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“What?”

“Never mind.” Remembering Sandy’s touch, Mitchell felt an inexplicable calm lick at the ß ames of her fury. “You wouldn’t understand.”

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CHAPTER TWELVE

Dee Flanagan did not look up from her microscope at the sound of approaching footsteps in the empty lab. It was well after hours; even her lover—a senior crime scene investigation technician—

had left for the day. Maggie had gone home to prepare supper, another meal like so many that, more often than not, Dee would miss while caught up in analyzing some tantalizing bit of evidence.

“We’re closed,” the CSI chief growled. “Try back after 7:30

tomorrow morning.”

“Sorry to bother you, Chief,” Sloan said mildly as she slid a single sheet of paper onto the granite counter next to Dee’s right hand. “I just wanted to talk to you about this report.”

Slowly, Dee straightened, granting Sloan a sideways glance. She Þ xed her gaze on Sloan’s chest. “What’s with the shiny new ID?”

Grimacing, Sloan Þ ngered the laminated badge clipped to the pocket of her faded blue work shirt. “Civilian consultant. Pretty special, huh?”

Dee merely grunted. “You know, it took Frye close to ten years before I let her walk around in here unsupervised.”

Sloan rocked casually back and forth on her boot heels, her thumbs hooked over the front pockets of her jeans. She was a few inches taller and a good twenty pounds heavier than Flanagan, but it didn’t feel that way when the wiry CSI chief had her hackles up. “But Frye taught me the rules. Don’t touch anything.”

“Apparently she forgot the one about not interrupting me when I’m processing evidence.” Dee was not smiling.

“Actually, she didn’t. And I wouldn’t have, if I didn’t think this was something you’d be interested in.”

Dee squinted, assessing Sloan, who met her eye to eye. Then she

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nodded once, apparently liking the unß inching determination in Sloan’s expression. “All right. What’s this all about?”

“The results of a tox screen on the body that was tossed in a dumpster behind Methodist Hospital last night.”

Dee’s posture shifted subtly, like a dog on point catching the scent of its prey. “That report isn’t Þ nished yet. I haven’t sent it out.”

Sloan tipped her head toward the page on the counter. “Interesting reading.”

Her gaze still on Sloan, Dee picked up the sheet and quickly scanned it. A muscle along her jaw bunched, and a sound close to a growl reverberated in her chest. When her eyes rose to Sloan’s again, there was a challenge in their blue depths. Most people would have stepped back, but Sloan did not. “Where did you get this?”

“From your computer.”

Automatically, Dee shot a look over her shoulder at her ofÞ ce. The door was closed, just as she had left it. The lights were out. “Want to tell me how you got past me?”

“I didn’t. I got it from a computer upstairs on the third ß oor, through the network.”

“Let’s go talk.” Without waiting for a response, Dee led the way between the lab benches to her ofÞ ce. She opened the door and ß icked on the light, illuminating a small room made even more claustrophobic by the piles of journals, Þ le folders, specimen containers, and evidence bags piled on every available surface. Her desk, an old-fashioned wooden affair covered with scratches and dents, was surprisingly orderly despite the stacks of paperwork. Waving in the direction of a stool, Dee said, “Have a seat. Then explain.”

As she shifted manila folders and a plaster model of a shoeprint from the nearest backless stool, Sloan said, “I have sysop privileges.”

“Meaning you can snoop around.” Dee tilted back in the wooden captain’s chair, her hands hanging loosely over the arms. To a casual observer she would have appeared relaxed, except for the piercing focus in her eyes. It was the calm readiness of a sniper lying utterly still but ready to deliver death in an instant.

“Essentially, yes. I’m familiar with your system, of course, because I worked down here a week or so ago. But then, I was trying to get into the main system. Today, I reversed the process.”

“Why?”

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Sloan shrugged. “Curiosity. Plus, your department is the epicenter of evidence for the entire police department. The autopsy reports, the trace analyses, the tox screens, ballistics—everything the detectives rely upon to make a case passes through here. If I wanted to inß uence the outcome of an investigation, this is where I’d start.”

“And you pilfered that report from my hard drive.”

“I did. Yes.”

Dee didn’t move a muscle, but her voice had dropped dangerously low. “You should’ve asked.”

Sloan’s voice was steady, her expression unperturbed. “I don’t have to. That’s the point. I own the system now.”

The two women stared at one another until, Þ nally, Dee smiled.

“Now I know why you play on Frye’s team. But I’d bet you don’t play unless you want to.”

“Ordinarily, you’d be right.” Sloan lifted a shoulder. “Right now, I’m Frye’s.”

“I’m impressed. So—what’s your point, besides that?”

Sloan grinned. “Can I tell Frye you said that? About being impressed?”

“I’ll deny it.”

“Thought you might.”

“Do I have a problem down here?” The humor had ß ed from Dee’s eyes, leaving them glacially cold.

“You do. Since I was already looking around, I discovered that I’m not the only one who’s accessed your computer with sysop privileges.

Except, of course, that shouldn’t be possible, because until today, the network wasn’t set up to allow that.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning you’ve been hacked. And by someone who’s good at it.” Sloan leaned forward, her elbows on her knees, her hands clasped.

There was an edge of excitement, verging on respect, in her voice. “My guess is someone sent a Phatbot—”

“A factbot?”

“No—Phatbot.” Sloan spelled it, then continued, “a form of Trojan horse—a bit of malicious code that’s tacked onto something that appears harmless. An e-mail, a doc Þ le, an image. The kinds of things that you open and review dozens of times every day.”

“I know what they are—but what exactly do they do? ”

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Sloan raised her hands and let them fall. “Just about anything the intruder wants. If a computer is infected, a remote attacker will have access to all the Þ les and programs. They can copy data, alter data, insert data. Pretty much have the run of the house.”

“Jesus Christ,” Dee said in a strangled whisper.

“When you and I talked about this before, all I could do at the time was patch a quick Þ x onto your system. Beef up your Þ rewalls.

Now, with unrestricted access to the network, I can do something real about it.”

“I need to protect the evidence.” Dee bolted up so quickly that the chair spun back against the wall. “Christ.” She leaned forward on her desk and Þ xed Sloan with a Þ erce stare. “You need to Þ x this now.”

“I will. What we’re going to do is follow the bread crumbs back to the source. The advantage I have now that I didn’t have a week ago is that I’ve eliminated a number of potential sources and narrowed down the Þ eld of possible suspects. I’m going to insert a bit of code of my own into your operating system and see if we can’t catch the mole in our trap.”

“Is there some way for you to tell if something has been…tampered with?”

Sloan grinned. “You know what they say in this business—it’s almost impossible to commit the perfect crime.”

v

The instant Sandy stepped off the elevator into the darkened loft, she sensed her in the shadows. Waiting.

“Dell?”

“Here.”

Navigating to the hollow echo of Dell’s voice, Sandy circumvented the furniture in the dark until she reached the sofa in front of the ß oor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the Delaware River. Even now, well into the night, lights ß ickered on the water, ships gliding in and out of the Port of Philadelphia. Dell was hunched in one corner of the broad leather sofa, her injured leg propped on the coffee table. Sandy kicked off her silver, stack-heeled shoes—the ones that matched her shiny, short, patent leather skirt and silver bustier—and curled up beside Mitchell with her legs tucked beneath her. Sandy’s breasts

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pressed against Mitchell’s right arm as she reached between Mitchell’s thighs to mold her palm to the inside of Mitchell’s leg—high up, but not touching her crotch.

“Where’s the evil twin?”

Mitchell laughed, a short, sharp-edged laugh slivered with pain.

“Gone.”

“Gone where?”

“Don’t know. Probably back to DC.”

“She lives there?”

“Stationed there.”

Sandy stroked the inside of Mitchell’s leg rhythmically. “Isn’t that the same thing?”

“Not really. A duty station never really feels like home, no matter how long you’re there.” Mitchell shrugged. “Maybe it’s knowing that you might be deployed elsewhere at any time. You don’t want to get too settled.”

“Sounds like foster care,” Sandy said dryly.

Slowly, Mitchell swiveled her head and looked directly at her girlfriend for the Þ rst time. The moonlight reß ecting off the leather and silver made her sparkle. “Is that how it was for you?”

“Yeah.”

Mitchell smoothed her Þ ngers down Sandy’s arm and caught the hand between her thighs, covering it with her own. “How long were you—you know, in the system?”

