett had to kick up the pace to keep him in sight, and his body registered the hill with quickened breathing and an uptick in heart rate.

By the time he hit the sidewalk, Cutter was already crossing the street. There were only three houses in the little cluster, two on the water-view side of the narrow paved lane, one on the inland side. Brett could see two women in front of the single house where Cutter seemed to be headed. One older, one younger. He hoped neither of them would be frightened by the sudden appearance of a strange dog.

He realized the second woman was familiar. He’d seen her before on his runs that brought him up this way. After years as a cop the cataloging had been instinctive. She was about five-six, nicely female, with light brown hair past her shoulders. Long bangs pushed to one side fell over a brow and nearly covered her right eye. He liked the careless look of it. He’d never been close enough to see her eye color, but he was betting brown. Maybe green. Today she was dressed in jeans and a pale green sweater that hugged those curves nicely.

She was also the reason he’d once caught himself thinking of taking this route on a perfectly dry day, on the chance she might be out working in the garden again, since she did it even in the rain. And that bothered him enough to make sure he never did it. That way lay folly.

Right now she had her arm comfortingly around the older woman, who appeared to need that comforting.

Cutter bounded toward them. The younger woman turned just as the sun cleared the mountains and poured down over the sound, lighting everything in its path. Including the hair he’d thought was simply light brown but now saw was an amazing combination of tan, gleaming gold and a light reddish color that seemed to spark fire to it all. He’d never seen her in sunlight before, he realized, because he usually took this route only if it was raining.

He gave himself an internal shake as Cutter slowed to a walk about ten feet away from them, as if he somehow sensed a running approach might scare them. The older woman was watching the dog warily, so he supposed the dog could have read her body language.

But the younger one was smiling at the dog.

And she had a killer smile.

Cutter had halted a couple of feet in front of the women. He sat, almost primly, ears up, head cocked as if studying them. It was probably the most unthreatening pose he could have taken.

Brett caught up and stopped beside Cutter. The younger woman still had an arm around the older, who, judging by the traces of dampness on her cheeks, had been crying.

He felt an instant stab of wariness. He quashed it. No matter what was going on, it wasn’t, thankfully, his business. He wasn’t on duty, and this wasn’t his jurisdiction.

“Sorry,” he said. “We were down on the trail and he got the idea to head up here. Weird, since I’ve never been up this way with him.”

“I’ve seen you running,” the older woman said, sounding relieved. “Every day, I go for my walk downtown.” She was smiling now, which relieved him. “My husband likes the cream cheese cinnamon rolls from the bakery, even though they’re bad for him.”

Brett smiled back. “I like them, too. So I run.”

He heard a laugh, a short, pleasant sound that warmed him as much as the winter sun was trying to do. He looked at the other woman then. Close up, that smile was even more potent.

And the eyes were indeed green. A light, clear green that made him think of the first leaves of the spring that wasn’t far off.

“I’ve seen you up here, too,” she said. “When it’s really wet.”

“Trail gets kind of slippery. I break something, my boss won’t be happy.”

The laugh again. He found himself wishing he were naturally funny, just to keep hearing it. And wondering why Cutter was just sitting there; usually his furry trainer would have been pushing him for a final burst of speed right about now.

“Your boss isn’t an understanding sort?” she asked.

“She’d understand, but she’s tough. I’d end up stuck behind a desk.”

“What is it you do?” the older woman asked.

And there it was, he thought. The answer always made people react strongly. Differently, but they always reacted. Relaxed or became wary. The lines had always been pretty clear-cut: if they relaxed, they were on one side; if they were wary, the other. But the lines were getting blurrier by the day.

And he didn’t want to admit to himself that if Green Eyes reacted the wrong way, he was going to be disappointed. Or worse.

Best to get it over with, he thought.

“I’m a detective with the sheriff’s office.”

To his surprise, it was the older woman who drew back slightly. Green Eyes merely said, “Tough work.”

“Sometimes.”

“Your dog take off on you often?” she asked, gesturing at Cutter.

He wondered if she was hiding a laugh at the idea a cop’s dog wouldn’t obey him. He quickly shook his head. “Not mine. Dogsitting.”

“How nice of you,” the older woman said, seeming to have recovered from whatever had made her react. Or perhaps he’d imagined it.

He didn’t think this was the time to try to explain that he hadn’t had much choice—the dog had decided. He wasn’t sure quite how that had happened. After the wedding reception the dog, still wearing his bow tie as a member of the wedding—ring bearer, a role he had executed flawlessly—had trotted over to his car and simply refused to move.

“Oops,” the bride had said. “I think there’s been a change of plans.”

“Looks that way,” Quinn had agreed, with remarkable patience given the way he was looking at his wife, whom he was about to spirit off to parts unknown for a month of newlywed bliss. Bliss Brett had no doubt would last. You could feel it rolling off them.

Next thing he knew, Foxworth’s Teague Johnson, who had been going to watch the dog while they were gone, was loading up dog stuff into Brett’s car, grinning widely.

They all said it had been Cutter’s idea. He’d laughed that off until, after waiting politely, the dog had jumped into the car the moment he opened the door, wiggled into the backseat and settled in comfortably.

And so far, he couldn’t deny he’d sort of enjoyed it.

“His owner must be a good friend,” the older woman said.

“Yes,” Brett said.

“I don’t know,” the younger woman said, watching Cutter, who was watching her in turn. “He seems quite the gentleman.”

“He can be. He can also be the most stubborn critter on the planet. And that’s a direct quote from his owner.”

“It must be interesting, then,” Green Eyes said.

He couldn’t help smiling at that. “He’s an interesting dog, all right.” Then, not sure why, he added, “And more company than I expected.”

