Operation Power Play (13 page)

Chapter 22

T
he set of headlights steady in her rearview mirror, even that far back, made Sloan think of that gold car again. She shook her head at herself. She couldn’t even see what kind of vehicle it was, let alone the color. And again she told herself she wasn’t being followed, although the headlights remained until she turned off onto her street.

She knew exactly what was going on. She was desperate for a distraction. Any distraction, to take her mind off that impossible kiss. So she seized on silly things like the idea of being followed.

She went through her routine and got into bed to read for a while. When she began to yawn, she turned out the light and put her head on the pillow. And snapped instantly wide-awake.

At 3:00 a.m. she finally admitted it was going to be a sleepless night and got up. The house was quiet save for the quiet patter of a gentle rain on the skylight in the stairwell as she went downstairs. She paused outside the room that had once been a study but was now serving as a bedroom to save her uncle the stairs. All was quiet and, she hoped, well. She felt a tug of sadness as she remembered how awful it had been for that strong, determined man to admit that while he would be better, he would never be completely well again.

In a way, Brett Dunbar reminded her of Uncle Chuck. He, too, she was certain, would fight long and furiously before admitting defeat. If he ever would.

She didn’t realize she was touching her lips until she came out of the haze of memory. That kiss. Kisses, she corrected. She was just as much to blame. More, perhaps, since hers had come second, indicating approval of the first.

To blame?
Why those words? Hadn’t she told him not to apologize? Where had the thought of blame come from? From guilt about kissing someone other than Jason?

And why don’t you just stand here hanging on to the banister talking to yourself the rest of the night?

She shook her head sharply. Obviously how tired her eyes were didn’t factor into ability to sleep. She should fix some hot chocolate, find something mindless on television, anything but what she found herself about to do.

She did it anyway. She booted up the laptop she’d left down on the kitchen table. And did what she’d sworn she wouldn’t do: she ran a search on Brett Dunbar. She scanned the recent entries. Found no surprises. She’d already known he was good at his job, and the mentions of cases he’d broken were just further proof. She narrowed the search by date and location until she found what she was after, feeling a bit morbid even as she did it.

The stories were there even after all this time. It had been headline news in Los Angeles. She couldn’t stomach the gruesome details. What Brett had told her had been more than enough. She couldn’t imagine what it had taken for him to even say it.

She found a photo gallery and hesitated. But it was a publicly accessible site, so surely they wouldn’t print anything gruesome, she figured. And clicked.

The first picture was a pair of mug shots, two hardened-looking men, one with deep scratches on the left side of his face. Her breath caught. Had Brett’s wife done that? Had she fought them, gotten her licks in, as Jason used to say? Somehow that thought was almost as grim as an actual photo would have been.

She nearly quit but clicked once more. And a lovely, smiling woman was looking at her with warm brown eyes. She had blond hair in a short pixie style that suited her and a smile that fit everything Brett had said about her. Almost involuntarily she clicked again, needing to get away from that picture. And instead found herself looking at a shot of Brett himself, flanked by several others, coming out of the courthouse where the trial had taken place. For a moment she just stared, aching inside at the devastation so clear on his face. He looked not his lean, rangy self now but thin, hollowed out, as if he hadn’t eaten for weeks.

She shut the browser, then shut down the computer, wishing she had never looked. As bad as Jason’s death had been, she had still only had to read dry reports or hear it described. Brett had had it dropped on his doorstep, quite literally. And she didn’t care how long he’d been a cop, how much he’d had to deal with in his work—there was nothing that could prepare someone for that.

And while he wasn’t to blame for what had happened, she could see why he would feel that way. He wasn’t a man who shirked responsibility. In fact, didn’t she herself have firsthand proof he took it on when he didn’t have to?

She went to the living room, curled up in the chair nearest the stairway, where she could hear the rain on the skylight. She tugged one of Aunt Connie’s beautiful hand-knit throws around her, snuggling into the soft warmth. It was going to be one of those nights. She gave up trying not to think and just let it sweep over her. Let the thoughts, the images, careen around in her mind, hoping they would batter themselves to pieces and let her rest.

It didn’t happen until the memory of Brett Dunbar’s arms around her enveloped her. At that moment, with that memory of warmth and safety, she finally slept.