“Look, Dell—”

“How long?” Mitchell asked gently.

“Ten years. Until I was Þ fteen, and then…I split.”

Three years on the streets. Not many girls survived that long—not without becoming addicts or victims of violence and disease.

“You’re never going back there again,” Mitchell said with lethal conviction, her Þ ngers tightening unconsciously around Sandy’s small hand.

“Where, baby?” Sandy’s voice was gentle, soothing.

“The fucking streets.”

“I work there.”

“You been working tonight?”

Sandy grew very still, and her hand stopped moving against

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Mitchell’s thigh. “Remember we said no questions you don’t want to know the answer to.”

“You’re all dressed up for work.” Mitchell gave another stilted laugh. “And you know what? I think you look so sexy like that.

Jesus.”

“Why is that bad?”

“Because I think about…them looking at you, and it makes me crazy.” Mitchell groaned, nearly a sob. “I don’t want anyone else touching you.”

“What do you want me to do, Dell? Starve because you’ve got a thing about my body?”

Mitchell jerked as if she’d been slapped. “A thing for your body?

Yeah, that’s it. That’s all I want from you.” When she braced an arm on the sofa and pushed up, struggling to stand on her weak leg, Sandy tugged on the back of her jeans and pulled her back down.

“Look, I’m sorry.” Sandy huffed out a breath. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t…I don’t want anybody to touch me except you.”

The tension ebbed from Mitchell’s body in one blessed rush. “I love you.”

“That won’t get me breakfast, Dell.” Sandy’s voice was soft as she spoke.

“Then let me buy you breakfast.”

“I’m not talking about just breakfast.”

Mitchell wrapped an arm around Sandy’s shoulders and held her tightly, pressing her lips to the top of Sandy’s head. “Neither am I.”

“I don’t think we better talk about this anymore right now.”

“Making you nervous?”

“Big time.”

“I’m not going to give up, you know,” Mitchell murmured.

“You mean it?” Sandy tried but couldn’t keep the tremor of need from her voice.

“Oh yeah, I mean it.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay, you can bug me about the life…if you want to. Just…not all the time.”

“Where did you go tonight?”

“Nowhere special.” Sandy tugged Mitchell’s T-shirt from her

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jeans and slid her hand beneath, playing her Þ ngertips along the curve of Mitchell’s ribs. “Just around.”

“San. Don’t blow me off, okay?”

“I checked out a few places on the strip. Then down on Delaware at the Blue Diamond.”

“The Blue Diamond?” Mitchell’s voice hardened. “Jesus. That’s one of Zamora’s places. What were you doing there?”

“Looking for Trudy.”

“For Frye.” The way Mitchell said it, it wasn’t a question.

“Maybe.”

Agitated, Mitchell rubbed her hand up and down Sandy’s bare arm. “You gotta be careful, honey. People are going to be on edge because of the bust. Looking for something that’s off. Don’t go asking around for her right now.”

“You think I’m dumb, Dell? You think I made it this long without you by being stupid?” Sandy pulled away. “Jesus. Sometimes you are just as bad as a guy.”

“Whoa. What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s supposed to mean just because we’re fucking I don’t need you to take care of me.”

“What if I want to?”

“Not if you’re going to be a pain in the ass about everything.”

“What if I want you to take care of me?”

Sandy caught her breath. “Do you?”

“Sometimes, yeah, I think I do.”

“Fuck, Dell.” Sandy settled back against her, seeking the warmth of her skin with her Þ ngers again. “I…you know…I love you too, rookie.”

“I missed you while you were gone tonight.”

Sandy kissed Mitchell’s shoulder, then rested her cheek on the spot. “Why did your sister come today?”

“I don’t know. She said it was because…she wanted to make sure I was okay.”

“How come you don’t sound like you believe her?”

“Because she doesn’t care if I’m okay.”

“How do you know?” Sandy stroked Mitchell’s stomach, dipping her Þ ngers beneath the waistband of her jeans where they rode low over her hips.

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Unconsciously, Mitchell lifted her hips into the touch. “She stopped caring two years ago.”

“What did she do?”

“She followed the rules,” Mitchell murmured softly, reaching for the button on her jeans.

“Dell, baby, what…”

“I don’t want to talk right now,” Mitchell said, pushing Sandy’s hand deeper into her jeans. She closed her eyes, wanting only the solace of Sandy’s touch. “Please, honey.”

“Shh,” Sandy crooned, stroking tenderly as Mitchell gave a small cry. “It’s okay, baby. Everything is going to be okay.”

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CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Thursday

At 7:20, Rebecca settled in her usual place at the conference table in Sloan’s ofÞ ce, struggling to ignore the faint headache building behind her eyes. She hadn’t had more than a few hours’ sleep a night in over a week, but it wasn’t the lack of rest that was wearing on her. It was the case. There was something she was missing, had been missing since the day she’d looked down on Jeff’s and Jimmy’s bodies, and, whatever it was, it still eluded her. The investigation had splintered in too many directions too quickly. From the very beginning, her focus had been fragmented. Jeff had been killed in the midst of a madman’s serial-murder spree, and she hadn’t been able to pursue her partner’s killer while hunting a maniac. She’d had to keep working, and she had been able to do little more than bury her shock and pain over Jeff’s death.

Then she’d been shot, nearly died, and had fallen in love, all in the course of a few weeks.

As soon as she returned to duty— too soon by all accounts—the

“desk job” she’d been assigned to led to a morass of underground criminal activity ranging from Internet pornography to child prostitution.

And now she had to ferret out the mole in the police department who had very likely orchestrated the murder attempt on Sloan, crack the prostitution ring that had supplied the young girls for the porn videos, and discover why two cops had been executed. Still too many threads with nothing to connect them.

She sighed, leaned her head back, and closed her eyes.

“Rough night?” Sloan asked.

“A few of them.” Rebecca might not have admitted that to anyone but Sloan, but in many ways they were equals on the job. Whatever Sloan had done for the government in her past life, Rebecca had no doubt that she’d been the team leader, not one of the troops. Rolling her

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head on the chair back, she surveyed Sloan’s rumpled shirt and pasty complexion. “You look a little ragged yourself.”

Grunting in agreement, Sloan slumped across from Rebecca with her own cup of coffee cradled between her hands. “Just got home.”

“Were you at Police Plaza all night?”

Sipping her coffee, Sloan nodded.

Rebecca sat up straighter. “Anything?”

“I know who it is.”

Rebecca was suddenly very much awake, ß ashing back to the last time Sloan had thought she’d discovered the person behind the murder attempt that had nearly killed Michael. Sloan had come close to taking matters into her own hands. “Why didn’t you call me?”

“Just put the pieces together.”

“And?”

Sloan met Rebecca’s gaze head-on. “No one’s dead yet.”

“Good,” Rebecca said grufß y, the tension in her chest dissipating.

“Am I going to like this?”

“Like I thought, it’s not a cop.”

“What isn’t?” Watts asked, as he lumbered into the room and made straight for the coffeepot.

“You’ll Þ nd out in a minute,” Rebecca informed him. “Let’s wait until everyone’s here, and then we’ll bring the team up to speed.”

Grunting assent, Watts shufß ed toward the table with his coffee in one hand and two doughnuts in the other. “Who sets all this stuff up, anyhow?”

From the doorway, Jason replied, “I do.”

“You’ll make somebody a great wife,” Watts mumbled around a mouthful of jelly and dough.

“I already have the wardrobe.”

Watts sputtered and choked, inspiring Sloan to pound him on the back as she laughed. He was still wheezing when Mitchell arrived, walking slowly but without her cane.

“How’s the leg, Detective?” Rebecca asked as she rose to reÞ ll her coffee. She lifted a cup in Mitchell’s direction and scrutinized her.

“It’s Þ ne, Lieutenant. Thank you.” Mitchell did her best to hide the limp as she moved as quickly as she could to the counter next to Rebecca. “I can get that, ma’am. But thanks.”

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Rebecca raised a brow. “I thought we dispensed with the formalities a while back.”

“Yes, ma’am…Lieutenant.” Mitchell took the offered cup of coffee.

“Good to see you up and around.”

“I should be ready for full duty anytime now.”

“I want it in writing. From Torveau and…” Rebecca shot a look over her shoulder toward the others gathered at the table and lowered her voice. “Whoever else you’re seeing.”

“Dr. Rawlings.” Mitchell held Rebecca’s gaze, searching for a reaction.

