Once is happenstance.
Twice is coincidence.
And three times is enemy action.
Chapter 13
“What about me?” Sloan asked. “I can’t just sit on the sidelines while you guys do all the work.”
The two men exchanged glances. If either of them told her to just go home and wait, she wasn’t sure what she’d do.
“Just how did you react to the little tyrant’s arrogance?” Rafe asked.
She grimaced. “Not well. I might have even called him something similar to that.”
Rafe smiled. “Then keep doing it. Keep the pressure on. Don’t let them think you’ve gone away quietly. Do what you would do if we weren’t here.”
“And?” she asked, wondering what his point was.
“And while they’re dealing with you, we’ll sneak in behind them.”
“So I’m a diversion?”
“I can understand why you’d think that beneath you,” Brett said.
She waved that off. “Everybody has a job to do in a battle.”
“Yes,” Rafe said softly.
“Can you make some noise?” Brett asked.
“Of course. My aunt and uncle have a lot of friends, and there are some others in the area who might help if I asked.”
“I have a feeling there are a lot more than you might think,” Rafe said. “And Foxworth can probably rally a few. What do you have in mind?”
“Protesters in front of the offices. Speakers at public meetings—I’ll have to check the schedule. Make every hearing about this, even if it’s not on the agenda. Every speech by a county official, the higher, the better. Every public appearance, even if it’s only a ribbon cutting for a supermarket. Get the media’s attention. Get it out there beyond local. Maybe even get the Americans with Disabilities Act invoked. That would take it national.”
Brett looked as if he was stifling a grin. “Wow. I don’t envy them.”
“You have to make them listen. Especially when they’ve forgotten who they work for.”
* * *
Brett walked her to the door of the house despite the suddenly heavier rain, because it seemed like the thing to do.
“Where do you live when you’re not staying here?” he asked. He hadn’t meant to. He’d intended to stay strictly away from prying questions. Details about her personal life were none of his business.
And yet here he was, asking anyway.
“I gave up my apartment,” she said. “Uncle Chuck’s cardiac rehab is going to take a long time, and I didn’t want Aunt Connie to end up sick, as well. So I’m here for the duration.”
“That’s good of you.” He meant it. Sloan was good people. Maybe he was just off balance because he hadn’t run into any of those in a while. Yeah, that was it.
“I told you,” she said as they hurried up the walk, “they’re my family.”
He didn’t point out what he knew too well from his job, that too often family were the last ones to truly help in a crisis.
“Did you give up a job, too?” he asked as they went up the steps onto the covered porch.
“Accountability Counts is my job these days. Fortunately, my parents had insurance, my uncle invested it wisely, and along with Jason planning ahead, I’m okay, so I can afford it.”
He looked around as Sloan isolated her house key on the ring and put it in the lock. From up here they had a sliver of view of the bay below, framed by tall evergreens. He’d hate to leave this spot, too. Her uncle must feel awful about it. He’d only ever thought of his running regimen as necessary for his work, but maybe it was time to start thinking about it as health insurance, too.
Sloan’s aunt opened the door before Sloan even turned the key, clearly stirred up.
“Aunt Connie, what is it?” Sloan asked.
“Come in, come in,” the older woman said, gesturing to them both. “It’s pouring out there.”
Brett was used to assessing his surroundings quickly. It was second nature, done so automatically he didn’t even think about it. The inside of this home was as tidy and well kept as the outside. The furnishings were a bit flowery and ornate for his taste but nicely arranged and looked comfortable. There were photographs here and there, some he recognized of Connie and a man he assumed was her ailing husband in younger days and one collage in particular that was a progression of Sloan growing up that made him smile inwardly. Whatever losing her parents had done to her, she had blossomed under the loving care of these people, going from a scared-looking child to a confident, glowing teen to the woman she was now.
The woman who had his mind racing full tilt in directions he’d walled off long ago.
“What is it?” Sloan asked again. “Is Uncle Chuck all right?”
“Oh, yes, he’s fine. Well, he’s getting a touch of cabin fever, I’m afraid. He thought he saw someone out in back a bit ago. I looked, but there was no one there.”
“You’re sure?” Brett asked with reflexive concern.
“Oh, yes. I think he’s just grouchy that the broadcast of his basketball game was delayed by the governor’s speech. I swear, that man never stops campaigning.” That, Brett thought, explained the faint sounds coming from the back of the house. A television. “No, I got a phone call.”
“From who?”
“She didn’t say, wouldn’t say, rather, but I’m certain it was that poor woman from the county office.”
Brett had been staring, a bit unwillingly, at the photo that hung on the wall above the sofa. It was a wedding picture. The wedding picture, the same one he’d seen on the website. It hit him even harder here, in this setting and full-size. How did she do it? he wondered. How did she face that every day? He had stashed away every reminder, unable to even look at them. Sloan was obviously made of sterner stuff.