It was nothing less than true. The dog had been a quiet but solid presence, and even he couldn’t deny that the occasional nudge of the dark head or the warmth of the dog curled up beside him on the couch was...comforting. He didn’t like admitting that he might need comforting, but there it was.

“May I?” Green Eyes asked, reaching toward Cutter. “Is he all right with strangers touching him?”

Brett looked at the dog, whose attention had never wavered. “I’d say you’ve passed muster,” he said. “Or he wouldn’t still be sitting there.”

She laughed once more, and he was glad she was focused on the dog, because he couldn’t help smiling at the sound of it. It took him a moment to realize that the strange tightness in his face was the result of smiling so much in the past few minutes, something he’d grown long unused to.

“Hello there, boy,” she said, petting the dark head. “What’s his name?”

“Cutter. At least, that’s what his tag said when he showed up.”

The woman looked at the boat-shaped blue name tag that hung from the dog’s collar, then up at him. “He was lost?”

He nodded. “Hayley—his owner—tried for months to find where he belonged. And by then he’d made it pretty clear he intended to stay.”

Green Eyes smiled as the older woman spoke. “Your girlfriend takes in strays, does she?”

“My—” He stopped short. Girlfriend was not a word he’d used in reference to himself for a very long time. “No. No, Hayley’s not... She’s on her honeymoon. That’s why I’m dogsitting.”

“Well,” Green Eyes said, straightening up from her attentions to the dog, “congratulations to her. And her new husband.”

“They deserve it. They’re good people.”

“I’m Connie Day,” the older woman said abruptly. “And this is my niece, Sloan Burke.”

“Dunbar,” he said automatically, as if he were on duty after all. “Brett Dunbar,” he amended awkwardly. Should he offer to shake hands? That was always iffy with some women. And if this was how out of it he was when it came to non-work-related contact with other people, he should probably give it up altogether.

“We should be on our way,” he said, letting the fact that he was still a bit sweaty decide the shaking-hands question. Not to mention that he was going to start stiffening up here if he stood around in the chilly air much longer. “It was nice meeting you.”

“You, too,” Green Eyes—Sloan—said.

“Come on, Cutter. Get back to nagging me to pick up the pace.”

She laughed once more, and Brett couldn’t help smiling a last time. But maybe it wouldn’t be the last. He’d be running this way the next time it rained hard, and this was the Pacific Northwest in winter, so that was never far off at any given time.

But when he turned to go, Cutter didn’t move.

“Dog?”

Cutter turned his head to look at him, but his furry backside never left the grass he was sitting on.

“Cutter, let’s go.” He took a few more steps. Nothing.

He sighed. He dug into his pocket for the leash, tugging a length out from the reel.

“Who was it who said when you get to thinking you’re important, try giving orders to someone else’s dog?”

Brett’s gaze snapped to her face. She was smiling again, widely. And he found himself grinning back. It felt even stranger than the smiling had. He reached out to snap the leash on Cutter’s collar. “He’s usually pretty good about it. He must just like you.”

“But we’ve only just met.”

“He’s a quick study.”

He couldn’t believe himself. He sounded as though he was flirting with her. Not a talent of his at the best of times. He turned back to the dog. Cutter was staring at him intently. Intensely. In a way he never had in the time he’d stayed with him.

He tried to look away. Managed only a second. The dog was still staring at him. He remembered all the jokes that abounded at Foxworth about knowing how sheep felt.

Mesmerized was the word that came to mind.

And then other words popped into his head, spoken by almost everyone at Foxworth at one time or another.

He just gives us that “Fix it!” expression, and we know we’re stuck.

It all came together in a rush, Cutter’s sudden and unexpected course change, the older woman’s tears, his refusal to leave and now That Look.

Uh-oh, Brett thought. Now what?

Chapter 2

Sloan Burke wasn’t surprised to learn that the lean, rangy man she’d occasionally seen running was a cop. Or a deputy, to be more accurate, she thought, although detective probably superseded that. Jason had explained it once, back in the days when law enforcement had been his life plan, before a terrorist attack had sent him to the military, determined to defend the country he so loved.

There was a look, a demeanor about such men. Something that set them apart. In this man’s case, as in her husband’s, it wasn’t bluster or swagger, just a quiet strength that required no bragging and a straight, level gaze that told you whatever the job was, he would get it done.

And yet the dog at her feet was apparently the one in charge at the moment.

“I should have known he was only letting me pretend I’m in charge.”

She laughed, both at the man’s wry tone and that he had chosen the words she had just thought. “At least you realize.”

“I should have sooner. He’s got quite the reputation, this one.”

“For?”

“Finding trouble. And demanding his people fix it.”

She started to laugh again, but something in his expression told her he was serious. “Detective Dunbar, why do I think you don’t mean typical dog trouble, like finding holes in fences or the cat next door to chase?”

He seemed to hesitate, as if he wasn’t certain he should tell her, before he said, “Brett, please. And no. Last one was a kid with a messed-up family. Before that it was a kidnapping. Then a cold case, a long-lost brother. And those are just the ones I know about.”

She stared at him. “Must really take away from their day job.”

“That is their day job.”

She drew back slightly. “You mean that’s actually what they do?”

He nodded. “They help people. People who have nowhere else to turn.”

“What are they, a charity?”

“Might as well be. They don’t take any payment except the goodwill—and willingness to help them help someone else later—of the people they take on. They did it before Cutter came along, but now it’s all they can do to keep up with what he finds for them. He’s got a...sense about things. It’s hard to explain.”

“So he finds people who need help, and your friends, they follow his lead?”