Rebecca merely nodded. “Good enough. Now, let’s get this meeting started.”

Mitchell maneuvered into a seat next to Jason as Rebecca returned to the head of the table and said, “So, where do we stand? Watts?”

Watts gulped down the last of his second doughnut and cleared his throat. “The stakeouts have pretty much been a bust. Neither Campbell or Beecher has done anything even a little bit suspicious. Considering our lack of manpower, I say we can that detail.”

“We’ll come back to that in a minute. Anything else?”

“Charlie Horton and Trish Marks’s homicide investigation into Hogan and Cruz’s murders went nowhere. For all practical purposes, they’ve pretty much cold-cased the Þ les. I got nothing from talking to the guys in narco about what Jimmy was into—nothing that we didn’t get from the Þ rst round of interviews, anyhow. If someone there was running him, no one knew who it was. More likely, he was reporting directly to the feds and giving everyone else just enough to avoid suspicion.”

“I’ll take another run at Clark myself,” Rebecca said stonily. “If he’s holding something back now, then he’d better have a very good reason for it.”

Watts muttered a disparaging observation about Clark’s lineage, then continued, “The only other thing I got was the possible lead at Port Authority.”

“Go ahead and Þ ll in the others,” Rebecca advised.

Watts recounted his trip to the property room, his discovery of a few of Hogan’s unÞ led papers, and the undercover detective’s interest

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in activity at the Port of Philadelphia. “We’re gonna take a run down there today to check things out.”

Rebecca studied Sloan, who had a faint frown line between her brows. “What do you think?”

“I suppose it’s possible that Hogan tripped onto something illegal on the docks that got him killed. Stolen cars coming in by boat, a drug shipment, wholesale-container thefts—there’s a lot of merchandise moving on those docks every day. It’s not that difÞ cult to divert a tractor-trailer full of electronics or other pricey commodities to a warehouse somewhere. One ‘misplaced’ shipment among hundreds every day is going to take a while to catch anyone’s attention.”

“That’s what we think too,” Rebecca said. “At least it’s a plausible explanation for why someone would be willing to risk killing two cops.

Protecting an operation as lucrative as that could be worth it.”

“It won’t be all that easy to prove,” Jason remarked. “Tracking those shipments is going to be time-consuming.”

Rebecca gave a feral grin. “I Þ gure there has to be a way to do it by computer.”

Both Sloan’s and Jason’s eyes sparkled. In unison they said,

“Maybe.”

“Let’s get a feel for the situation down there, and then we’ll put some pressure on Port Authority to let us have a look into their system.”

Watts snorted. “That could take some doing. Port Authority cops aren’t always the most cooperative.”

That was, Rebecca knew, an unfortunate fact. More often than not, law enforcement agencies were not terribly forthcoming when it came to sharing intelligence. Sometimes not even about sharing basic operational information. What it came down to was that everyone protected their own turf in an attempt to ensure the longevity of their own positions. “We’ll be…insistent.”

That idea seemed to please Watts, because he grinned and crossed his hands over his belly, a contented man. Rebecca nodded in Sloan’s direction. “Go ahead.”

Sloan gave no sign of tension, other than her Þ sts clenched around the coffee mug, as she spoke in a level, quiet tone. “The network connecting the various departments at Police Plaza and City Hall is lousy with worms and viruses. Someone has been monitoring almost

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everything that goes on down there…I can’t say exactly for how long…

but more than a year.”

“That takes sophisticated computer know-how,” Mitchell said.

“You’re right. And I doubt that anyone inside the system could do it. I haven’t seen any sign of that level of internal expertise. I’d say the job was probably shipped out to a hacker who programmed the malicious code on a laptop and then handed that off to someone who worked inside. They carried the laptop into the building, connected it to the network, and let the beasts loose.”

“The Mob has the resources to pull off something like that,” Jason observed.

“They do. On the other hand,” Sloan said as she kept her eyes on Rebecca, “so do the feds. It’s hard to know who your enemies are anymore.”

“Can you Þ nd out who’s behind it?”

“Not directly,” Sloan admitted. “If the programs were encrypted off-site and delivered from a remote location via laptop, the hacker is essentially untraceable.”

Watts groaned.

“But I can trackback to the internal source of the contamination.”

“To whoever logged in to the network and injected the virus into the system,” Mitchell said.

“Right.” Sloan sipped her coffee, careful to keep the tremor from her hand. “George Beecher. The ADA.”

“Son of a bitch,” Watts whispered. He suddenly sat up straighter, his palms ß at on the tabletop, his attention riveted to Rebecca. “Can we pick up the slimy little bastard? I’d like to get him alone in a room.”

“Sloan?” Rebecca countered. “Is there enough for a warrant?”

Sloan shook her head. “Right now, all I can do is show that his computer was the source point for the intrusion. His attorneys would simply argue that that kind of evidence is circumstantial. Anyone could’ve logged on to his computer when he wasn’t around and uploaded the malicious code.”

“Are we even sure it’s him?” Rebecca asked, all too aware that Sloan was barely able to be objective, given the situation. She wasn’t surprised when Sloan stiffened, her eyes growing cool.

“I’ve now tracked two intrusions from two different network

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points—Captain Henry’s ofÞ ce and the forensics lab—back to him.

Give me enough time, I’ll Þ nd you a dozen.”

“It still doesn’t prove that he personally is responsible.”

“Then maybe we should pay him a visit,” Sloan said ß atly.

“And…ask.”

Mitchell shifted subtly in her seat, then said, “What we need is corroborative evidence. Maybe Jason and I can Þ nd some connection in Beecher’s personal data that will strengthen our case.” She gave Jason a questioning look. “What if we really hit him hard—dig down another layer. If it’s him, we’ll Þ nd hidden bank accounts somewhere. Real estate transactions. Stocks. Unaccounted-for expenditures. Something.”

“We can phish him too,” Jason thought aloud. “See if we can get him to bite on a fake request for credit card information from one of the Internet video porn sites. If nothing else, we can squeeze him with that.”

“Do it,” Rebecca said. “Today.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Mitchell said, her voice tight with anticipation.

“I’ve got street sources looking for other girls who’ve been hired for the porn shoots,” Rebecca went on. “We’ll show his picture around.

Maybe he likes to sample the merchandise.”

Mitchell stared straight ahead, her posture rigid. Rebecca saw the reaction but noted with satisfaction that this time Mitchell kept her temper in check. It took effort, and Rebecca gave her points for it.

“Watts and I,” Rebecca Þ nished, “will ride down to the docks today and see if we can get a line on what Hogan was chasing down there. Tonight, we’ll take shifts watching Beecher. Sooner or later he’ll misstep.” Rebecca rose, indicating the meeting was over. Turning to Sloan, she said quietly, “Let’s take a walk.”

Wordlessly, Sloan followed her to the elevator. Once inside, Rebecca leaned a shoulder against the wall and slid her hands into her trouser pockets. “Are you going to be able to handle this Beecher situation?”

The elevator doors glided open, and they walked across the garage to the street door. Sloan hit the exit bar with her hip, and the two of them stepped out into bright, cold October sunshine.

“It depends on what happens, I guess,” Sloan Þ nally replied.

“That’s not the answer I was looking for.”

Sloan angled her head and smiled at Rebecca humorlessly. “What

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did you expect me to say? That it would be all right with me if he goes free or cuts a deal? Even if we can Þ nd enough evidence to nail him?”

She wore only an oxford shirt and jeans with no jacket, but the wind did not seem to bother her. “If he walks, you’d best look the other way.”

“You know I won’t.”

“Then I’ll just make sure there’s nothing for you to see.”

“Make sure there’s nothing for me to even think about.” Rebecca stopped walking and put her hand on Sloan’s shoulder. They very rarely touched, and it wasn’t a comforting or even a particularly friendly gesture. But it was an honest one. She squeezed slowly and turned Sloan to face her in the middle of the sidewalk. “I know what you’re feeling.”

“I know that you do,” Sloan said, not resisting the hand that restrained her. “But when someone threatened your lover, you blew his heart out.”

“I’m a cop. I had no choice.”

“We’ll never know that for sure, will we?”

“You know, if you go after this guy on your own, Michael will know.”

For the Þ rst time, anger ß ared in Sloan’s eyes. “You don’t talk to Michael about this.”

“I won’t have to, Sloan.” Rebecca’s tone was level and mild.

