Operation Power Play. Justine Davis
him to be doing this. The situation with the Day permit had been resolved, if not completely explained. But it would go through now, and probably quickly. They’d be in a hurry to make up for the screwup.
So there was no reason for him to see or even talk to Sloan Burke again. Unless it was on some rainy day when his run took him past her aunt’s home. Which, if things went through, wouldn’t be her aunt’s house much longer.
It didn’t matter. He was going to be running a different route anyway, as soon as he laid one out. It was a nonissue.
He looked back at the website on his screen. If they’d had any idea who they were dealing with, that application probably would have been done in a day, he thought.
Accountability Counts.
Catchy. To the point. Effective.
Cutter stirred at his feet, but only to change position and go back to sleep. Brett had thrown the ball—the glow-in-the-dark one, since it was dark by the time he got home this time of year—for a good hour and had at last surrendered to arm twinges and hunger. The dog had appeared barely winded and probably could have gone on for another hour, but he’d amenably followed him back inside. It had taken several towels to dry them both off enough to go past the mudroom, and he’d looked glumly at the small pile, thinking he’d never done this much laundry in his life.
Dinner for both had been a hurried, eaten-standing affair, leftover Chinese takeout for him, the usual for Cutter, from the supply Teague and Laney had laughingly stuffed in his trunk at the wedding. Those two wouldn’t be long behind Hayley and Quinn. He was happy for them. Teague was a good guy, and Laney was a sweetheart.
His thoughts had been distraction enough that he’d done what he’d sworn not to do. He’d pulled his laptop over and done a search on Sloan Burke. Her website had been the first listing, but before he’d even gotten that far, the photo in the upper-right corner of the results page had snagged him. It was the same photo Rafe had shown him, from the hearing on Capitol Hill. He had clicked on it, enlarged it. And felt his stomach knot again at how weary she looked. But in this larger version he could also see the set of her delicate jaw, the determination in her posture, every line of her declaring she wasn’t going to give up, ever.
And she hadn’t. The website on his screen now was proof of that. Accountability Counts was an active site, with a forum he couldn’t read because he wasn’t registered, but he could still see many threads with different posters. He wondered how many crackpots it attracted. Some, he guessed, just by its nature and the nature of the online world, too often a hiding place for predators and vicious cowards who would never have the nerve to confront anyone in real life.
But the list of successes on the front page was impressive. Red tape sliced through, reputations defended and restored, grieving friends and family given solace. In a way, he thought, she was running a very specialized sort of Foxworth operation.
For a moment he thought about what Rafe had said. Quinn would take you on here in an instant if you wanted...
Tempting, he thought. He’d always thought he would stay a cop forever. But Foxworth, free of the restraints he had to deal with, able to do the right thing even if it wasn’t a police matter, willing to help people like the Days with something this simple just as much as they were willing to help Laney save her kidnapped friend, was indeed very tempting.
In his musing, he did the next thing he’d sworn he wouldn’t do. He clicked on the About link and found himself reading the story of the beginnings of Accountability Counts. The story matched what Rafe had told him except that CPO Jason Burke, navy SEAL, came off as even more heroic.
As did Sloan. Just how long it had taken, how much controversy there had been and how far some people had gone to hide the true circumstances of the incident spoke of her courage in staying the course. Through it all Jason Burke’s widow had been steadfast, persistent and determined to find the truth.
And the photographs were like another punch in the gut.
A young man, tall, strong, geared up, armed and ready, with eyes that looked as if they were seeing far beyond whatever was currently in their view. He looked like the kind of man who would charge into hell to save a friend or, as he had, someone he owed. A man with vision, who saw the big picture but could focus on the here and now and get the job done.
But it was the wedding picture that really hit him. That same man gazing upon the woman beside him as if he’d found all the treasure of the world. And that woman, dressed in a simple flowing white dress, looking up at him as if she’d been waiting for this moment—and him—all her days.
And he knew with utter certainty that had he lived, Mr. and Mrs. Jason Burke would have been together for life.
And that, he thought, is the end of that.
He closed the browser, powered down the laptop and put it on the table beside him. He went about the business of getting ready for bed mechanically, trying not to think. Let the dog out, waited for him to come back, all the while looking at the night sky, clearing now from the earlier rain. Dried the dog’s feet, added another towel to the pile. Closed and locked the door. Brushed his teeth. Pulled off his clothes and again added to the laundry pile. Ignored the chill of the sheets as he got into bed.
And lay there for a very long time, staring into the dark.
Finally, he felt a bounce as Cutter jumped up on the bed. He was startled since the dog had never done it before. Not that he minded, really. Not as if he were displacing anyone, except maybe a sad memory.
A furry head came to rest on his shoulder, and he heard a quiet doggy sigh. It made him smile, and he lifted his other hand to stroke the dog’s head. It felt oddly soothing, and when he finally slept, the dreams he’d been fearing didn’t come.
Sloan debated with herself for nearly an hour, all the time wondering when she had lost her usually sharp decision-making skills. She’d picked up and put down her phone at least three times, and the repeated action made her feel beyond foolish.
It wasn’t that she didn’t have reason to make the call; obviously she did. There was only one reason she hadn’t already done it, and she didn’t understand it. Yes, Brett Dunbar was six feet plus of very attractive male, but she’d run into that before—there was no shortage of those in the world. But too many of them were a lot smaller—and uglier—on the inside.
None of which mattered, she told herself firmly. This was a business call, in essence. It wasn’t as if she were going to harass or constantly bother him. She just needed the name of the person he’d talked to.
She nearly laughed aloud at herself. She had called the chief of naval operations with less vacillation. She had called the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, for God’s sake. And the White House. Yet she was worried about calling one sheriff’s detective in a small county almost as far from DC as you could get short of Alaska or Hawaii?
She picked up the phone and hit the call button before she could change her mind again. Maybe she’d get his voice mail. That would be easier, wouldn’t it? It would—
“Dunbar.”
His voice was as deep and resonant as she remembered, but that was no excuse for the little leap her pulse took.
“Hello, Detective,” she said after a too-long silence, realizing belatedly she should have decided how to address him before she had called. “This is Sloan Burke. I hope you don’t mind that I used this number.”
“That’s fine, Mrs. Burke. What can I do for you?”
She supposed she had the formal tone coming after using his job title instead of his name. But then it hit her that he had said “Mrs.,” not “Ms.” as he had before. She frowned. She knew it had never come up in their conversations. But he was a cop. Maybe he checked on people as a matter of routine. It wasn’t