He looked as if he half expected her to laugh. “It sounds crazy, I know.”

“Which part?”

She hadn’t meant it to sound sour, but it did. She saw it register in the slightest narrowing of his eyes. She didn’t elucidate—she wasn’t about to explain to a total stranger that while she could believe the dog would help people, she wasn’t so sure about people helping people. Not anymore.

She glanced back at the dog. “Well, I can see I wasn’t according you the proper respect. I thought you were just a pretty face.”

Cutter’s tail wagged as if he’d understood. He got to his feet then and crossed the distance between them. Coming not to her but to Aunt Connie, nudging her hand with his nose.

Connie, who had been watching all this with interest—and, Sloan noted, without saying a word, which was unlike her—responded by petting the dog’s head. “You are a beautiful boy,” she cooed to him.

The dog stayed still for a moment. Then he turned around and sat once more, now facing his running partner. And gave him that look again.

It was odd, she thought. She’d seen intense dogs before. Jason’s best friend in the service had been a canine handler, and his partner, Eddie, had been a bomb-seeking machine. And she’d seen police dogs and the agility competitors that held events in the park a few blocks away.

But this dog was different. The intensity was no less, but the focus was different. She couldn’t explain it herself; she could only feel it, so no wonder he didn’t even try.

She looked back at the man then. She’d always enjoyed the sight when she’d seen him running. That part of her might be dead and buried with Jason, but she could still appreciate a good-looking man, and Brett Dunbar was definitely that. She liked his tall, lean build, found the touch of gray at his temples attractive. She had little patience for unlined youth these days. Or sunny, carefree attitudes. She’d lost her affection for naïveté long ago, in the halls of Washington, DC.

And the impression in his gray eyes of dark things seen was all too familiar.

He sighed. Audibly. He looked at Connie, then the dog, then Connie again. “I’m guessing you’re the one with the problem?”

Aunt Connie blinked. “What?” She glanced down at the dog now sitting at her feet staring up at Brett, then at the man himself. “You mean he knows?”

“I have a feeling that’s why I’m here. Why he led me here.”

Clearly startled, Connie put a hand to her throat. “Oh, dear. My problem isn’t anything like that. No one’s missing, and certainly not one of those cold-case things.”

“She’s having a problem with the county,” Sloan explained. “A permit problem.”

“We need to build a new house,” Connie said, “a single-story, up the hill in back. My husband isn’t well, and the stairs are too much for him now.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“They’re saying we can’t subdivide the acreage,” she said.

He frowned. “You own the property?”

Connie nodded. “Twelve acres. And we can’t afford to build unless we sell this house.”

Brett turned to look at the tidy Craftsman-style two-story. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” Sloan said. Uncle Chuck had maintained it immaculately, and the yard was a showplace cottage-style garden.

“Yes. You should have no trouble selling it.”

“It will be sad,” Connie said. “This was our dream house, but needs have changed.”

Brett looked back at her. “Could you sell it all and build what you need somewhere else?”

Tears brimmed anew in Connie’s eyes. “It’s already breaking Chuck’s heart that we have to move out of this house. It would just kill him if we had to leave this land altogether because of him. His family has owned it for five generations.”

“I’d rent this house from them,” Sloan said, “but that doesn’t get them the money they’d need for building.” She put her arm comfortingly around Connie’s shoulders. “It’s awful. She’s dealt with so much since my uncle’s heart attack. And they’re just being ridiculous about it. The standard for this entire area is a minimum of two-and-a-half-acre parcels. But she’s suddenly not allowed to break up twelve?”

“What’s their reason?” he asked.

“Some nonsense about the entire area being under study for possible changes, and everything is frozen in the meantime.” She knew her voice was rising, but it was so unfair it just made her angry.

“Sounds typical,” he said.

“Except,” she snapped, “that they decided to study it only after my aunt and uncle put in their application. It’s a specious technicality, at best. County bureaucrats.”

She realized suddenly that the man she was talking to worked for that same county.

“Sorry,” she said hastily. “I didn’t mean anything personal.”

He gave her a crooked smile that again reminded her of her thought when he’d first laughed: he looked like a man who didn’t do it very often.

“I’m not one of them,” he said. “And sometimes I get as angry at them as you are.”

She felt even worse. “I didn’t mean to imply you were. It’s just that the whole thing is so unfair.”

“It certainly doesn’t seem right,” he said. He glanced at his watch, a complicated-looking thing like the one Jason used to wear.

“I’m sorry—we’ve truly spoiled your run,” she said quickly.

“I’m sure you have other, more important things to do than talk about my little problem,” Connie added.

“It’s not little to you,” he said, and Sloan thought she could have hugged him for that. When she caught herself wondering what that would feel like, she nearly jerked back in shock.

“I was just checking the time to see how long before they’d be in at the county offices,” he said. “I know somebody over there. Maybe I could make a call, find out more about what’s going on.”

Sloan stared at him. Connie took an audible breath and again put her hand to her throat.

“No promises,” Brett said hurriedly. “I may only find out that what they told you is right.”

“Of course,” Connie said, “but that would be so helpful. They didn’t want to explain much to me. I’m sure they just thought I was a nuisance of an old woman.”

“Then they need to be slapped silly,” Sloan said, her anger rising again.

Brett looked at her with an expression she couldn’t read. Perhaps, being a cop, he was assessing her capability for such violence. Oh, I’m capable, she told him silently.

But he said only, “Or reminded that they’ll also be there one day. If they’re lucky.”

She liked that. Liked that he’d said it. Liked that he’d looked at Connie so kindly when he’d said it.

Didn’t like the pain that shadowed his eyes when he’d added, “If they’re lucky.”