“She’ll know. Because…they always do. The women who love us.”

Sloan stood very still, her gaze unwavering. Then, her muscles eased and a genuine smile appeared. “Fuck. They do, don’t they.”

“Yep.” Rebecca dropped her hand and rolled her shoulders, relaxing as she watched Sloan reach a decision. “I promise you this. If it’s him, we’ll get him. We’ll get him now, or tomorrow, or next month.

But he won’t get away with it. You have my word.”

“All right.” Sloan shivered. “So are you done with the interrogation, Lieutenant? Because I’m freezing my ass off out here.”

Laughing, Rebecca gripped Sloan’s shoulder, in camaraderie this time, as they turned to head back. Sloan would keep her word, for Michael.

• 121 •

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CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Rebecca drove south on Delaware Avenue deep into South Philadelphia. The Walt Whitman Bridge to New Jersey

loomed overhead—a huge blue spiderweb, the shadows of vehicles traversing the central span like so many prey struggling to escape. Rush hour was nearly over, and it took less than ten minutes to reach the main gates of the Port of Philadelphia. Rebecca slowed and extended her ID

out the window at the security booth, a four-by-four-foot kiosk with a wooden gate and a single, bored-looking Port Authority ofÞ cer inside.

He ignored them for a full thirty seconds before leaning out and squinting at Rebecca’s badge. “Yeah?”

“Philadelphia police. We’re looking for OfÞ cer…Reiser.”

“That would be Captain Reiser. Building C, all the way in the back. The captain know you’re coming?”

“No. It’s a social call.”

The grizzled ofÞ cer eyed Rebecca laconically. “Uh-huh. Sure.”

Taking his time, he half turned back into the tiny booth, pushed a button that powered the motor to raise the barrier arm, and gave Rebecca a perfunctory nod. “Have a nice day.”

Rebecca proceeded into the complex as Watts muttered, “You have a nice fucking day too. Moron.”

“How do you think we should play this?” Rebecca asked, maneuvering cautiously between rows of gigantic containers that had been off-loaded from ships that morning and awaited transport to the adjoining railroad yard. There they would be stacked on ß atbed cars and shipped up and down the East Coast. The workday was in full swing on the docks, and a multitude of orange forklifts, their front-loaders raised and extended, scurried about like so many ants in a hill. Rebecca began to wish she had driven a department vehicle and not her ’Vette. The last thing she wanted was for one of these teamsters to spear the side of her

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car with a forklift or—worse yet—dump a couple of tons of metal on top of it.

“Well, we could go for typecasting,” Watts suggested helpfully.

“You could be the bad cop, and I’ll be the good cop.”

Rebecca ß icked him a glance, and he looked back, perfectly straight-faced. She grinned. “What’s your next idea.”

“Why not tell this guy we’re just following up on the homicide investigation because Horton and Marks ran out of steam. Since Jeff was one of ours, that would make sense.”

“Yeah. And we just came across these notes and are tying off loose ends. That plays.” Rebecca pulled into a space in a small employee lot in front of an eight-foot chain-link fence that ran parallel to the water as far as the eye could see in both directions. Beyond it, sheet-metal-covered warehouses as big as airplane hangars lined the waterfront.

“Guess we go on foot from here.”

“Christ, it looks like it’s a mile away.” Watts lit a cigarette the instant he stepped from the car.

“At least you’ll get some exercise.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Rebecca watched as a decktop crane on an enormous cargo ship pivoted over the water with a container as big as a Cape Cod cottage swinging from its massive arm. With surprising precision, the operator lowered the loaded storage crate onto the dock at the end of a row of a dozen others exactly like it.

“It’s amazing how they can keep track of anything here. All these cargo ships, hundreds of containers.” Rebecca shook her head. “What a perfect way to smuggle contraband.”

“Special delivery, right to your door,” Watts agreed.

Pointing to one of half a dozen identical buildings distinguished only by six-foot red letters painted on the front of each one, Rebecca said, “This way.”

After they stopped a harried dockworker to ask where the ofÞ ce was, they were directed to a side door leading into the warehouse. Once inside, they followed an unadorned corridor lit by bare ß uorescent tubes dangling on chains toward the interior of the building. Just before the passageway opened into a cavernous space Þ lled with pallets of boxes and more containers, they found the ofÞ ce. The door was open, and Rebecca and Watts stepped inside.

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The top half of one wall of the twenty-by-twenty-foot room was glass, affording anyone inside a view of the interior of the warehouse beyond. File cabinets lined the opposite wall, a metal desk sat in the center of the room, and a small TV stand in one corner held a water-stained coffee machine. A single monitor displaying a view of the dock immediately in front of the building was mounted high in one corner opposite the desk. An African American woman in a spotless uniform sat behind the desk.

She studied them with an expression of curious interest. “Can I help you two?”

“Captain Reiser?” Rebecca asked.

“That’s right.”

“I’m Detective Lieutenant Rebecca Frye, and this is Detective Watts. PPD.”

Reiser pushed back her chair and stood in one ß uid motion, extending her hand. “Detectives,” she said, as she shook each of their hands in turn. Indicating a stack of metal chairs along one wall, she said ruefully, “Grab yourself a seat.”

“Thank you, we’re Þ ne,” Rebecca said.

Seated again, Reiser nodded. “Same question. How can I help you two?”

“We wanted to ask you some questions about Detective Jimmy Hogan.”

Reiser’s expression didn’t change. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“Somebody put a bullet in his head down here about six months ago,” Watts said conversationally.

“Ah, yes. Him and another police ofÞ cer. I’m sorry.”

“We thought you might be able to tell us what he was doing down here.” Rebecca’s tone was casual. Friendly. But her ice blue eyes were sharply appraising.

“Is there some reason you think I might know?” Reiser replied, her expression equally relaxed and her deep chocolate eyes just as intent as she scrutinized Rebecca.

“Watts,” Rebecca said softly.

Watts reached into his rumpled tweed jacket and extracted three creased sheets of paper. Wordlessly, he leaned forward and deposited them in the center of Captain Reiser’s desk.

After only an instant’s hesitation, the Port Authority captain

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picked up the pages and scanned each one in turn. Then she read them again. Finally, she placed them back in the same position that Watts had deposited them. “He called on the phone. Said he was working with the Harbor Patrol and that they were trying to track ships suspected of illegally dumping waste after they’d left port. Garbage mostly, sometimes industrial items.” Frowning, she swiveled her chair and stared through the glass partition into the dimly lit, crowded warehouse beyond. “I think he had a list of ships—he wanted their schedules, port-of-origin information, and manifests.”

Rebecca felt a spark of excitement. Hogan had been on to something down here. Almost certainly something involving cargo, since the Harbor Patrol story was completely fabricated. While technically a division of the PPD, the men and women who policed the waterways were much more closely tied to the Port Authority than to the city police. There was very little overlap in assignments.

“Any reason you didn’t report this before?” Watts questioned, his voice rough with irritation.

Reiser met his gaze steadily. “I didn’t make the connection. I remember the call now that you show me the list, because at the time I thought it was an unusual request. Usually the Harbor Patrol is more interested in civilian waterway violations, not commercial.” She frowned. “I recall pulling some of the manifests. But, for some reason, the name Hogan doesn’t ring a bell.” She shook her head. “No—I think I would have put it together when those two cops were gunned down.

So maybe it wasn’t him.”

“Your name’s in those reports, Captain.”

“Yes. I see that.” She still seemed more curious than alarmed.

“What’s this all about?”

Rebecca studied the other woman. Reiser looked to be in her late thirties or early forties, tall and solidly built. Her attitude was one of quiet conÞ dence, and Rebecca didn’t get the sense that she was hiding anything from them or was even particularly concerned about their visit. Rebecca made a decision. “We think something Hogan stumbled onto down here got him killed.”

Immediately, Reiser sat forward, her hands clasped on the desk, her face severely intent. “What kind of thing?”

Rebecca shook her head. “We don’t know. We were hoping that you would.”

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“Maybe the three of us should take a walk.” Without waiting for their answer, she stood and pulled a black wool overcoat from an aluminum coat stand in the corner. Shrugging into it, she eyed Watts’s sport coat and Rebecca’s silk blazer. “You two are going to freeze out there. The wind off the water is going to make it feel like twenty degrees.”

“We’ll be Þ ne,” Rebecca assured her. Watts just grunted.

“Good enough.”