Or maybe it was that she still loved him, that man in the photograph. It was certainly believable given the way she was looking at him in that frozen image. And everything he’d found out about the man indicated he was worthy of such devotion.
He was glad when her aunt gestured to him to sit on the sofa, which put his back to the image. She sat in a big chair next to a basket that appeared to hold several items of clothing. Mending? he wondered. Did anybody do that anymore? Sloan stayed with her aunt, sitting on the arm of the big chair.
Better than sitting next to you.
He dragged his focus back to the conversation.
“She called you? On a Saturday?” he asked.
“That’s why it was so odd.”
“What did she say?” Sloan asked.
“She said I should know something about the first denial, the one before this wetland silliness. That it came on a personal direct order of the county administrator.”
“Mead? How did she know that?” Brett asked.
“She said she overheard a conversation. I assume it involved that vile little man she works for, poor thing. I think she appreciated what we did, and that’s why she called.”
“You’re the one who chewed him out like he’d thrown a spitball in your classroom,” Sloan said, hugging the woman.
“Well, he deserved it,” Connie said with a sniff of disdain. “She said she couldn’t say any more, or she’d get in real trouble.”
Brett’s mind was racing. Why on earth would someone like the county administrator bother with something on this level? He’d met Harcourt Mead once, and he was far too consumed with his own importance. Why would he care about keeping an elderly couple, one of them ill, from building an accessible home on their own property?
He didn’t know. What he did know was that his gut was still screaming at him, his every instinct telling him this went much deeper than it appeared.
Or much higher.
Sloan looked at him then. �
�This county guy, is he essentially your boss’s boss?”
“Not really. The sheriff answers directly to the people. But the county admin’s got a lot of pull with him.”
“Then you can’t go digging in that pile,” she said.
“I could,” he said. “And I would. But I’m not sure it would be wise at this point. Whatever’s going on, it might be best if they don’t know I’m involved in this. As far as your caller’s boss knows, I was only looking for a friend.”
“A friend?” Connie asked.
“He has a friend who worked there.”
Connie frowned. “The woman said something else, that that man, Mead, got someone there fired. That’s why she was afraid to say any more. She’s afraid she’d lose her job, too.”
Sloan looked at him. “Do you think it’s connected?”
“At this point, I don’t know anything,” Brett said. About anything.
He shook off the inner voice and was almost grateful when a burly man with a fringe of gray hair appeared in the doorway. An oxygen line ran up to a cannula beneath his nose from the little tank he was towing behind him on a small dolly.
Brett stood up instinctively. He noticed Connie start to rise, but Sloan put a hand on her shoulder and started to get up herself. Saving them both the effort, he introduced himself.
“Brett Dunbar, Mr. Day,” he said, crossing to hold his hand out to the older man. He took it, but it didn’t stop him from looking Brett up and down. His grip was strong enough, and his eyes were sharp and alert.
“You’re that sheriff.”
“I work for the sheriff, yes,” he said, deciding now was not the time to explain the fine points of differentiation between the police, sheriff and deputies. Some guys got snarky about it, but he’d given up worrying about it long ago. It didn’t matter to most people. Especially when they were in a situation requiring law enforcement.
“The one Sloan likes,” her uncle added.
It wasn’t really a question, which was a good thing because he was having trouble finding breath to speak after that.
“Uncle Chuck,” Sloan exclaimed, sounding embarrassed. “I just said he was nice.”
The older man turned his head to look at his niece. “You mean you don’t like him?”
“I... Of course I do. He’s...nice,” she said again, this time sounding as if she knew exactly how awkward that had come out.
He should rescue her, Brett thought. Would have by now if he hadn’t wanted to hear what she’d say. So when her uncle shifted his gaze back to him, he smiled.
“For a cop,” he said, “that’s high praise.”
“Hmm.”
Brett had the feeling he was being assessed thoroughly and rather astutely. He’d never asked what her uncle had done before he’d had his heart attack. Perhaps he should have. And belatedly he realized he’d seen the man before. Not in person, and not as gray, but he’d been in several of the pictures and videos he’d seen of Sloan’s appearances on Capitol Hill. So he’d been there for her, he thought, glad.
“I may be an old man,” Chuck Day said, “but I still look out for her.”
“Good,” Brett said, hoping his expression was even. It was clearly a warning, and he tried not to think of what might have made the man think it was necessary.
Tried not to think about what would make it necessary for real.
He heard the change in sound from the back of the house; the game was back on.
“I should leave you to the rest of your Saturday,” he said, since he was up on his feet anyway. “And I have a dog waiting in the car.”
“That dog,” her aunt said, rising now, “is an...interesting animal.”
“Interesting isn’t the half of it,” Brett said drily.
Almost as interesting as his life had become. And that made him think about an old Chinese curse about living in interesting times. He’d considered it merely amusing before.
