Читать книгу Operation Power Play - Justine Davis - Страница 16

Chapter 7

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 as if it were a secret; her story was out there for anyone to find. It was part of the price she’d paid. Unlike whatever nightmare put those shadows in Brett’s eyes, hers were out there in public.

She pulled herself together. Distraction wasn’t her norm, and it was starting to irritate her. “I wondered if I could have the name of the person you spoke to at the county,” she said. “My aunt’s application now seems to be among the missing.”

There was a pause. Too long. That wasn’t good—she’d learned that the hard way. Was it that hard for him to decide if he could trust her with a simple name? What was it about people in authority? Why did they always have to—?

“Sorry. I was driving. Missing?”

She was glad he couldn’t see her, because she felt her cheeks heat. She’d made an assumption about his silence, that he was like all the others who had tried to fend her off, when in fact he’d merely been pulling over to talk safely.

“It’s been a few days, so I thought I could at least find out where it was in the process. But I got the same person who told me it was frozen before. She said there was no application at all in my aunt’s name.”

“What? That’s crazy. Rick had it in his hand when he called me back.”

“That’s your contact?”

“Yes. Rick Alvarado.”

“You’re sure he had it? He wouldn’t...just say he did to cover losing it?”

“No. He wouldn’t lie to me.”

“Would Mr. Alvarado—or you—mind if I called him?”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t. And why would I?”

“He’s your contact.”

“This isn’t chain of command, Mrs. Burke. Feel free.”

Was there an edge in his voice? And there it was again, that Mrs. Burke. And did that chain-of-command comment mean he truly had looked her up, knew she’d fought her way up that chain more than once? She sighed inwardly in exasperation. She hadn’t spent this kind of time trying to guess at what someone wasn’t saying since she’d had to deal with brass who wanted to help her but couldn’t without damaging themselves.

“Been doing some research?” she asked.

“The joys of the internet,” was all he said, but he sounded a bit embarrassed. “I’ll call him again if you want,” he said, quickly dodging any further questions on that subject.

“It’s not your problem. You’ve already done enough.” Purposely she added, “Thank you, Brett.”

“You’re welcome, Mrs. Burke,” he said, and was gone, almost abruptly.

Mrs. Burke. Even when she’d called him Brett.

Obviously he had done that research. So he had to know her husband was dead. And how. And what had happened after. For some people, that put her in the too-uncomfortable-to-talk-to category. It seemed Brett Dunbar might be one of those.

That disappointed her.

And that, in turn, set off a warning bell in her mind.

With a stern self-directed lecture about foolishness, she ordered herself back to the task at hand and called the permit office once more.

* * *

Brett sat in the car where he’d pulled off to the side of the road, his phone still in his hand.

That, he thought, had been a disaster of a conversation.

No wonder she’d cowed half the top brass in a couple of military services. He had a feeling she would have eventually accomplished what she’d done even without the help of that battle-toughened senator. She was smart, determined and dedicated. She’d figured out he’d looked her up and tacitly, with her formal tone, acknowledged the distance he had put between them by using her married name. That didn’t surprise him; he’d guessed as much.

What surprised him was how much it bothered him, that tone in her voice. It was what he’d wanted, wasn’t it? He’d wanted that safe distance between them.

Well, he’d gotten it. And if he didn’t like it, that was his problem.

He checked the highway, picked his spot and merged back into traffic. He made himself map out the rest of his afternoon so he wouldn’t dwell on one Sloan Burke. Or how the more he’d read, the more he’d admired her. Or how he had, against his better judgment, called up online video of those hearings, had watched with a pained sort of raptness as she told the story of her husband’s death and the cover-up it had revealed. Her testimony had been passionate, articulate and damning. She had never faltered, never let herself be diverted or intimidated. She had shamed them all with her courage, and in the end she had won.

And with each moment he’d watched, he’d envied a dead man more.