Breakpoint by Joann Ross Page A

admitted. Then she deftly switched gears. “But the positive thing is that now you can fix it up exactly the way you want.”
    Thinking that the best thing that she could do for this place would be to call in some B-52s for a carpet bombing, Julianne walked across the empty space to the windows. Other than a rusting balcony that didn’t look safe to step out onto, the only view she saw was of a strip-mall parking lot.
    “What happened to the ocean view? Did they take that with them, too?”
    “It’s right there.” The Realtor pointed a French-manicured finger in the general direction of the asphalt lot.
    Julianne squinted. And spotted a faint glint that might, if you had a fighter pilot’s eyesight and great imagination, possibly be sunlight on water.
    “Oh, yeah. That narrow bit between the Costco and the A.C. Moore.”
    “At least you’d be close to shopping.” The Realtor tried yet again to put a positive spin on what could only charitably be called a dump. “My sister buys all her art supplies at that A.C. Moore.”
    “Maybe I can hire her to paint me a picture of the beach I can tape over the window.” Which, now that she noticed it, was not only filthy, but cracked. Julianne shook her head. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be difficult—”
    “Oh, you’re not at all,” the woman responded, right on cue. “You’re merely selective. Which is good, because buying a home is one of the most important decisions you’ll ever make. I mean, it’s not exactly like buying a pair of shoes, then getting home and finding out you have nothing to wear with them.
    “Neither of us would want you to take on a thirty-year mortgage on a home you didn’t absolutely love. One that didn’t speak to you in some elemental way.”
    Thirty years. When she’d begun this quest, Julianne had convinced herself that she wasn’t truly signing on to a three-decade commitment. After all, people sold houses all the time. She’d never heard of anyone who’d actually paid off a mortgage.
    The problem was that if she bought a home, then decided to move later, she’d have to start a new search. And worse yet, she’d have to find someone to buy her house.
    This entire experiment in domesticity was becoming way too complicated.
    As for speaking to her, while none of the properties she’d looked at so far had cooed, “Take me, I’m yours,” this wreck of a condo was shouting out, “Run! Very fast and very far!”
    She was about to suggest that perhaps they just call it a day, when her phone started playing the theme song from JAG , which, while she might not be in the service anymore, Julianne still thought was the coolest TV theme song ever.
    The ID was blocked, but she’d recognize that voice anywhere.
    “Lieutenant Decatur,” her former superior officer, who’d been recruited to help establish THOR, said without bothering with any polite preliminaries. “You’re to report for duty at the Coronado naval station tomorrow morning at zero-seven-thirty. Bring a bag and your passport.”
    “Yes, sir.” She refrained, just barely, from saluting. She was also jazzed to learn that after nearly two months being stuck in an office reviewing intel reports from other agents, she was finally going to get to go out into the field.
    Since the Realtor was overtly eavesdropping, Julianne didn’t waste time asking for details. Besides, she’d find what her assignment was soon enough.
    Meanwhile, after she’d flipped the phone closed, she realized that the call got her out of house-shopping duty.
    Which just went to show that sometimes, timing really was everything.

8
    “So, what’s up?” Dallas asked as he entered Zach’s office.
    “There was a death of a naval aviator aboard a carrier. While it was first thought to be a suicide, apparently there’s also been a claim of murder.”
    “Sounds like a job for NCIS,” Dallas said.
    “That was my first response. But from what little the guy from THOR told me, there’s also some