“I’ll call the first chance I get,” he said. “But again, no promises.”

“Thank you,” Connie said fervently. Then she looked at Sloan. “Give him your number, will you, Sloan? I don’t hear the phone half the time.”

Sloan frowned. As far as she knew, Connie’s hearing was fine. She glanced at Brett, realized he seemed taken aback himself. But after a moment he pulled a smartphone out of the pocket of his sweatpants, and she gave him the number.

And nearly laughed aloud when the dog, who had been sitting quietly through all this, got to his feet. As if he had somehow figured out they were done now.

“Told you,” Brett said.

She looked up to see him shaking his head in amusement at his furry companion.

Somehow this made her like him even more. And that made her a little twitchy.

“Well, now,” Connie said, watching as man and dog resumed their run, “wasn’t he nice?”

“Yes,” Sloan agreed, still a little bemused by it all but more fascinated by Brett Dunbar’s long, easy stride.

“And nice looking,” the older woman added archly. “Just the type I would have gone for at your age.”

She couldn’t deny that, since she’d thought it herself. But she knew where Connie was headed and didn’t want to go there. Again.

“Please. You’ve been in love with Uncle Chuck since you were teenagers.”

“Indeed I have. That’s why I want the same for you.”

“And so you want to set me up with the first good-looking guy who comes along?”

“He’s hardly the first, but he is the first I’ve seen you react to.”

Oh, Lord, had she been that obvious?

In the instant before she dodged away from her aunt’s scrutiny, she saw something twinkle in the older woman’s eyes. Her gaze snapped back to Connie’s face.

“You hear perfectly well,” she accused. “And you’ve never missed a call if you’re home or your cell’s got a signal.”

“There’s always a first time,” Connie said sunnily. “I wonder if he’s married.”

Of course he is, Sloan thought. Look at him. But she focused on her aunt’s deviousness. “I can’t believe you...used that.”

“It got him your phone number, didn’t it?” Connie gave her a wry look. “Besides, honey, when you get to be this age, sometimes the only weapon you have is making people think you’re less than you are.”

For a long moment Sloan just stared at her. Then she laughed and hugged the woman who had been her anchor for so long. “Have I ever told you I want to be just like you?”

“I believe you have once or twice,” Connie said. “And it makes me very proud.”

“As well you should be.”

“Good. Then you’ll eat breakfast this morning without telling me it’s too much.”

Sloan laughed again. “You are shameless.” But she walked back toward the house without protest.

And denied even to herself that she was glad the subject had veered away from their neighborhood jogger.

Chapter 3

Brett drummed his fingers on his desk as he considered his options. The physical action and the slight noise seemed to help him focus. Or at least reminded him to keep his mind on the matter at hand and not on the woman who had been such a pleasant interruption in his routine this morning.

Besides, for all he knew, she was married and had kids. She hadn’t been wearing a ring—so sue him, he’d noticed—but that didn’t always mean anything. Or it could mean she was divorced with those kids. Not that he had anything against kids; he just knew a little too much about the ways they could go wrong. They’d planned on kids, someday, he and Angie—

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 felt 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 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.”

Rafe glanced at the image again before he blacked out the home screen and slipped the phone back in his pocket.

“Quinn, Teague and me included,” he said, then added, “She’s exactly the kind of person Foxworth was founded for.”

Brett told himself he would be better off not asking. Not knowing. He would just do this little thing, maybe help straighten out a paperwork glitch, and then slip back into his quiet, unrippled life. And Sloan would go back to hers, with her husband.

He asked anyway. “What’s the story?”

Rafe fell silent. Studied Brett again, silently. At last he said, “You sure you want to know?”

I’m sure I’d be better off if I didn’t. “Tell me.”

One of Rafe’s dark brows arched upward, and Brett knew he hadn’t missed the indirectness of the answer. But after a moment he seemed to decide.

“All right. But come on inside. I’m going to need fuel. How do you feel about leftover pizza?”

“Like we’re related,” Brett said drily, then chuckled as Cutter jumped to his feet.

“So does he,” Rafe said. “Let’s go.”

Brett followed the two toward the main Foxworth building, telling himself he still had time to change his mind, to run before he found out something about Sloan that would make it even harder to walk away.

How the hell had he gotten into such a tangle so fast?

Even as he thought it, Cutter looked back over his shoulder at him. He couldn’t even blame the dog. Cutter had only led him there, after all. He was the one who had jumped in with both feet.

And apparently left his common sense behind.

Chapter 5

Brett slipped Cutter the last bite of pizza, more bread than anything. The dog took it delicately, glanced at the table as if to make sure there was none left, then settled down for a nap with a happy sigh.

“Got what you wanted, dog?” he asked with a wry grin.

“He’s good at that,” Rafe said.

“So he wanted me, and/or Foxworth, involved in this. Which means...what?”

“That it’s likely more than it looks like on the surface.”

Brett sighed. Somehow he’d known that would be the answer. Steeling himself, he finally asked.

“So what’s her story?”

“Jason was a navy SEAL. Killed in action in Afghanistan a few years ago.”

“He’s...dead?” Brett hated that, after the shock, his first real feeling was relief. That it was followed instantly by pain for what Sloan must have gone through didn’t ameliorate his first snap reaction. This was an American hero they were talking about, and it shamed him that this was his gut reaction, even if it was more about Sloan than her husband.

Rafe nodded. “Officials put out a report on what happened. Sloan knew it wasn’t true.”

“How?”

“Burke had told her what was really going on. They’d talked on Skype the night before, and she had the truth. And had recorded the convo, as she always did. Just in case.”