Watts and Rebecca followed Reiser as she led them from the ofÞ ce, through the warehouse, and out the rear to a loading dock. She hadn’t exaggerated. A brisk wind blew off the water, whipping their clothes and penetrating to skin with the ease of a knife blade. A cargo ship blocked their view of the river as it rode low in the water, laden with containers stacked ten high on the deck.

“Three thousand ships load and off-load at the Port of Philadelphia every year.” Reiser shouted to be heard above the wind. “We handle more than one quarter of the entire North Atlantic District’s annual tonnage, making us the fourth-largest port in the U.S. for imported merchandise.”

As she spoke, another container swung out from the deck of the ship on the end of the crane arm toward a waiting truck. Reiser pointed up at the crane.

“That’s a three-hundred-seventy-Þ ve-ton container crane—one of the largest in use anywhere. We handle bulk merchandise, containers, automobiles, perishable goods—a broader range of imports than almost any other U.S. port.” She hunched her shoulders inside her heavy regulation coat. “Four hundred and twenty-Þ ve trucking companies pick up and transport out of here on a regular basis.”

She led them back under the shelter of the warehouse eaves. “Do a few crates fall off the back of a truck now and then? Probably. We have a central computer system with a staff of ten who do nothing but cross-check bills of lading, ports of origin, and destinations against incoming and outgoing manifests. Do we check each barrel, crate, and container?

No. They’ve been cleared by Customs at the point of origin, and U.S.

Customs agents do visual inspections upon arrival.”

“We’re not suggesting any of your people are at fault, Captain,”

Rebecca interjected.

Reiser scanned the area. They were surrounded by dockworkers,

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but no one paid them any attention. “The majority of personnel you see are civilians—longshoremen, teamsters, truckers. They don’t work for or answer to me.”

“Who do they work for?” Watts questioned.

“The unions.” Reiser held Watts’s gaze. “Supposedly.”

“Huh.” Watts looked as if he smelled something unpleasant. “And we know who they answer to.”

Rebecca made no comment, watching Reiser, attempting to decipher just how much the captain really knew of organized crime’s presence on the waterfront. Or how much of what she knew she would share. But she clearly had not wanted to have this conversation in plain sight of the workers in the warehouse. So there’s something she suspects, at least.

“I don’t know what your man found, Lieutenant,” Reiser said empathically, Þ nally turning to Rebecca. “If anything. I’m not saying there’s nothing to Þ nd. What I am saying is if there’s anything big to Þ nd, we would know.”

“So if someone swipes a load of goods bigger than an armload, you’ll know about it,” Watts summarized.

Reiser smiled ß eetingly. “Well, let’s say bigger than a truckload.

Obviously, vehicles are checked upon exiting the compound, but off the record, I wouldn’t swear that a case here or there doesn’t end up in someone’s backseat.”

“I doubt that something like that would have interested Jimmy Hogan,” Rebecca said. “What about drugs?”

“Imports from South America make up a large percentage of the trafÞ c here. Again, the merchandise is checked at the point of origin, and Customs clears it here. Is there a bag of cocaine tucked into a crate of coffee somewhere? Possibly, but large scale? Doubtful.”

“But not impossible,” Watts said.

“No,” Reiser agreed. “Not impossible.”

“Is there anything about the particular information that Hogan requested that raises a ß ag for you?” Rebecca asked.

“Not offhand, but why don’t you leave me copies of those requests, and I’ll look them over again. If something clicks, I’ll call you.”

“Good enough. Appreciate it, Captain.” Rebecca extended her hand, and they shook.

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Five minutes later, Rebecca slowed for the same taciturn guard at the security post, who waved them through with barely a glance.

“You think she’s straight?” Watts asked.

“I do,” Rebecca replied immediately. “What’s your take?”

“She’s careful, but something was bothering her. Because nobody likes to freeze their balls off for no good reason.”

“Yeah, that little trip outside had to be because she didn’t want anyone seeing her cozying up to us.”

“Well, she didn’t tell us much.”

Rebecca was silent for a full minute. “She seemed pretty certain that something big wouldn’t get by her—or her people.”

“I think there’s a hell of a lot of stuff moving in and out of that port every day, and I don’t care how many computer jockeys they’ve got watching it—stuff has to disappear.”

“I agree. But why would Jimmy Hogan care?”

“Could be Zamora is moving stolen merchandise through there.

Maybe using the proceeds to underwrite his drug operation. Jimmy could’ve gotten wind of it, started poking around.” Watts drummed his heavy Þ ngers on the dash. “That tends to make people suspicious.”

Rebecca nodded, slowing for a light at the turn onto I-95. “So how does Jeff come into it?”

“Cruz and Hogan were tight, right? From the academy? And Jimmy passed Jeff intel before when he wasn’t going to act on it himself.”

Watts shifted and tried to stretch his legs in the narrow space beneath the Corvette’s dash. “Jimmy couldn’t afford to be involved in any kind of bust that involved Zamora, because it would blow his cover.”

“It still comes back to Jimmy, and what he knew.” Rebecca sighed.

“We need to get as close to Zamora’s organization as we can.”

“Well, we’ve got two ways in already.” Watt’s tone suggested that he wasn’t all that happy about the fact. “Our boy Mitch and his cute little squeeze.”

Mitchell and Sandy. Rebecca suppressed another sigh. A wet-behind-the-ears detective and a smart-mouthed streetwalker.

Wonderful.

• 129 •

• 130 •

Justice Served

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Sandy emerged from the bedroom, sleepy-eyed and fuzzy-headed in pink satin bikinis and one of Mitchell’s T-shirts.

Shufß ing through the quiet loft toward the kitchen, she yawned and stretched, baring a long expanse of hip and belly. The quiet voice from across the room made her jump.

“Good morning,” Michael said.

“Jesus,” Sandy blurted, pivoting in Michael’s direction. The other woman sat on a tall stool at the angled draftsman’s table next to a computer console bearing two widescreen monitors. “Man. I didn’t think anyone was here.”

“I just came home an hour ago.” Michael smiled ruefully. “I knew that Sloan would be working late, so I stayed at Sarah’s last night. Jason brought me back early this morning. I’m sorry. Did I scare you?”

“Uh-uh,” Sandy replied, still breathless. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to bother you.” She started to backpedal toward the guest room, but Michael shook her head.

“You’re not bothering me. I was just thinking of taking a break.

Tea?”

Sandy made a face but managed to stiß e a groan. “Uh, I think it better be coffee this morning.”

“Late night?” Michael asked conversationally, her smile friendly.

“Yeah, sort of.” Sandy thought of Dell, and how upset she’d been after the visit from her sister, and of what she had seemed to need so desperately from Sandy. Sandy had made love to her for hours, Dell reaching for her again and again in the night, until they’d both collapsed from exhaustion. Dell had slept with her head nestled to Sandy’s breast, their arms and legs entwined. Sandy had never before experienced sex as healing, and knowing that she had given her lover something that no one else could made her feel powerful and nearly overcome with awe.

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“Working?”

Sandy jumped, the question resounding in the air. “No. Not last night.”

Michael slid from the stool and crossed the loft to Sandy’s side.

“How about that coffee? I think there are some scones left from yesterday. Interested?”

“Sure.” Sandy paused a beat, then asked hurriedly, “Do you and Sloan talk about…everything?”

Struck by the serious note in Sandy’s voice, Michael halted. “I think so. Sometimes, it takes one of us longer to say what we need to than it should, but eventually we get there. Why?”

“So, did Sloan tell you what I do?”

“Do? Oh! You mean for work?”

“Uh-huh.” Despite feeling very vulnerable, standing half naked in front of a woman so privileged and sophisticated that Sandy doubted she’d ever even seen the strip at night, Sandy kept her head up and her eyes on Michael’s.

“No, she hasn’t.” Michael’s voice held a note of curiosity.

“I’m a prostitute.”

“That’s something Sloan would consider yours to tell,” Michael said gently, her expression holding no trace of censure. She touched Sandy’s arm ß eetingly, then turned toward the kitchen. “Coffee?”

“Oh yeah. Bad.” Sandy padded after her, barefoot. Funny, how getting the truth out in the open made her feel better. It mattered what Michael thought—because she liked her, and she knew that Dell did too. But mostly it felt good not to hide.

Michael crossed to the counter along the wall and assembled the makings for French-press coffee. As she worked, she said, “Is it something you decide? Or just something that happens?”