* * *

Brett got the text from Rafe as he was leaving Rick’s house. He’d snagged a lift from the area graveyard-shift deputy back to the station. Since he’d already checked with the office to be sure nothing so critical he needed to come back from his personal time had cropped up, he’d picked up his car without even going inside.

Rick had been in a better place when he’d arrived. He’d talked to Caro, calmed her, in fact was heading east to see her. He was going to drive and work out what he would do next on the way. He had savings to hold them for a little while, and Brett had assured him he would be digging into the false charges and that it was probably best that he be away from it all for a while.

It was early yet, probably the reason for the text instead of a call, but Rafe was obviously up and functioning. And since Ty, the computer genius, was in Saint Louis, he’d probably been at it awhile already. Maybe something had turned up.

He stopped for Cutter, who had acted a bit miffed when they’d had to forego the tennis ball session this morning so he could catch that ride. The dog seemed to have forgiven him and greeted him at the door with wagging tail.

“Want to go see your buddy Rafe?” he asked.

Cutter barked, that same odd combination of long and short he’d heard before when the animal had greeted his friend.

It was curious enough that he asked about it when he arrived. Rafe smiled crookedly at the dog, who was dancing around him in evident happiness.

“He’s got a bark for everyone.”

“A different bark?”

Rafe nodded. “Well, Teague and Liam both had the same for a while until Teague met Laney. Now his is different. Or maybe it’s hers. Dog doesn’t explain.”

Brett chuckled. “No, he doesn’t.”

“Funny thing is, apparently he used the same bark for Quinn as he did for Hayley right from the beginning. Like he knew they were going to end up together.”

“Crazy. But yours was always different.”

He nodded, then gave the dog a wry look. “And I try to ignore that if you put it into Morse code, that short-long-short he’s doing is an
R
.”

Brett’s gaze snapped to the other man’s face. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope. Wish I was.”

Brett didn’t know this man that well, but what he knew of him made this bit of fancy unexpected. Then again, hadn’t he been witnessing this dog’s quirks for days now, up close and personal? Why should this surprise him?

“Drew Kiley had some interesting things to say,” Rafe said, back to business as they went up to the meeting room.

“Oh?”

“He said the original plan on those houses up the hill from the Days’ was to guarantee new buyers nothing would ever be built to impinge on their view. But then Sloan’s uncle wouldn’t sell, so they couldn’t. They could only say it was privately held and not built on for over a hundred years.”

“Obviously that was enough for some people.”

Rafe nodded. “Drew also said back at the time, there were rumors that the developer cut some corners getting approval for the project.”

“What kind of corners?”

“He didn’t know anything specific, just that there was a lot of talk about how it went through really fast, especially compared to others trying to get similar projects approved. It may be nothing.”

“But it’s another blip on the radar,” Brett said.

“And that radar screen’s getting pretty crowded,” Rafe said as he crossed to the table where the laptop was already open. “And Ty found something interesting.”

“Is he always working?” Brett asked as they sat down.

“I don’t think it’s work to him. He lives for that stuff.”

And indeed, when his image popped up on the monitor, he seemed excited. “Hey, guys. Got something. Somethings, actually.”

“Go,” Rafe said without preamble.

“I was poking around some more on our Mr. Franklin. Found something interesting. A regular monthly payment automatically transferred from his bank account to another in the name of some business. Same amount every time. Five hundred dollars.”

“And?”

“I thought maybe it was a loan payment or something and that knowing who he owed might be useful.”

“Good thinking,” Brett said.

“Thanks. But one thing led to another and another, and turns out it’s rent. The company he’s paying owns the house he’s living in.”

“Five hundred dollars? Seems a bit low.”

“Wait until you see this.” Ty hit a couple of keys and an image popped up on the screen. It was of a large multigabled waterfront home. Brett recognized the area as only a couple of miles from the county offices.

“Are you saying he’s paying five hundred dollars a month for that?” he asked, astonished.

“If you can get something like that for five hundred bucks, I’m moving out there,” Ty said.

“That should be pushing three, maybe four grand,” Brett said. He frowned. “Can you show me that location on a map?”