Just in case. Three words that made some marriages different than all others. Military marriages. And police marriages.

Brett sucked in a deep breath. “What did she do?”

“She did it right. Jumped through all the hoops, worked her way up the chain of command. But when she hit the top, the brass wouldn’t budge from their official version. So she went to the politicians. Started here, all the way up to the governor. Got nothing.”

“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” Brett said with a grimace.

“I think she hoped the governor at least would listen. He was newly elected then but under a cloud, and she thought maybe he’d want to establish his legitimacy with something big.”

Brett’s brow knit. “I remember that. His opponent just gave up.”

Rafe nodded. “Evans wasn’t a professional politician, and Ogilvie’s party machine came at him hard. Rumor was he had some sort of breakdown. He pulled out and just vanished. Left the state entirely.”

Politics, Brett thought with a grimace.

“So...what happened?” he asked. “With Sloan, I mean.”

Rafe studied him for a moment, and Brett wondered uncomfortably what he was seeing. “She widened her net. Figured it would take a politician to fight politicians. Finally found the right senator, one from Jason’s home state who had served himself, to step in.”

“Then that picture, that was at some sort of official hearing?”

“Very official. On Capitol Hill. Her testimony was the tipping point. She was like a force of nature. Every service guy I know was glued to it. They all knew she was fighting for the truth. For one of their own.” Rafe let out a compressed breath. “She showed more nerve and courage under fire than all of those suits and most of those top-of-the-heap guys sitting there with ribbons on their chests.”

“I remember hearing about this.” He’d just transferred to detectives, had still been learning his relatively new turf, so he hadn’t had much attention to spare. He knew only that it had been ugly, loud and figuratively bloody. “Didn’t a senator and even some presidential staff go down?”

“Yes.” Rafe wore an expression of grim satisfaction.

“What was the story?”

“The official version was that Burke’s squad had crossed a boundary they’d been ordered not to. That they knew if they crossed it, they’d be on their own.”

“But?”

Rafe’s expression turned sour. “There was no written record of such an order or boundary. Or anyone actually in action who had ever heard it. All the rank and file and even most of command denied any knowledge.”

“What finally happened?”

“In the end they were forced to release satellite imagery of the ambush and the surrounding territory. It showed not only that they weren’t even past that real or imagined boundary but that there was help within easy reach. A team that could easily have taken out the small force of attackers, and a chopper for air support. Once that came out, it all fell apart. Guys spoke up about how they had been ordered to stand down. And shut up about it.”

“Why was his squad there in the first place?”

“They were going to pull out one of their informants. The guy had given them info that had helped them round up several high-level targets. And twice he’d warned them of ambushes just like the one they drove into that day. But he’d been compromised and was about to be executed.”

Brett leaned back against the sofa cushions. “So they had good reason.”

“Not according to the powers that be. They were ordered not to go, thanks to that someone way higher up on the civilian power pole. Something about offending the local terrorists.”

Brett blinked. “Offend the terrorists? So they were supposed to just let the guy who helped them die?”

“Exactly.”

“But—”

“They went anyway.” Rafe grimaced as he shifted position. Brett wondered if it was what he was remembering or that his leg was bothering him. “That’s what the Skype call had been about. Jason wanted the truth in someone’s hands before they headed out. Sloan said her husband couldn’t have lived with himself if he’d just left the man to die. So instead they all died, because some hack who never had a uniform on in his life was covering his ass.”

Brett sat silently for a long moment. He wasn’t sure how this made him feel, that Sloan’s dead husband had clearly been a good man, a true hero, a man he would probably have liked and admired. It would have been easier, he thought, if the guy had been a jerk.

Just what would have been easier, he didn’t let himself think about.

“What was the final result?” he asked.

“She hammered at them for nearly two years. With all their stalling, it took that long for all the pieces to come together. In the end she brought down an area commander, that senator and his brother-in-law, who they’d been funneling rebuilding contracts to—that was what the informant had found out and was going to tell—and a couple of the staff who helped in the cover-up.”

“And they let her husband and his men all die for that? Some crony contracts?” He couldn’t help the outrage echoing in his voice, and approval flashed in Rafe’s eyes.

“Yes. Now Sloan helps others in like situations through an organization she started. Even the governor has come around.” Rafe snorted. “After she won, he pretended he was backing her all along.”

“Good for her,” he said softly.

“She was amazing.”

She still is.

Brett barely managed to keep from saying it aloud.

“You want to leave him here, take a break?” Rafe asked when he at last got up to go, and Cutter popped to his feet.

Brett considered the dog, who was looking at him steadily. With a bemused look, he said, “I suppose I’ll let him decide. Why change now?”

Rafe smiled. “A man who learns fast.”

“He’s pretty hard to ignore.”

“You’ll let me know if there’s anything we can do? I’m not much help with bureaucrats and paperwork, but Ty isn’t on vacation, and he’s a whiz at working through computer forests.”

“I will, if my guy can’t—” He broke off as his cell phone rang. Pulled it out and glanced at the incoming number. “Speak of the devil,” he muttered, and answered. “Rick? I’m with somebody interested in this, so I’m going to put you on speaker if that’s okay.”

“Sure.”

Brett switched the audio over. “Go,” he said.

“I found it,” Alvarado said without preamble. “The application was in a file in my boss’s office. Unprocessed.”

“After nearly four months?”

“Yeah. That’s so wrong. We’re not that backlogged. No idea why it’s in here. He doesn’t usually get involved until things are processed and need his signature.”

“Did you ask him?”

“He’s out this morning at some big confab in Seattle, so not yet. But it’s weird.”

“That he has it?”