Sandy settled on a stool at the breakfast bar opposite Michael and hooked her toes over one of the wooden rungs. “A little of both, I guess.

After a while, you run out of choices. Or at least…choices that won’t kill you pretty fast.”

“Is that how it was for you?” Michael poured boiling water into the coffeepot, set the kettle carefully back on the burner, and turned, her hips resting along the edge of the tiled counter.

If there had been the slightest hint of condescension or even pity in Michael’s tone, Sandy might not have answered. But what she heard,

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besides gentle interest, was a subtle sense of caring that what Sandy had to say mattered. Even Dell had not asked. Sandy smiled. “Dell and me…we’re pretty into each other, you know?”

Michael nodded, containing a smile. She was glad for the fact that the loft, despite its open design, had well-insulated, private sleeping quarters, because even with the distance between their bedrooms, now and then she heard an ecstatic cry or a desperate groan. “Every time I’ve seen you two together, I’ve had the sense that she was crazy about you.”

Sandy’s face lit up. “Yeah? You think?”

“Oh yeah,” Michael said with a grin.

“She’s never asked me why I do it.”

The seeming non sequitur did not disturb Michael. She reached for the strainer for the French press and pushed the coffee grounds to the bottom of the pot. As she poured steaming, rich coffee into two mugs, she said, “She’s probably waiting for you to tell her.”

“You asked.”

Michael crossed to the breakfast island and handed Sandy the coffee. Edging onto the adjacent stool, she blew on the steam wafting from her mug. “I’m not in love with you.”

Sandy sipped the coffee and considered Michael’s words. “That changes things, doesn’t it.”

“Being in love?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Oh, yes. It changes everything.”

“The only thing I had that was worth anything was my body.”

Sandy said it matter-of-factly, without rancor. “I could’ve traded it for drugs and a place to ß op—being stoned would’ve made some things a lot easier…well, at least, I wouldn’t have known if they were bad or not.” She laughed hollowly. “But I decided I’d rather have the money and maybe a life.”

“It looks like you made the right choice.” Michael leaned past Sandy for a basket of scones and drew it near. She indicated the pastries to Sandy. “Hungry?”

“Yeah.” Sandy helped herself. “Dell doesn’t like it.”

“I imagine,” Michael said quietly. “It must be very dangerous, isn’t it?”

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Sandy shrugged. “Maybe, if you’re not careful. I’m careful.” She sighed. “But I haven’t really been working for a while.”

“You quit?”

“I don’t know about that,” Sandy said hastily. “I mean, I have to make money, so I’m not sure I quit quit. But…it really bothers her.

And…I know what happens sooner or later to everyone in the life.”

“Does she know?”

Sandy shook her head.

“How come you haven’t told her?”

“Because what if I go back?” Sandy broke off a piece of the scone and nibbled on it. “She’ll be…disappointed.”

Michael placed her coffee cup carefully on the breakfast bar. She leaned forward, curling her Þ ngers around Sandy’s forearm, stroking softly. “She loves you. She won’t stop.”

Eyes clouded by fears she couldn’t voice, Sandy Þ nally said hesitantly, “You know, tomorrow is the ceremony for her promotion thing. It’s kind of a big deal.”

“Mmm. I know. Are you going?”

Sandy shrugged. “She asked me to.”

“Well?”

Sandy squirmed and looked past Michael at nothing in particular.

“I dunno.”

“What’s stopping you?” Michael persisted, keeping her hand lightly on Sandy’s arm.

“I won’t Þ t in.” She blew out an irritated breath. “You think I can go there and everyone won’t know I’m a whore? Jesus, like that should matter to me.”

“That’s not who you are,” Michael said Þ rmly, never raising her voice. “You’re not deÞ ned by what you’ve had to do to survive. Nor by the mistakes that you may have made.”

Sandy narrowed her eyes at the note of Þ erce intensity in Michael’s cultured tones. She knew that appearances rarely told the whole story; some of the most violent johns were well-dressed, well-spoken men.

Michael seemed like the most together woman Sandy had ever met, but Sandy could still hear the pain in her voice. Something or someone had hurt her badly once.

“I don’t have anything to wear.”

Michael laughed. “Well, that’s something we can easily Þ x.”

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“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Michael stood and slipped her hand into Sandy’s, giving her a tug. When Sandy stepped to the ß oor, Michael wrapped an arm around her waist. “Let’s go shopping.”

v

“You don’t say anything unless I ask for your report,” Rebecca said with Þ nality.

Sloan snarled.

“Or you don’t sit in.”

“Okay, okay,” Sloan muttered. “Jesus.”

Watts, looking pleased, said nothing as the three of them walked through the detective squad room toward Captain Henry’s ofÞ ce.

Sloan eyed him dangerously. “You have something to say?”

His grin broadening, Watts held up his hands in surrender. “Not me.”

The fact that Rebecca pushed open the door to Henry’s ofÞ ce forestalled Sloan’s retort. Sloan looked past her to the men in the room and stiffened. Henry sat in his customary place behind his broad desk.

Avery Clark, clad in the federal agent’s requisite uniform of dark suit, pale blue shirt, and rep tie, leaned against the Þ le cabinets a few feet from Henry’s desk with his arms crossed over his chest. His gaze ß ickered over each of the new arrivals as they entered the room, his expression registering nothing.

“Have a seat,” Henry said, indicating the mismatched, armless chairs fronting his desk.

Rebecca and Watts complied, but Sloan moved to the wall opposite Clark and rested an elbow on top of a small watercooler. From there, she could look directly at Clark, which she did. She’d learned long ago never to give Þ eld advantage to an adversary, and she wasn’t at all convinced that Clark was on their team.

“You’ve had some developments in the case, Lieutenant?” Henry asked of Rebecca.

“In one aspect of the case, yes, sir. We believe we’ve identiÞ ed the source of the leak in the department. We also think the same individual was involved in the attempt on Sloan’s life.”

Henry’s eyes glinted. “Let’s hear it.”

• 135 •

RADCLY fFE

“Sloan?” Rebecca requested.

Still leaning against the watercooler, Sloan reviewed their investigation, starting with the premise that only those people who’d had advance knowledge of the plan to trap one of the midlevel Internet porn distributors could have Þ ngered her for execution. She described the process by which they’d eliminated the suspects, conveniently leaving out the fact that Henry had been one of them.

“A few days ago, I found several computer traces that led back to Beecher as the likely source of the network intrusions. In all likelihood, someone is accessing his computer regularly from a remote location and using it as the portal into the entire law enforcement system. Your Þ les are open books.”

Looking as if he had been carved from stone, Henry angled his body toward Clark. “We’ll need to go right to the district attorney, seeing that Beecher’s one of hers. This is going to be very messy.”

“Computer evidence alone often isn’t enough to convince a DA to bring charges.” Clark spoke softly, his posture relaxed. He didn’t look at Sloan when he spoke but directed his comments to Henry as if they were alone in the room.

Sloan stiffened and took a step forward. “How did I know you—”

“Sir,” Rebecca interjected, cutting off Sloan in midsentence,

“we’re in the process of gathering further documentation of Beecher’s involvement in the Internet pornography operation.”

Watts cast her a sidelong glance, but said nothing.

“We only wanted to bring you up to speed on these developments in case things move quickly and we need a warrant.” Glancing at Clark and then back to Henry, she added, “Appreciating, sir, that this situation could be…delicate.”

Everyone in the room knew that only Clark was immune from the politics of this situation and that Henry was likely to be the messenger Þ rst in line to be shot.

“And I appreciate your concern, Lieutenant,” Henry said dryly.

He turned to Sloan. “How solid is your evidence?”

“Rock,” Sloan said ß atly.

“Good.” Henry nodded as if pleased before addressing Rebecca.

“I’ll give you the weekend to put together a package I can take to—”

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“I’m not so sure we want to take Beecher out of the picture,” Clark interjected quietly.

“Why aren’t I surprised,” Sloan snapped.

“I’m not saying not to take him,” Clark said. “But for now, he’s our best chance of discovering who’s really behind this. He’s obviously not working solo.”

“So we bring him in and sweat him,” Watts suggested. “A guy like that, not used to rough handling? Verbally…I mean,” he said with a sly smile. “And he’ll tell us everything he knows.”

“You’re probably right, detective.” Clark spoke with the merest hint of condescension. “But what about what he doesn’t know? Once we have him, whoever is running him will start covering their tracks. If we somehow lose that connection, all we have is a dirty ADA. Small fry.”