“You got it.” An instant later the image was on the screen.

“That’s what I thought,” he said. “Same neighborhood as Mead. He lives out on that point. No way somebody at Franklin’s salary should be able to afford that.”

“Can you dig into that company, Ty?” Rafe asked. “I’d like to know who’s behind renting this guy that house for five hundred dollars.”

“Give me a few minutes,” Ty said, already typing again. The young man didn’t say anything more, just reached out and shut off the cam without ever looking away from his other screen.

“He does get into it, doesn’t he?” Brett said.

“That’s why we’re glad he’s on our side.”

“And I’m glad you’re on the right side,” Brett said, his tone wry.

Rafe shifted to look at him levelly. “If you need to claim no knowledge, we can take you out of the loop officially. Then we’re just a source.”

Brett smiled but shook his head. “Thanks, but I’m already hip deep. And I can’t say I don’t admire your efficiency.”

“Fewer hoops.”

“Indeed.” Sometimes the system was way too unwieldy to really help the people it was supposed to.

He took advantage of a sun break to take Cutter out for a fetch session. The dog’s energy seemed boundless, and his gymnastics as he bent double to catch several throws in midair made Brett wince. You were getting old when a dog could make you flinch just watching him.

As he threw and threw and threw, he pondered the situation. He wasn’t sure where this anomaly would lead, but it was an odd blip involving the man who had both fired Rick and stymied Sloan’s aunt and uncle. And if there was anything untoward in this arrangement, Ty would probably find it.

Cutter danced in front of him as he picked up the returned ball yet again. The dog had more energy than usual today, probably because he’d missed the morning run to go pick up the car.

And had missed the daily argument with himself about what route to take. Whether to avoid going by Sloan’s or put himself in temptation’s way.

Temptation.

He threw the ball with a new ferocity this time, reacting to the heat that blasted through him at the thought of last night. If he’d done anything stupider in recent memory than kissing Sloan Burke, he couldn’t think of it. He’d paid the price for it all night long, tossing, turning and finally giving up on sleep around three. It had taken all his discipline to not go poke around the
Accountability Counts
website just to see her face. Then he told himself he should do just that and take another good long look at that wedding picture.

When Rafe came out and signaled him to come back, he was thankful for the interruption to his thoughts more than to the constant throwing. Ty was already up on screen when he came in.

“You’ll want to hear this,” Rafe said.

Brett turned to look at the young computer whiz. “What?”

“You’re okay with this?” Ty asked.

It took him a moment to realize what he meant. And Brett didn’t want to ask how he’d gone about finding whatever he was about to tell him.

“This whole thing started sideways. Why stop now?” he said.

Ty grinned. “I knew I liked you. For a cop, I mean.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Brett said, but made sure Ty saw he was smiling.

“Okay, so this company is just a shell, held by another shell, then a trust, then another shell, and on and on. Here’s the list.” A long column of names rolled by on half the screen. “I kept digging and went through some twists and turns and finally found one of the founding fathers of the whole labyrinth. This guy.”

A photo popped up. Brett blinked, startled. Rafe leaned back in his chair.

“Well, well,” Brett muttered, staring at the picture of Harcourt Mead.

Chapter 23

B
rett wasn’t at all sure what, if anything, this was going to accomplish. But he was here anyway, loitering just out of sight on the side of the Administrative Services Building across the street from the courthouse. He knew Mead was here. He’d seen the man’s car—a sleek luxury sedan a decade newer than his own county vehicle—parked in the prime allocated spot next to his private entrance to the county offices, an addition he had insisted upon some time ago. Amazing how being the governor’s frat brother got you things like that.

He also knew the guy would be leaving in the next twenty or thirty minutes. He knew this because Sloan, with some supporters in tow, was already on her way to the new waterfront boardwalk project Mead had spearheaded. The first section was to open in about an hour, and Mead wasn’t going to miss the chance to trumpet his accomplishment. If the man saw anything silly about setting up a ribbon-cutting ceremony for a boardwalk that as of now was about fifty feet long, he didn’t let it stop him.

His phone chirped an incoming text. Sloan, he thought, pulling it out. When he saw her name, he felt that odd tightness in his chest. And no amount of telling himself it was ridiculous to react like that, that he’d known she was going to contact him, made any difference.