“And that it’s nowhere else. Not even a computer record of it being entered in the system. It must have been misfiled or just caught up in the wrong stack of papers.”

“And what about this supposed land-use study?”

“It doesn’t exist, as far as I can tell. And there’s nothing about that area that would warrant such a study. Not saying it couldn’t be happening, but it’s not done yet, because a copy would have hit my desk at some point.”

“Can you find out?”

“Sure. But I’m thinking it all must have just been a goof.”

So. There it was. He was safely out of it. “It happens,” Brett said.

“Yeah. I’ll talk to my boss as soon as I see him and get back to you. In the meantime, I’ll get this entered and started on right away. It looks pretty cut-and-dried. Should be no problem.”

“Thanks, Rick. I owe you.”

“Hell no,” the man said. “I owe you times a hundred. Caro is doing great at school. My girl’s going to make it through college with honors.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“Wouldn’t have happened if not for you. You really got through to her, like I never could.”

“She’s a good kid. She just got a little lost for a while.”

Rafe was studying him anew as he ended the call. “His daughter?”

Brett nodded. “It was a close one. She nearly got sucked up into something really bad.”

“Ever get to you?”

“All the time. It’s a rough world for kids these days. For every Caroline Alvarado, there are three who don’t make it. It wears on you.”

Rafe looked at him consideringly. “You know Quinn would take you on here in an instant if you wanted.”

Startled, Brett blinked. “What?”

“Only reason he hasn’t mentioned it to you himself is he’s pretty sure you wouldn’t give up being a cop.”

Recovering, Brett admitted, “I came close, once. But it’s kind of in the blood.”

Rafe nodded in understanding. “Figured. But thought it might be good to know there’s another option.” He smiled crookedly. “Assuming, of course, you could live with the fact that we don’t always follow the book.”

“What you do,” Brett said, “is get results.”

“There is that,” Rafe said, and grinned. “Besides, you’re kind of handy where you are.”

He’d barely seen the man so much as crack a smile before, except at the wedding, so this was something.

“Thanks. I think.” He shifted his gaze to Cutter. “So what do you want, dog? Go or stay?”

The dog looked up at Rafe. “Up to you, mutt,” he said. “Nice of you to visit, but I’m good. You don’t need to stay.”

The dog reached out with his nose and nudged Rafe’s hand. Then he turned and trotted over to Brett.

“Guess he’s all yours for the duration,” Rafe said. “Good luck.”

“Thanks,” he said wryly, thinking he might just need it.

He spent most of the drive back to his place wondering if he could spare the time to stop by Sloan’s aunt’s place and let her know what Rick had said. But he was still a little too ashamed at his reaction to learning about her husband to do it. Relief sparked by a good man’s death was not something to be proud of, no matter the reason. And the thought of how much she must have loved her husband, to do what she’d done, and how much pain she had gone through made him feel worse than useless. He knew all too well no words could ease that kind of pain.

So instead he dropped Cutter off at the house, spent ten minutes throwing the tennis ball for him, ten minutes that barely took the edge off the dog’s seemingly endless energy, promised him more tonight and headed back to work. He would call from there, he told himself. Safer.

And he would finally get around to marking out another running route. One that didn’t pass the path that led to the big Craftsman house.

Chapter 6

Sloan put the last dishes in the dishwasher. She considered the meal a success. Uncle Chuck was under strict dietary restrictions and claimed she was the only one who could make those meals palatable. Sloan suspected that was as much to take some of the load off of his wife, but since that was her goal as well, she happily went along. And it didn’t hurt that they were all eating a bit healthier, she supposed.

She stopped herself from looking at the clock again. It would be five minutes later than the last time, she told herself, just as it had been all evening. Instead she got her aunt and uncle settled in with a movie selected from her streaming service, a concept they had taken to with enthusiasm.

She’d take this time to check the website and catch up with email. Her inbox had been too full for too long. She needed to get back on track. Her compatriots across the country were good people and had stepped up when they’d learned of her uncle’s ill health, but Accountability Counts was her baby, and she had neglected it for too long.

After her initial sort she had two updates on current situations, four inquiries she would refer to the appropriate military offices—no doubt after having to reassure each that most of the rank and file were honest and true—and three cases she would direct to regional coordinators, mostly concerning other family members affected in ways similar to her own. One more was local, so she would look into that herself. Then came the standard batch of praise and threats.

Thankfully, today the praise outnumbered the threats two to one. She filed the good ones to read when she had time or needed the lift and moved the threats to the library she’d created just for that. If nothing else, she’d learned that early on. Document, document, document, the mantra of anyone dealing with large entities. She read them only for tone, to see if anything unusual jumped out, anything to indicate the twisted psyche behind them would do more than just spew venom from behind the safety of an anonymous internet. It wasn’t pleasant, but it was necessary. She had ruffled some lofty feathers, and some were on birds in a position to do her great harm in many ways.

The rest were spam, scams or phishing, and she deleted them unread. That chore done, she wrote a quick blog post on the updates, ending it with her usual encouragement.

“Don’t give up,” she wrote. “There are so many good people out there, steadfast and loyal. You just have to find them.”

Before she even clicked on the publish button, her mind was back on Brett Dunbar. She told herself he kept popping into her thoughts because she was anxious for him to call and tell her if he’d found anything out on the application.

Okay, she admitted, also because he was one of the good guys. She didn’t know why she was so certain—these days it usually took her a while before she trusted someone—but she was. Something about him, maybe the shadows that darkened his eyes, told her this was a man who understood.

It was not because he was, as Connie had said, nice looking. She would have put him a bit beyond that, but still, she wasn’t in that market anymore. She doubted she ever would be.

