Read Online Operation Power Play by Justine Davis - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Justine Davis
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overtime, although you’d think it would have been worn-out by now, with all the imagining she’d been doing about Brett Dunbar.
She had herself convinced until the car, some distance back, took the same exit. But she tamped down the feeling again. They weren’t being followed; it was simply that this was the way to the county offices and lots of people went there every day. And when she made the turn to go to those offices, the gold car slid past without even slowing, proving she’d been being silly.
That sense of foolishness vanished soon after they went inside. She didn’t like the man running this place. He wasn’t bad looking, although his hair looked a bit determinedly blond, and if he was any taller than her own five foot six, she’d be surprised. But he had the same sort of arrogance that so many of those she’d encountered back in DC had. As if they knew best, and you, the mere peon, should be grateful they deigned to even speak to you. She’d called it sit-down-and-shut-up syndrome.
When Sloan had asked the beleaguered-looking clerk about making copies of the application, the man had rudely butted in and told them the copy machine wasn’t working, even though the clerk had been using the thing when they’d come in. And then he’d glared at the woman, as if warning her not to contradict him.
“I don’t like the way he talks to that poor woman,” Aunt Connie whispered.
“Me either,” Sloan agreed, feeling a twinge of guilt that she’d thought so ill of the woman when obviously she was at least in part the way she was because she had a jerk for a boss. No wonder Brett’s—Detective Dunbar’s—friend had left. Jason had always said the tone was set by the leader, and that certainly seemed true here.
Her aunt went back to the form she was filling out. Sloan had brought the copy she’d made of the original because it had all the necessary details already filled in. She’d thought on the way here that had it been her alone, she would have just shown them the copy and demanded a better explanation than “We have no record of it.” But Connie was in a fragile-enough state already. She’d decided this was not a battle to fight just now.
When it was done and signed, she took the form from her aunt and got out her phone. She began to take photos of the document.
“Excuse me—what do you think you’re doing?”
The man burst out of his office, sounding as outraged as if she had started to climb over the counter and into his domain.
Since the answer to the literal question was obvious, Sloan didn’t answer it. She took her last photo before she even looked at him. “Merely making a record for our own files, since your copy machine is broken,” she said, keeping her voice even. “Surely you have no problem with that.”
“You can’t take photographs in here!”
She had started to slip her phone back into her purse, but something about the man made her decide to slide it into her jeans’ front pocket instead. If he decided to come after it, he’d have a tougher time.
“Why not?” she asked, feigning mere curiosity.
“Because you can’t,” he said.
“Oh. You do realize that kind of answer makes you sound no better than a petty tyrant?” she asked with a sunny smile.
A bright red flush rose in the man’s face. “You—”
Aunt Connie cut him off. “Young man, I’ve paid property taxes in this county for forty years,” she said, giving the man the glare that had straightened up many a child during her years as a teacher. “Taxes that built this building and help pay your salary, I might add. I’ll thank you for a little respect.”
Sloan had to fight a smile, not so much for what her aunt had said but because she had roused with such spirit. It was the first sign she’d seen that Connie had some of her old fire left, and Sloan rejoiced in it. And quickly decided to let her run with it. Especially when the man glared at her but scuttled back to his office and
She had herself convinced until the car, some distance back, took the same exit. But she tamped down the feeling again. They weren’t being followed; it was simply that this was the way to the county offices and lots of people went there every day. And when she made the turn to go to those offices, the gold car slid past without even slowing, proving she’d been being silly.
That sense of foolishness vanished soon after they went inside. She didn’t like the man running this place. He wasn’t bad looking, although his hair looked a bit determinedly blond, and if he was any taller than her own five foot six, she’d be surprised. But he had the same sort of arrogance that so many of those she’d encountered back in DC had. As if they knew best, and you, the mere peon, should be grateful they deigned to even speak to you. She’d called it sit-down-and-shut-up syndrome.
When Sloan had asked the beleaguered-looking clerk about making copies of the application, the man had rudely butted in and told them the copy machine wasn’t working, even though the clerk had been using the thing when they’d come in. And then he’d glared at the woman, as if warning her not to contradict him.
“I don’t like the way he talks to that poor woman,” Aunt Connie whispered.
“Me either,” Sloan agreed, feeling a twinge of guilt that she’d thought so ill of the woman when obviously she was at least in part the way she was because she had a jerk for a boss. No wonder Brett’s—Detective Dunbar’s—friend had left. Jason had always said the tone was set by the leader, and that certainly seemed true here.
Her aunt went back to the form she was filling out. Sloan had brought the copy she’d made of the original because it had all the necessary details already filled in. She’d thought on the way here that had it been her alone, she would have just shown them the copy and demanded a better explanation than “We have no record of it.” But Connie was in a fragile-enough state already. She’d decided this was not a battle to fight just now.
When it was done and signed, she took the form from her aunt and got out her phone. She began to take photos of the document.
“Excuse me—what do you think you’re doing?”
The man burst out of his office, sounding as outraged as if she had started to climb over the counter and into his domain.
Since the answer to the literal question was obvious, Sloan didn’t answer it. She took her last photo before she even looked at him. “Merely making a record for our own files, since your copy machine is broken,” she said, keeping her voice even. “Surely you have no problem with that.”
“You can’t take photographs in here!”
She had started to slip her phone back into her purse, but something about the man made her decide to slide it into her jeans’ front pocket instead. If he decided to come after it, he’d have a tougher time.
“Why not?” she asked, feigning mere curiosity.
“Because you can’t,” he said.
“Oh. You do realize that kind of answer makes you sound no better than a petty tyrant?” she asked with a sunny smile.
A bright red flush rose in the man’s face. “You—”
Aunt Connie cut him off. “Young man, I’ve paid property taxes in this county for forty years,” she said, giving the man the glare that had straightened up many a child during her years as a teacher. “Taxes that built this building and help pay your salary, I might add. I’ll thank you for a little respect.”
Sloan had to fight a smile, not so much for what her aunt had said but because she had roused with such spirit. It was the first sign she’d seen that Connie had some of her old fire left, and Sloan rejoiced in it. And quickly decided to let her run with it. Especially when the man glared at her but scuttled back to his office and
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