Operation Power Play. Justine Davis
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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.