On that thought her cell rang. She picked it up, already irritated at the way her mind had instantly jumped to wondering if it was him. As if it were spelled with a capital H.

But that was nothing compared to how her heart leaped when she saw the number she’d seen only once before.

“Sloan?”

The way he said her name when she answered sent a little shiver through her and made an image of him, tall, lean, with those eyes and that touch of gray in his hair, snap into sharp focus in her mind, which irritated her even more. She nearly let out an abrupt answer but bit it back. Still, she needed a little distance.

“Yes. Detective Dunbar, isn’t it?”

There, that was formal enough. And she knew he’d gotten it, because there was a fractional hesitation before he spoke again.

“Am I...interrupting something?”

“I was catching up on a little work,” she said, before she realized he might have meant something else entirely. Which somehow also grated on her nerves.

Boy, it doesn’t take much for you today, does it, Miss Snarky McGrouch?

“I’m sorry. This will be quick. It seems that your aunt’s application was simply lost. It never got logged in, and my contact found it in a stack of other papers in a file cabinet in his boss’s office.”

“Lost? For four months?”

“Your tax dollars at work,” he said, his tone so wry she nearly smiled despite her mood. “Anyway, he logged it in personally and will walk it through himself. He said it looked cut-and-dried, and it shouldn’t be long.”

Sloan felt her outrage at the delay ebb away. Relief flooded her. She let out an audible sigh. “Thank you. Truly, I can’t thank you enough, Brett.”

And just like that she let down the wall she’d thrown back up when she’d answered the phone.

“You’re welcome, Sloan.”

And he’d caught it, she thought ruefully. And made a mental note not to underestimate this man. He was, after all, a detective; he wasn’t likely to miss much. But she had the feeling that would be the case no matter what career he was in.

It wasn’t until after they’d hung up that she realized that underestimating him wouldn’t be a problem, because he had no reason to ever call again. He’d done a favor, generously, because he was a good guy. And now it was over. No need to ever talk to her again.

Unless he wanted to for other reasons, personal ones. She felt herself flush and shook her head sharply. No. Just no. That way lay idiocy. He was a cop, and on the don’t-get-involved scale, that was barely a step below a serviceman.

Not, of course, that she had any reason to think he was even interested. Just because Aunt Connie was an inveterate matchmaker didn’t mean the other party she’d chosen would be cooperative.

But she certainly couldn’t fault her aunt’s taste.

* * *

There was no reason for him to be doing this. The situation with the Day permit had been resolved, if not completely explained. But it would go through now, and probably quickly. They’d be in a hurry to make up for the screwup.

So there was no reason for him to see or even talk to Sloan Burke again. Unless it was on some rainy day when his run took him past her aunt’s home. Which, if things went through, wouldn’t be her aunt’s house much longer.

It didn’t matter. He was going to be running a different route anyway, as soon as he laid one out. It was a nonissue.

He looked back at the website on his screen. If they’d had any idea who they were dealing with, that application probably would have been done in a day, he thought.

Accountability Counts.

Catchy. To the point. Effective.

Cutter stirred at his feet, but only to change position and go back to sleep. Brett had thrown the ball—the glow-in-the-dark one, since it was dark by the time he got home this time of year—for a good hour and had at last surrendered to arm twinges and hunger. The dog had appeared barely winded and probably could have gone on for another hour, but he’d amenably followed him back inside. It had taken several towels to dry them both off enough to go past the mudroom, and he’d looked glumly at the small pile, thinking he’d never done this much laundry in his life.

Dinner for both had been a hurried, eaten-standing affair, leftover Chinese takeout for him, the usual for Cutter, from the supply Teague and Laney had laughingly stuffed in his trunk at the wedding. Those two wouldn’t be long behind Hayley and Quinn. He was happy for them. Teague was a good guy, and Laney was a sweetheart.

His thoughts had been distraction enough that he’d done what he’d sworn not to do. He’d pulled his laptop over and done a search on Sloan Burke. Her website had been the first listing, but before he’d even gotten that far, the photo in the upper-right corner of the results page had snagged him. It was the same photo Rafe had shown him, from the hearing on Capitol Hill. He had clicked on it, enlarged it. And felt his stomach knot again at how weary she looked. But in this larger version he could also see the set of her delicate jaw, the determination in her posture, every line of her declaring she wasn’t going to give up, ever.

And she hadn’t. The website on his screen now was proof of that. Accountability Counts was an active site, with a forum he couldn’t read because he wasn’t registered, but he could still see many threads with different posters. He wondered how many crackpots it attracted. Some, he guessed, just by its nature and the nature of the online world, too often a hiding place for predators and vicious cowards who would never have the nerve to confront anyone in real life.

But the list of successes on the front page was impressive. Red tape sliced through, reputations defended and restored, grieving friends and family given solace. In a way, he thought, she was running a very specialized sort of Foxworth operation.

For a moment he thought about what Rafe had said. Quinn would take you on here in an instant if you wanted...

Tempting, he thought. He’d always thought he would stay a cop forever. But Foxworth, free of the restraints he had to deal with, able to do the right thing even if it wasn’t a police matter, willing to help people like the Days with something this simple just as much as they were willing to help Laney save her kidnapped friend, was indeed very tempting.

In his musing, he did the next thing he’d sworn he wouldn’t do. He clicked on the About link and found himself reading the story of the beginnings of Accountability Counts. The story matched what Rafe had told him except that CPO Jason Burke, navy SEAL, came off as even more heroic.

As did Sloan. Just how long it had taken, how much controversy there had been and how far some people had gone to hide the true circumstances of the incident spoke of her courage in staying the course. Through it all Jason Burke’s widow had been steadfast, persistent and determined to find the truth.

