Justine Davis - Operation Notorious

He said he just felt restless.

Charlie said he was crazy-making.

So here he was, sent off to make the other Foxworth sibling crazy. Maybe that’s all it was, Charlie getting him off nerves he’d trod on too often.

He hoped Quinn had something going on he could seriously gnaw on. Not that it hadn’t been a challenging go-round last time. Taking down a governor was not simple, even when they mostly did the job for you. Gavin didn’t want to admit he’d been exhilarated by walking through that minefield; it made him wonder if he’d become some kind of adrenaline junky.

He knew some had assumed he always had been, what with the kind of headline grabbing cases he’d been involved in during his career in criminal defense, but that hadn’t been it at all. He’d been coolly analytical, helped by his knack for anticipating the moves of others. He’d been able to think on the fly and draw up almost any precedent-setting case he’d ever read about. He’d been—

Wrong. Don’t forget that one.

He interrupted his own thoughts with the sharp, bitter reminder. For he had been wrong. Very wrong, and it had pulled the rug out from under not just his career but his entire life.

By the time Gavin’s phone warned him he’d reached his destination even he had to admit his brain had eased up a bit, as if responding to the more peaceful surroundings. Just as Quinn said it did for him. Here on the other side of Puget Sound seemed a world away from the bustling city in feeling if not distance. He never would have thought he’d say it, but maybe Quinn was on to something here.

A light rain had begun just as he stepped under cover of the porch, and his hosts congratulated him on his timing. He was welcomed, his bags stowed in the guest room, and a drink poured and waiting for him by the fire crackling in the hearth before he recognized the luscious smell wafting from the kitchen was Quinn’s famous spicy chicken.

“I’m honored.” He tilted the glass of wine in a salute. “You cooked for me?”

“Don’t get used to it,” Quinn said.

Gavin managed a creditable grin before asking, “Where’s that rascal dog of yours?”

“On his nightly rounds,” Quinn said.

Gavin found himself laughing, to his own surprise. “Patrolling the neighborhood?”

“Morning and evening, every day we’re not on a case,” Hayley said.

“Strong sense of duty, that one,” Gavin said, not really kidding.

Quinn nodded. “Like most good operatives.”

Gavin had heard enough stories of the uncannily clever canine to know Quinn was dead serious. “Even Charlie has finally accepted that he’s an integral part of your team.”

“Speaking of Charlie,” Hayley began, then stopped.

Gavin studied her for a moment, then let out a long breath as he lowered his gaze. Quietly, he voiced what he’d been suspecting since his plane had cleared the Rockies. “You don’t have a case, do you?”

Hayley exchanged a glance with her husband. Quinn grimaced.

Quinn had never lied to him—one reason he trusted him—and Gavin knew he wouldn’t now. But before he could answer there was a sound at the rear door that drew their attention. Gavin turned just as a hinged section at the bottom of the door swung open. A second later Cutter was there, looking a bit damp from the rain, which had picked up now. He had something in his mouth, some toy Gavin guessed.

“He has his own door now?” he asked as Hayley grabbed a towel clearly kept by the door for that reason and turned to the dog.

“It’s easier,” Quinn said. “He’s got a mind of his own and—”

He stopped as the animal walked past Hayley and the towel, toward Gavin. He guessed that figured, given he hadn’t been here when the dog had left the house. Cutter sat at his feet, looking up at him intently. Did he even remember him? Gavin wondered. He hadn’t spent much time here last time, and—

His speculation broke off when he saw what the dog had in his mouth. It was not a toy. A cell phone? What was the dog doing with a phone? Whose phone? Where had he found it? And why the hell was he bringing it to him?

By the time he got through the string of mental questions Quinn and Hayley were at his side. Cutter allowed Hayley to take the phone from him, but the dog’s steady gaze never left Gavin. He found it strangely unsettling.

“It doesn’t look like it’s been lying around and he just found it,” Quinn said.

“No,” she agreed. “It’s not damaged at all. And it’s on, so it’s working.”

“Is he given to stealing things?” Gavin asked neutrally.

Quinn gave him a sideways glance. “In the interest of a good cause, it’s not unheard of.”

Gavin didn’t know what to say to that, so he said nothing as Hayley pressed a button on the side of the phone.

“Locked,” she said. “Charge is at 65 per cent.”

“Good. The owner will probably call it once they realize it’s gone,” Quinn said.

“Assuming they have another phone, and don’t already know because Cutter snatched it right out of their hand,” Hayley said, sounding a bit glum.

“Well, there’s that,” Quinn said, glancing at the dog. Hayley handed him the phone and went to work on the dog with the towel.

She had just finished when the doorbell rang. She put down the towel and looked at Quinn. “And maybe,” she said, “whoever it was—”

“—followed him here,” Quinn finished for her.

“I’ll get it, shall I?” Gavin said lightly, telling himself a buffer between a possibly irate phone owner and the owners of the dog who’d grabbed it might be a good idea. Quinn didn’t immediately answer him, but moved across the living room to where he could get a glimpse out the window to the porch, where a motion-sensor light had come on. Only then did he nod.

“Sometimes I forget,” Gavin muttered under his breath as he reached for the door handle. Coming in as he did, usually after everything had happened and there was nothing left but cleanup, he did sometimes forget that Foxworth occasionally irritated people with minimal impulse control. People who could be dangerous.

He pulled the door open, revealing a woman who looked a bit damper than the dog had. Rain glistened on hair pulled back in a wavy ponytail, and a couple of drops clung to long, soft-looking eyelashes. Lashes that surrounded eyes that seemed vividly blue even in the artificial glow of the porch light. Her face, with a slightly upturned nose and a nicely shaped mouth, was turned up to him since she was probably about five-four to his five-eleven. Her cheeks looked even wetter than her hair, and if it hadn’t been raining he might have thought she’d been crying. Which would explain the distress he saw in both her eyes and her body language; she was hunched into herself against more than the chill.

“Is Hayley here?” she asked. “Or at least Cutter?”

Chill, he thought again, only this time in the nature of a self-command. Belatedly he realized she wore no jacket over her jeans and light sweater, as if she had come hastily. In pursuit of her phone? He shook off the strange sluggishness that had overtaken him.

“Sorry,” he said, stepping back to let her in. Obviously she knew Hayley and she hardly looked like a threat, even if he’d been studying her as if she were one.

“Katie, isn’t it?” Hayley said, coming forward. “Katie Moore? The blue house?”

“Yes,” she said, sounding grateful.

Quinn had disappeared from his position by the window, but now reappeared with a fresh, dry towel, which he handed to the newcomer.

“Here, dry off. I’m Quinn, Hayley’s husband.”

“Thank you,” the woman said, then applied the towel. “I’m sorry to intrude, but—”

“It’s no intrusion. Neighbors are always welcome. Come in by the fire and get warmed up,” Hayley said.