was a look, a demeanor about such men. Something that set them apart. In this man’s case, as in her husband’s, it wasn’t bluster or swagger, just a quiet strength that required no bragging and a straight, level gaze that told you whatever the job was, he would get it done.
And yet the dog at her feet was apparently the one in charge at the moment.
“I should have known he was only letting me pretend I’m in charge.”
She laughed, both at the man’s wry tone and that he had chosen the words she had just thought. “At least you realize.”
“I should have sooner. He’s got quite the reputation, this one.”
“For?”
“Finding trouble. And demanding his people fix it.”
She started to laugh again, but something in his expression told her he was serious. “Detective Dunbar, why do I think you don’t mean typical dog trouble, like finding holes in fences or the cat next door to chase?”
He seemed to hesitate, as if he wasn’t certain he should tell her, before he said, “Brett, please. And no. Last one was a kid with a messed-up family. Before that it was a kidnapping. Then a cold case, a long-lost brother. And those are just the ones I know about.”
She stared at him. “Must really take away from their day job.”
“That is their day job.”
She drew back slightly. “You mean that’s actually what they do?”
He nodded. “They help people. People who have nowhere else to turn.”
“What are they, a charity?”
“Might as well be. They don’t take any payment except the goodwill—and willingness to help them help someone else later—of the people they take on. They did it before Cutter came along, but now it’s all they can do to keep up with what he finds for them. He’s got a...sense about things. It’s hard to explain.”
“So he finds people who need help, and your friends, they follow his lead?”
He looked as if he half expected her to laugh. “It sounds crazy, I know.”
“Which part?”
She hadn’t meant it to sound sour, but it did. She saw it register in the slightest narrowing of his eyes. She didn’t elucidate—she wasn’t about to explain to a total stranger that while she could believe the dog would help people, she wasn’t so sure about people helping people. Not anymore.
She glanced back at the dog. “Well, I can see I wasn’t according you the proper respect. I thought you were just a pretty face.”
Cutter’s tail wagged as if he’d understood. He got to his feet then and crossed the distance between them. Coming not to her but to Aunt Connie, nudging her hand with his nose.
Connie, who had been watching all this with interest—and, Sloan noted, without saying a word, which was unlike her—responded by petting the dog’s head. “You are a beautiful boy,” she cooed to him.
The dog stayed still for a moment. Then he turned around and sat once more, now facing his running partner. And gave him that look again.
It was odd, she thought. She’d seen intense dogs before. Jason’s best friend in the service had 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,