And the photographs were like another punch in the gut.

A young man, tall, strong, geared up, armed and ready, with eyes that looked as if they were seeing far beyond whatever was currently in their view. He looked like the kind of man who would charge into hell to save a friend or, as he had, someone he owed. A man with vision, who saw the big picture but could focus on the here and now and get the job done.

But it was the wedding picture that really hit him. That same man gazing upon the woman beside him as if he’d found all the treasure of the world. And that woman, dressed in a simple flowing white dress, looking up at him as if she’d been waiting for this moment—and him—all her days.

And he knew with utter certainty that had he lived, Mr. and Mrs. Jason Burke would have been together for life.

And that, he thought, is the end of that.

He closed the browser, powered down the laptop and put it on the table beside him. He went about the business of getting ready for bed mechanically, trying not to think. Let the dog out, waited for him to come back, all the while looking at the night sky, clearing now from the earlier rain. Dried the dog’s feet, added another towel to the pile. Closed and locked the door. Brushed his teeth. Pulled off his clothes and again added to the laundry pile. Ignored the chill of the sheets as he got into bed.

And lay there for a very long time, staring into the dark.

Finally, he felt a bounce as Cutter jumped up on the bed. He was startled since the dog had never done it before. Not that he minded, really. Not as if he were displacing anyone, except maybe a sad memory.

A furry head came to rest on his shoulder, and he heard a quiet doggy sigh. It made him smile, and he lifted his other hand to stroke the dog’s head. It felt oddly soothing, and when he finally slept, the dreams he’d been fearing didn’t come.

Chapter 7

Sloan debated with herself for nearly an hour, all the time wondering when she had lost her usually sharp decision-making skills. She’d picked up and put down her phone at least three times, and the repeated action made her feel beyond foolish.

It wasn’t that she didn’t have reason to make the call; obviously she did. There was only one reason she hadn’t already done it, and she didn’t understand it. Yes, Brett Dunbar was six feet plus of very attractive male, but she’d run into that before—there was no shortage of those in the world. But too many of them were a lot smaller—and uglier—on the inside.

None of which mattered, she told herself firmly. This was a business call, in essence. It wasn’t as if she were going to harass or constantly bother him. She just needed the name of the person he’d talked to.

She nearly laughed aloud at herself. She had called the chief of naval operations with less vacillation. She had called the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, for God’s sake. And the White House. Yet she was worried about calling one sheriff’s detective in a small county almost as far from DC as you could get short of Alaska or Hawaii?

She picked up the phone and hit the call button before she could change her mind again. Maybe she’d get his voice mail. That would be easier, wouldn’t it? It would—

“Dunbar.”

His voice was as deep and resonant as she remembered, but that was no excuse for the little leap her pulse took.

“Hello, Detective,” she said after a too-long silence, realizing belatedly she should have decided how to address him before she had called. “This is Sloan Burke. I hope you don’t mind that I used this number.”

“That’s fine, Mrs. Burke. What can I do for you?”

She supposed she had the formal tone coming after using his job title instead of his name. But then it hit her that he had said “Mrs.,” not “Ms.” as he had before. She frowned. She knew it had never come up in their conversations. But he was a cop. Maybe he checked on people as a matter of routine. It wasn’t as if it were a secret; her story was out there for anyone to find. It was part of the price she’d paid. Unlike whatever nightmare put those shadows in Brett’s eyes, hers were out there in public.

She pulled herself together. Distraction wasn’t her norm, and it was starting to irritate her. “I wondered if I could have the name of the person you spoke to at the county,” she said. “My aunt’s application now seems to be among the missing.”

There was a pause. Too long. That wasn’t good—she’d learned that the hard way. Was it that hard for him to decide if he could trust her with a simple name? What was it about people in authority? Why did they always have to—?

“Sorry. I was driving. Missing?”

She was glad he couldn’t see her, because she felt her cheeks heat. She’d made an assumption about his silence, that he was like all the others who had tried to fend her off, when in fact he’d merely been pulling over to talk safely.

“It’s been a few days, so I thought I could at least find out where it was in the process. But I got the same person who told me it was frozen before. She said there was no application at all in my aunt’s name.”

“What? That’s crazy. Rick had it in his hand when he called me back.”

“That’s your contact?”

“Yes. Rick Alvarado.”

“You’re sure he had it? He wouldn’t...just say he did to cover losing it?”

“No. He wouldn’t lie to me.”

“Would Mr. Alvarado—or you—mind if I called him?”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t. And why would I?”

“He’s your contact.”

“This isn’t chain of command, Mrs. Burke. Feel free.”

Was there an edge in his voice? And there it was again, that Mrs. Burke. And did that chain-of-command comment mean he truly had looked her up, knew she’d fought her way up that chain more than once? She sighed inwardly in exasperation. She hadn’t spent this kind of time trying to guess at what someone wasn’t saying since she’d had to deal with brass who wanted to help her but couldn’t without damaging themselves.

“Been doing some research?” she asked.

“The joys of the internet,” was all he said, but he sounded a bit embarrassed. “I’ll call him again if you want,” he said, quickly dodging any further questions on that subject.

“It’s not your problem. You’ve already done enough.” Purposely she added, “Thank you, Brett.”

“You’re welcome, Mrs. Burke,” he said, and was gone, almost abruptly.

Mrs. Burke. Even when she’d called him Brett.

Obviously he had done that research. So he had to know her husband was dead. And how. And what had happened after. For some people, that put her in the too-uncomfortable-to-talk-to category. It seemed Brett Dunbar might be one of those.

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.

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