Operation Power Play. Justine Davis
been a canine handler, and his partner, Eddie, had been a bomb-seeking machine. And she’d seen police dogs and the agility competitors that held events in the park a few blocks away.
But this dog was different. The intensity was no less, but the focus was different. She couldn’t explain it herself; she could only feel it, so no wonder he didn’t even try.
She looked back at the man then. She’d always enjoyed the sight when she’d seen him running. That part of her might be dead and buried with Jason, but she could still appreciate a good-looking man, and Brett Dunbar was definitely that. She liked his tall, lean build, found the touch of gray at his temples attractive. She had little patience for unlined youth these days. Or sunny, carefree attitudes. She’d lost her affection for naïveté long ago, in the halls of Washington, DC.
And the impression in his gray eyes of dark things seen was all too familiar.
He sighed. Audibly. He looked at Connie, then the dog, then Connie again. “I’m guessing you’re the one with the problem?”
Aunt Connie blinked. “What?” She glanced down at the dog now sitting at her feet staring up at Brett, then at the man himself. “You mean he knows?”
“I have a feeling that’s why I’m here. Why he led me here.”
Clearly startled, Connie put a hand to her throat. “Oh, dear. My problem isn’t anything like that. No one’s missing, and certainly not one of those cold-case things.”
“She’s having a problem with the county,” Sloan explained. “A permit problem.”
“We need to build a new house,” Connie said, “a single-story, up the hill in back. My husband isn’t well, and the stairs are too much for him now.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“They’re saying we can’t subdivide the acreage,” she said.
He frowned. “You own the property?”
Connie nodded. “Twelve acres. And we can’t afford to build unless we sell this house.”
Brett turned to look at the tidy Craftsman-style two-story. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” Sloan said. Uncle Chuck had maintained it immaculately, and the yard was a showplace cottage-style garden.
“Yes. You should have no trouble selling it.”
“It will be sad,” Connie said. “This was our dream house, but needs have changed.”
Brett looked back at her. “Could you sell it all and build what you need somewhere else?”
Tears brimmed anew in Connie’s eyes. “It’s already breaking Chuck’s heart that we have to move out of this house. It would just kill him if we had to leave this land altogether because of him. His family has owned it for five generations.”
“I’d rent this house from them,” Sloan said, “but that doesn’t get them the money they’d need for building.” She put her arm comfortingly around Connie’s shoulders. “It’s awful. She’s dealt with so much since my uncle’s heart attack. And they’re just being ridiculous about it. The standard for this entire area is a minimum of two-and-a-half-acre parcels. But she’s suddenly not allowed to break up twelve?”
“What’s their reason?” he asked.
“Some nonsense about the entire area being under study for possible changes, and everything is frozen in the meantime.” She knew her voice was rising, but it was so unfair it just made her angry.
“Sounds typical,” he said.
“Except,” she snapped, “that they decided to study it only after my aunt and uncle put in their application. It’s a specious technicality, at best. County bureaucrats.”
She realized suddenly that the man she was talking to worked for that same county.
“Sorry,” she said hastily. “I didn’t mean anything personal.”
He gave her a crooked smile that again reminded her of her thought when he’d first laughed: he looked like a man who didn’t do it very often.
“I’m not one of them,” he said. “And sometimes I get as angry at them as you are.”
She felt even worse. “I didn’t mean to imply you were. It’s just that the whole thing is so unfair.”
“It certainly doesn’t seem right,” he said. He glanced at his watch, a complicated-looking thing like the one Jason used to wear.
“I’m sorry—we’ve truly spoiled your run,” she said quickly.
“I’m sure you have other, more important things to do than talk about my little problem,” Connie added.
“It’s not little to you,” he said, and Sloan thought she could have hugged him for that. When she caught herself wondering what that would feel like, she nearly jerked back in shock.
“I was just checking the time to see how long before they’d be in at the county offices,” he said. “I know somebody over there. Maybe I could make a call, find out more about what’s going on.”
Sloan stared at him. Connie took an audible breath and again put her hand to her throat.
“No promises,” Brett said hurriedly. “I may only find out that what they told you is right.”
“Of course,” Connie said, “but that would be so helpful. They didn’t want to explain much to me. I’m sure they just thought I was a nuisance of an old woman.”
“Then they need to be slapped silly,” Sloan said, her anger rising again.
Brett looked at her with an expression she couldn’t read. Perhaps, being a cop, he was assessing her capability for such violence. Oh, I’m capable, she told him silently.
But he said only, “Or reminded that they’ll also be there one day. If they’re lucky.”
She liked that. Liked that he’d said it. Liked that he’d looked at Connie so kindly when he’d said it.
Didn’t like the pain that shadowed his eyes when he’d added, “If they’re lucky.”
“I’ll call the first chance I get,” he said. “But again, no promises.”
“Thank you,” Connie said fervently. Then she looked at Sloan. “Give him your number, will you, Sloan? I don’t hear the phone half the time.”
Sloan frowned. As far as she knew, Connie’s hearing was fine. She glanced at Brett, realized he seemed taken aback himself. But after a moment he pulled a smartphone out of the pocket of his sweatpants, and she gave him the number.
And nearly laughed aloud when the dog, who had been sitting quietly through all this, got to his feet. As if he had somehow figured out they were done now.
“Told you,” Brett said.
She looked up to see him shaking his head in amusement at his furry companion.
Somehow this made her like him even more. And that made her a little twitchy.
“Well, now,” Connie said, watching as man and dog resumed their run, “wasn’t he nice?”
“Yes,” Sloan agreed, still a little bemused by it all but more fascinated by Brett Dunbar’s long, easy stride.
“And nice looking,” the older woman added archly. “Just the type I would have gone for at your age.”
She couldn’t deny that, since she’d thought it herself. But she knew where Connie was headed and didn’t want to go there. Again.
“Please. You’ve been in love with Uncle Chuck since you were teenagers.”
“Indeed I have. That’s why I want the same for you.”
“And