“Who was involved in a murder attempt that was almost successful,” Sloan said through gritted teeth. “Beecher needs to go down for that.”

“That and a lot more, Sloan.” Clark Þ nally met her gaze squarely, and for the Þ rst time, his voice had lost its friendly edge too. “Have you forgotten how it works?”

Sloan quivered with the effort to contain her temper. “You know I haven’t.”

“Then make the case and set your personal issues aside.”

“My personal issues are still struggling to recover from the hit-and-run.” Sloan’s voice was ice.

When Sloan took another step in Clark’s direction, Rebecca bolted up, blocking Sloan’s path. “That’s exactly what we plan to do, Captain.

Nail this down tight. We’ve got Mr. McBride, our other computer consultant, and Detective Mitchell working on additional evidence tying Beecher to the pornography operation. Watts and I have been tailing him, but we could use some extra help on that.”

“Done. I’ll assign twenty-four-hour coverage.”

“We’ll need photos,” Clark said, his tone calm and even again.

For the Þ rst time, Henry looked annoyed. “We do know how to run surveillance in Philadelphia, Agent Clark.”

Clark merely smiled. “Of course.”

“What else have you got cooking, Lieutenant?” Henry asked.

• 137 •

RADCLY fFE

Rebecca lifted her shoulder. “We’re exploring a number of avenues, sir.”

A ß icker of amusement crossed Henry’s face and was quickly gone. “Then I’ll expect you to keep me apprised of your progress along those lines.”

“Of course,” Rebecca replied. With a nod to Clark, she moved toward the door, Sloan and Watts close behind. Once outside, with the door Þ rmly closed behind them, she muttered, “Let’s get out of here.”

“I’ll be in the ESU,” Sloan snapped and strode away.

Watts looked after her and grunted. “She’s gonna snap Clark in two someday.”

“We need to see she doesn’t,” Rebecca said quietly.

“Us and whose army?”

“She’ll hold,” Rebecca said, hoping that she was right.

• 138 •

Justice Served

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

You look like you’re walking more easily,” Catherine observed as Mitchell crossed the room to her customary seat in the chair opposite Catherine’s desk. “How’s the leg doing?”

“It’s Þ ne. Almost good as new.”

Even had she not been trained to hear the unspoken words and decipher the subtle signals that people telegraphed without meaning to, Catherine would have been hard-pressed to miss Mitchell’s distress.

The normally strong planes of her face were hollow and drawn, her vibrant deep blue eyes shadowed and dull. Even the timbre of her voice rang with pain.

“You’ll be seeing Dr. Torveau for another evaluation tomorrow?”

Mitchell nodded, almost too weary to speak. She drew a breath and forced herself to deal with the one issue that really mattered. “I need the paperwork Þ lled out for the lieutenant. About my duty status.”

“Yes, I know.” Catherine pushed her chair back a few inches from her desk and crossed her legs, relaxed but attentive. With a gentle smile, she asked, “I take it you’re ready to return?”

“DeÞ nitely. I’m going stir-crazy.”

“But you’ve been keeping busy, correct? Working with Jason?”

Again, Mitchell signaled assent with a twitch of her shoulder.

“Dellon,” Catherine said quietly. “Want to tell me what’s going on?”

Mitchell considered her options, which were few—that is, in addition to the truth. Denial, lying, or evasion. She contemplated those choices. Perhaps if it had been the Þ rst time she’d been in this situation with Catherine Rawlings, she wouldn’t even have hesitated.

She would have said “nothing.” Things had changed, and she hadn’t even noticed. It was harder for her to keep what bothered her inside.

It was harder for her to keep people on the outside. Part of that was a

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result of the support she had gotten the Þ rst time she’d been forced into therapy with Catherine. Despite her initial discomfort and anger at her powerlessness, she’d found understanding and an unexpected surcease from pain when she’d shared her feelings.

And then there was Sandy.

Sandy, who had managed to step over, circumnavigate, or simply crash through every barrier she’d imposed, with a single sharp word or tender glance. Last night—last night all she’d wanted was for Sandy to keep touching her, because with Sandy inside her, there was no room for anything else. Mitchell took a shuddering breath.

“I was forced to resign my commission in the Army.”

Although the revelation was completely unexpected, Catherine’s expression indicated only compassionate interest and none of her surprise. “Forced. So it wasn’t voluntary?”

“In theory, I had a choice. It was simple—take an honorable discharge or be court-martialed.” Mitchell laughed hollowly and shook her head. “Some choice.”

“What were the circumstances?”

Mitchell rubbed her face vigorously with both hands and then dropped her arms back to the armrests, her Þ ngers limp. “I assaulted a superior ofÞ cer.”

“Male or female?”

“A man.”

“Assaulted how?”

“I punched him. Hard enough to put him in the hospital overnight.”

“Tell me how that came about.” Catherine had seen Mitchell with Rebecca and knew how deeply ingrained her respect for hierarchical authority was. Whatever had prompted her to break rank in such an excessive fashion must have been extreme.

“He was trying to…he forced himself…on a woman.”

“You stopped a rape?” Catherine asked incredulously. “And for that, you were threatened with court-martial?”

“It wasn’t a rape…yet. He was just…” Mitchell swallowed, the memory still so clear. Her stomach churned with rage and revulsion, just as it had that night. “He was just touching her.” He had his hands on her breasts, his mouth on her neck. He was pressing himself into her.

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Justice Served

“Against her will?”

Mitchell nodded.

“Then I don’t…I’m sorry. I don’t understand,” Catherine said intently. “Why were you at fault?”

“She was my lover.”

Oh, Dellon. Catherine rose and walked around the desk to the chair beside Mitchell’s. She did not touch her, but angled in the seat so that she could look directly into Mitchell’s face. “Tell me about her.”

v

Laughing, Michael stepped out of the elevator, her arms Þ lled with packages. Sandy followed close behind, saying, “I can’t believe the look on her face when you told her I was your girlfriend.”

“Well,” Michael said, still irritated by the saleswoman’s superior attitude, “she was so clearly trying to eavesdrop on our conversation, I just thought I’d help her out.”

“You were great…” Sandy trailed off as she noticed the woman standing across the room by the windows. “Hey, Sloan.”

“Hi, Sandy.”

Surprised, Michael deposited the spoils of their trip on the sofa and went to her lover. “Darling? I didn’t expect to see you this afternoon.”

Sloan smiled and kissed Michael’s cheek. “Missed you last night.”

Michael brushed her Þ ngers through Sloan’s hair, studying her lover’s eyes. “Did you get any sleep at all?”

“A few hours.”

From across the room, Sandy called, “I’m gonna unpack these and then take off for a while. I have some errands to run for Dell.”

“Don’t put them where she might see them,” Michael said. “Use the closet down the hall.”

Sandy grinned. “Gotcha.”

Once alone, Michael twined her arms around Sloan’s waist and settled against her. “Tired?”

“No.” Sloan smoothed her hands up and down Michael’s back, loving the feel of silk sliding over even softer skin, reveling in the warmth beneath her Þ ngertips. When she’d left Henry’s ofÞ ce and gone back to the ESU, she’d thought she’d be able to work. Thought the

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work would quench the anger, as it had so often in the past, but this time was different. She couldn’t concentrate. All she’d been able to think about had been Michael—almost dying, and the horrible void that had Þ lled her heart and mind for those few terrible hours. Unconsciously, she tightened her hold on the woman in her arms.

Michael leaned back enough to look into Sloan’s eyes. There was turmoil in their depths. “What is it?”

Sloan rested her forehead against Michael’s. “Nothing. I love you.”

“What did you do this morning?” When no answer was

forthcoming, Michael stroked the back of Sloan’s neck and kissed her gently. “Sloan?”

“Just a brieÞ ng with Rebecca and some of the hotshots in the department.”

“Problems?”

Sloan shook her head.

“Progress, then?”

“Some.” Sloan stiffened as she thought about what she had learned.

“I know who hurt you. At least who set it up.”

Michael gasped. “How?”

“I tracked him through the computer system at Police Plaza.”

“You know his name?”

“Yes.”

“A police ofÞ cer?”

“An ADA. He’s probably Mob connected—I don’t know how just yet.”

“Has he been arrested?”

“No.” The bitterness in Sloan’s voice lay heavy in the air.