Her message was short.

We’re in place. Being obvious.

He texted back quickly.

Me too. Not being obvious.

She sent him back a smiley face that, ridiculously, made him smile.

Ridiculous was pretty much where he was living right now.

He toggled the phone screen to stay on, not wanting to have to swipe it in this situation. His position behind a large SUV put him out of the line of sight of the office and private door, but he could watch it easily. As long as nobody came out to get the big vehicle, he’d be okay. He didn’t know who owned it, but it had a county parking sticker in the window, so he thought he could safely guess it would be there for the day, or at least until lunchtime.

He had nothing to do but stand there and wait. And try not to think about how on earth he’d ended up in this crazy place in his head. And especially try not to think about the other night and what kissing her—and her kissing him—had done to his equilibrium. Every warning his brain could muster went off every time he did think of it, and it got kind of noisy. And distracting. Sloan Burke was one very distracting woman. It was a good thing they’d worked this out on the phone last night, after she’d seen the notice that Mead was going to appear. If they’d met in person, who knew what would—?

The door opened. It was an upstairs office, and judging by the location, it probably had a view of the inlet just a few blocks away. He wondered if it had always been the admin’s office or if Mead had demanded that, too.

Three men stepped out, deep in conversation. Or at least, two of them were—the smallest of the three seemed a step behind. The door closed behind them with an audible thump. The second man was tall, broad shouldered, with brush-cut blond hair, and he looked familiar in the way of someone he might have seen in passing before. He was wearing a suit, black like his own, but Brett guessed that one would cost about a month of his salary. The man was gesturing at Mead adamantly, not quite tapping his chest with a pointed finger, but almost.

And Mead was taking it, Brett noted with interest.

The third man hung back a little, watching the two in front of him with nervous concern. A name suddenly clicked into place. He’d not met the man, but his image was beside his name on the county roster. Rick’s boss. The charming Al Franklin.

Brett realized he was still holding his phone, and he was about to slip it back into his pocket when it occurred to him to snap a photo. It wouldn’t be great from here, but it might be enough to place the big guy. And, should it ever be necessary, prove they’d all been together. He had no reason to think this unknown man had anything to do with anything, but Mead was knee-deep in something, and better too much than not enough.

He took the shot, then a second at the last possible moment he could manage, when they were closer. He put the phone away, took the papers he’d stuffed into his inside pocket out and started walking toward the building on a course that would cross their path before they got to the parking area. His one concern, that Franklin might recognize his voice from the phone call he’d made, eased when the man made a hasty departure, as if he was glad to be away from the other two, and darted over toward the main parking lot. No special parking dispensation for him, apparently.

The big guy must explain the even more expensive coupe parked next to Mead’s car, Brett thought as he picked up the pace. He tried to look intent on the papers in his hand while his peripheral vision tracked the pair as they reached the bottom of the stairs. He could see Mead’s face now, and
unhappy
was a mild word for his expression. The man was seriously peeved.

“...put in my time—I want out of this backwater,” he was saying vehemently. “He made certain promises. I’ve held up my end. He needs to hold up his.”

If the big man answered, Brett couldn’t hear him. He kept going. And sensed the moment Mead spotted him. He didn’t look up but waited, still walking toward the pair, grimacing as if at the papers he held.

“Detective Dunbar!”

Mead’s voice boomed out, and Brett let his head snap up as if he’d been startled. “Mr. Mead,” he said, putting as much respect as he could manage to feign into his voice and demeanor. “Sorry, I was focused on paperwork,” he said, as if he needed an excuse for not having noticed the man’s presence.

“Over here?” Mead asked as he reached them.

Brett didn’t think there was anything more than curiosity behind the question—he didn’t sound at all suspicious—so he gave a slightly exaggerated grimace and waved the papers. “Beneficiary. Ex-wife problem.”

He’d learned from Foxworth that Mead had a couple of those problems himself, and the comment made the man smile ruefully.

“Anything I can help with?” Mead’s tone was pure politician now, making offers he knew he likely wouldn’t be called on to fulfill.

