Operation Power Play

by Justine Davis

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “But—”

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

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

  * * *

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

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

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

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

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

  “I was never in the running.”

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

  “Too much desk time.”

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

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

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

  Uh-oh. “Please.”

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

  “Yes.”

  “You run afoul of him?”

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

  “Problem?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  And once, it had happened in his own life.

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

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

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

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

  “Too much contrast,” he muttered.

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

  He’s an ass with connections...

  Connections.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Chapter 10

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

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

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

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

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

  “Have you two met?” Rafer asked.

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

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

  Brett nodded. “You do some impressive work.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “That’s how it was meant.”

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

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

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

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

  “What did you find out?” Rafe asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “What day?”

  “Tuesday.”

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

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

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

  * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  The dog woofed, then resumed trotting ahead.

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

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

  He’d have to—

  Damn. Cutter had turned up the hill.

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

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

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

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

  Right. Too bad Cutter had other plans.