He wasn’t amused anymore.
Chapter 14
Brett noticed the rain had eased up slightly as Sloan walked with him to the front door. Her aunt and uncle had headed for the back of the house and the game. Arm in arm. Leaning on each other. It moved him, that simple sight, in ways he didn’t care to think about just now.
“Sorry about that,” Sloan said. “He’s a little—”
“It’s all right,” he said quickly, before things got even more embarrassing. Chuck Day had looked at him as if he were some sort of predator with designs on his niece. Whatever the man suspected, it was clear he wouldn’t take kindly to Sloan being hurt. In any way. For that matter, neither would he himself. “You want me to look around outside?”
It took her a moment, as if she’d forgotten what her uncle had thought he’d seen.
“That’s all right. Aunt Connie was probably right. He’s very tired of being housebound.”
“He was with you in DC.”
If she was surprised, she didn’t show it. “Yes, he was. Every step of the way. I doubt I would have made it without him.”
Brett doubted that, but he said nothing as she glanced toward the back of the house, her expression going soft, worried.
“He loved Jason, too. They both did. The whole thing put incredible stress on both of them.”
“You think it caused his heart attack?” He didn’t want to think about how that must feel. He had a close association, too close, with that kind of guilt, and he didn’t like to think of her living in that dark place, too.
“It didn’t help.” Sadness shadowed her eyes. “And it killed Jason’s dad. Jason was all he had left in the world. Losing him was bad enough, but losing him like that, and then the lies, the cover-up, it was too much.”
“So you kept going for him, too.”
She lowered her gaze. “I kept going,” she said quietly, “because there was no other choice I could live with.”
Those last words echoed in his head all the way back to his place. And he wondered how many people were left in the world who would do what she had done, simply because it was the only acceptable choice. Most he encountered would have, if faced with a similar situation, turned back, decided that a choice they’d thought unacceptable, the choice to not fight, was something they could live with after all.
But not Sloan Burke.
“You were a lucky man when you were here, Jason Burke,” he said to the air.
And from the backseat, a dog let out a very heavy sigh.
* * *
“I’m sorry, Brett,” Shari Shannon said. “I know he’s a friend.”
Brett grimaced. He’d put it off as long as he could, knowing Caro would panic, but he’d finally had to follow through. He’d called and told her her father hadn’t been seen or heard from since the day he’d talked to him. She’d been distraught, wanted to get on the first flight home, but he’d persuaded her to wait, told her who to call to make sure the case ended up at least in his office.
And then he’d corralled the missing-persons detective himself.
“He became a friend, yes.” He gave her a sideways look. “No lecture on how that’s against policy?”
“Friends are friends, regardless of how you meet them. And they’re not so thick on the trees that you can ignore one that happens to fall in your path through your work.”
He lifted an eyebrow at her. “Feeling philosophical this morning?”
She smiled. “Me? Never happen—you know me.”
Shari was one of the most reality-based people he’d ever met. But she knew human nature, what motivated people, which was what made her a good detective. Unexpectedly, she had married an artist, a local wood-carver, a couple of years ago. To Brett it seemed like the proverbial odd couple, but it clearly worked for them. Maybe they balanced each other out.
Speaking of philosophical, he muttered inwardly, he’d been doing way too much of this mental wandering. Time to snap out of it and pay attention.
“What can you tell me?” she asked briskly.
He told her what he knew, kept it strictly about Rick and didn’t give her any of the speculation that had been running through his mind. He told her about where he’d been last heard from, about checking the house, his car being gone and no sign of any struggle or forced entry. And by way of personal warning, he mentioned Rick’s boss’s close ties with the county administrator.
“Great,” she muttered. “Can’t imagine having to work for a friend of the governor’s pocket pet.”
Brett smothered a laugh that probably would have been more of a snicker at the image.
“The house. You didn’t go in?”
He shook his head. “It was more curiosity at that point. And no legal standing.”
“So he could be...inside.”
He knew what she was suggesting as well as she did. That Rick could be lying injured or dead inside the house. He shook his head. “I don’t think so. Most rooms were visible through the windows. And it just didn’t have that feel.”
“All right. But it needs to be checked off the list.”
He nodded. Shari was nothing if not thorough and her next question proved it.
“What did you call him about in the first place?”
He explained again but mentioned only Connie and Chuck, keeping Sloan to himself. And Cutter. There was no explanation for that dog he could give the practical-minded Shari and not get laughed out of the office.
Even so, by the time he finished, Shari was grinning at him. “You really are a big softy under all that tough exterior, aren’t you, Dunbar?”
He grimaced. “I made a phone call.” True, it had gone way beyond that now, but that didn’t need to be shared.
“Right,” Shari said archly, but quickly turned back to business. “And that was the last time you talked with him? When he called you back about that inquiry you made?”
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