“Oh, no, sir. You’re way too busy for this kind of thing. But thank you.” Brett didn’t think he’d mistaken the look of satisfaction that flashed in the man’s eyes. “And in fact, I was going to try to catch you while I was over here.”

“You were?”

“I did a little research on your problem. That woman who’s publicly harassing you, I mean.”

“Oh?” Mead glanced at the second man, who had neither introduced himself nor suggested Mead do so. Another note on that particular page, Brett thought. “Dunbar here helped me out with some woman who’s making a severe nuisance of herself over some silly zoning situation.”

Still the other man said nothing. He was nearly Brett’s own height but bulkier, Brett cataloged even as he wondered why he was bothering. But the thoroughness was second nature, and more than once it had proved useful. He had this guy in the bully category based on body language alone.

That suit had been custom-tailored, he would bet. Maybe the guy could just afford it, as he could afford that car. Or maybe there were other reasons he needed a custom-fit suit. Concealing a weapon came to mind. And something about the man’s demeanor made that thought not as far-fetched as it should have been.

“I talked to her, told her to back off, but I think she’s going to show up this afternoon.”

“Show up?”

“At your ceremony. I thought you should know.”

Mead swore under his breath.

“I know,” Brett said, trying for empathy in his tone. “You worked so hard to get that project through, and now she’s going to try to spoil the big day.”

The second man was looking more bored with every passing second. Mead was eyeing Brett, at first frowning at his news but then appearing thoughtful.

“Why don’t you—”

He stopped as a buzzing sound issued from his breast pocket. Mead reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a phone. Brett couldn’t hear the caller, but the administrator’s expression and body language weren’t hard to interpret. The man wasn’t happy.

His own phone chirped again. He took it out for a quick glance.

Think it wkd. Asst just made a call. Lking at us.

“Exes,” he muttered as cover as he quickly tapped out an answer.

Did. I’m a go.

Mead ordered the hapless Perkins to get the damned situation under control, then shoved the phone with some energy back into his pocket.

“I thought I was rid of that bitch,” he snapped. Then he looked at Brett. “Thank you, Detective. You were absolutely right. She and her little band of miscreants are already there, causing trouble.”

Brett shook his head as if in disgust. “Why doesn’t she just give up?” he said, thinking all the while that if there was anyone less likely to give up than Sloan, he didn’t know them.

The blond was getting impatient, Brett could sense. But he didn’t shift his gaze, because Mead was looking at him more pensively now. Assessingly. For a moment Brett was on the edge of speaking, but his instincts told him to wait. Better if the idea came from Mead. His hunch paid off a moment later.

“You said you talked to her,” Mead began.

“Perhaps I wasn’t...forceful enough to make it permanent.” His tone was purposely suggestive, and he saw Mead pick up on it.

“Perhaps,” the man agreed. “It might take more.”

“I’m on my own time at the moment.” He poured on a little more oily eagerness and faux respect. “But I’d be happy to try again if you want, sir. I could push harder this time.”

Mead pretended to consider it, but Brett saw in his eyes that he’d already decided. “I’d appreciate that, Detective. Would you like to ride down there with me now?”

Brett pretended to consider in turn, then shook his head. He wasn’t sure he could tolerate being closed up in a car with this guy anyway.

“Let me go first, see if I can get her and her gang cleared out before you even arrive. Don’t want you and protest signs in the same photograph plastered around.”

“I like the way you think, Detective,” Mead said with an easy, practiced smile that belied his earlier anger. “You get this Sloan Burke off my back, and we’ll have to have a talk about your future.”

Brett didn’t miss the implied promise. Wondered what kind of future there would be for the man who latched on to these coattails. He wondered, but only with the tiny part of his mind that wasn’t occupied with the other knowledge that had just blasted through him.

The tall silent man had reacted, unmistakably and strongly, the moment Mead had said her name. He knew who Sloan was. And had known before she had ever crashed onto Mead’s radar.

And it sent a chill through Brett. He didn’t know why, as she had said herself her identity and her past were no secret. But something about the way this man’s eyes had gone cold, and about the size of his reaction, screamed a warning. Because for that instant, before he masked the response, Brett knew exactly what he was looking at.

A predator.

One who had just spotted potential prey.