Operation Power Play. Justine Davis
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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