Michael cupped her Þ ngers along the sharp angle of Sloan’s jaw, sensitive to the tight muscles quivering beneath the smooth, pale skin.

Now she understood why Sloan had come home in the middle of the day, in the middle of a big case. Something she would ordinarily never do. She was in pain. “You know what I’d like?”

“What?” Sloan’s voice was husky, her hands terribly gentle as they rested in the soft curve above Michael’s hips.

“I’d like to go to a movie, and then out somewhere for dinner, and then come home and spend the rest of the night in your arms.” Her

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Þ ngers trembled faintly as she traced their tips over Sloan’s mouth.

“Can we do that?”

Sloan buried her hands in Michael’s soft golden hair before lowering her mouth to Michael’s. After she’d Þ lled her mind with the touch and taste of her lover, she whispered, “Yes. Always for you, yes.”

v

Catherine stepped from her car and turned at the sound of her name. Smiling, she leaned a hip against the fender and watched Rebecca coming toward her, a pizza box balanced in one hand. Under the streetlights, Rebecca’s blond hair glinted. Her blazer swung open, revealing the long line of her chest and hips. Catherine’s heart skipped a beat, and she felt the familiar tingling that always accompanied the Þ rst sight of her lover.

“How did you know I’d be home now?” Catherine asked as Rebecca drew near.

“I’m a detective.” At the sight of Catherine’s raised brow, Rebecca grinned. “I called Joyce, and she told me when you’d be Þ nished.”

“Mmm. Good thinking.” Catherine wrapped her arm around Rebecca’s waist as they strolled down the sidewalk side by side. “You need to start wearing an overcoat, darling.”

Rebecca kissed Catherine’s cheek. “Why? Is it going to snow?”

“It feels cold enough to.”

“I’m Þ ne.”

“Is there some rule about police ofÞ cers not wearing coats?”

“I don’t like them. Too conÞ ning.”

You think it will get in the way of you reaching your gun, don’t you?

Catherine had noticed that whenever they walked together, Rebecca took the street side, as if shielding her. She was also very aware that no matter where they were, Rebecca constantly scanned the surroundings, looking for something or someone out of place. It wasn’t a question of Rebecca always working, it was simply that Rebecca was always a cop.

And in that regard, there was no middle ground. “If you won’t wear an overcoat, then you need to switch to wool blazers. The silk is not heavy enough for this time of year.”

Rebecca laughed. “If that will make you happy, I will. Except

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they’re still in storage from last winter. It might be a week or so before I have time to retrieve them.”

“Give me the tickets, and I’ll pick them up for you.”

“You don’t have to,” Rebecca said as they climbed the stairs to Catherine’s brownstone.

“I want to. That’s all a part of our being together.”

Inside, Catherine shed her coat and briefcase as Rebecca took the pizza into the kitchen. A moment later, Catherine joined her. She made an appreciative sound as Rebecca opened a bottle of cabernet and Þ lled a glass for her.

“This is wonderful,” Catherine sighed after her Þ rst sip of the dark wine.

With a contented groan, Rebecca leaned her hips against the counter, arms outstretched on either side, her Þ ngers curled around the edge, enjoying Catherine’s pleasure. “Better than wonderful.”

Appreciating the way the Þ ne, pale linen stretched across Rebecca’s chest, Catherine nodded. “It’s the Þ rst night you’ve been home for dinner all week. We should celebrate.”

Rebecca patted the pizza box. “That’s what I thought too.”

Catherine took another swallow of wine and set the glass on the small butcher block next to the stove. Then she stepped up to Rebecca and placed her hands on the counter inside of Rebecca’s, trapping her lover between her arms. “I wasn’t thinking about food.”

With Catherine pressed along her length, Rebecca remained motionless, content for Catherine to lead. “Not hungry?”

“Well,” Catherine murmured as she slid her hands over Rebecca’s back, “I am, but I was thinking of pizza for the second course.”

“I like cold pizza.” Rebecca tilted her head back, offering her throat. She growled softly as Catherine’s teeth caught at her skin. When she raised her hands from the counter to embrace her lover, Catherine grasped her wrists.

“No. Keep them right where they were.” Firmly, Catherine guided Rebecca’s hands back to the curved edge of the counter. Then, as she kept Rebecca pinned with the force of her pelvis between Rebecca’s thighs, she kissed her. Slowly at Þ rst, the tip of her tongue tracing the juncture of lips and moist inner recesses. Then a little harder, a little deeper, until their tongues danced in teasing counterpoint. While she

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savored Rebecca’s mouth, she slipped her hand between them and unbuttoned Rebecca’s shirt.

“Catherine,” Rebecca whispered at the Þ rst touch of Þ ngertips against her breast. With her hands clenched around the edge of the counter, she braced her arms for support. The muscles in her legs trembled as Catherine kissed her, one warm palm kneading her breast, a thumb ß icking at her nipple.

“Mmm,” Catherine moaned as she broke the kiss and dragged her Þ ngernails down the center of Rebecca’s abdomen to her belt. As she deftly slid the leather free of the clasp, she whispered, “So much better than pizza.”

“You make me feel so good,” Rebecca gasped. “You make me forget…everything, except us.” Her head swam as Catherine’s Þ ngers dipped inside her trousers and found her ready. “When you touch me…”

The exquisite pressure left her breathless.

“What?” Catherine’s voice was deep, husky with desire as she kissed the corner of Rebecca’s mouth, her jaw, her neck—one hand inside Rebecca’s shirt, caressing her breasts, the other stroking rhythmically between her legs. “What happens, darling? What?”

Rebecca’s vision wavered as her stomach tightened, her thighs turning to jelly. Her breath came in short pants, and a sound somewhere between a plea and a prayer tore from her throat. “You make me whole.”

“We make… oh God…” Caught unawares by a sudden surge of heat that raced along the inside of her legs and up her spine, Catherine shuddered. Eyes nearly closed, she rested her forehead against Rebecca’s and slipped inside her, never breaking the rhythm of her strokes, only moving deeper, taking more of her. Taking all of her. As she felt Rebecca spasm around her Þ ngers, she whispered, “We make each other whole.”

Long moments later, when Rebecca could speak, she whispered,

“I love when you do that to me.”

Sated by her lover’s pleasure, Catherine nestled her head on Rebecca’s shoulder, arms loosely clasping her waist. Eyes closed, she drifted without thought, only knowing that she was happy. “Mmm. Do what?”

“Just take me, like I’m yours.”

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Catherine raised her head, her eyes still hazy with arousal. “You are mine.”

Rebecca grinned weakly, Þ nding it difÞ cult to control her body, which still felt boneless. “Yeah. I know. But when you have your way with me, I really know.”

“Stick around, detective,” Catherine murmured, nipping at Rebecca’s chin. “It gets better.”

“I don’t see how it could,” Rebecca replied, suddenly serious. She Þ lled her hands with Catherine’s hair, holding her head as she took her mouth with Þ erce intensity. She kissed her, suddenly desperate for the taste of her. When she felt Catherine tremble against her body, she moved her mouth to Catherine’s ear. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Catherine wanted to ask for her promise, but instead, she found Rebecca’s hand and guided her lover’s sensitive Þ ngers underneath the edge of her skirt, along the path her pleasure had streamed earlier, and to the center of her desire. Pressing Rebecca’s Þ ngers through the slick heat, into the waiting heart of her, she had no need for words.

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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Sandy stood by the bedside, watching Mitchell sleep. An open book lay on her chest, the edges of the pages crumpled against her bare breast. Lamplight shone in her face, and she didn’t budge even when Sandy leaned down and kissed her lightly. Moving carefully, Sandy stripped and lifted the sheet to slide in next to the slumbering woman. As she reached to turn off the light, Mitchell stirred.

“Hey, honey,” Mitchell murmured, turning on her side, knocking the book to the ß oor in the process.

“Hi, baby.” Sandy snuggled close, edging her thigh between Mitchell’s. “Go back to sleep.”

“Mmm, in a minute.” With a contented sigh, Mitchell nuzzled Sandy’s neck, inhaling her scent. “Missed you.”

“You and Jason were so into your spy stuff when I left, I wasn’t even sure you heard me say goodbye.”

Mitchell chuckled and wrapped an arm around Sandy’s waist. “I heard you.” She kissed the tender spot below Sandy’s ear. “Everything okay?”

Sandy rubbed her palm back and forth across Mitchell’s chest, Þ nally trailing her Þ ngers over the inner curve of one small, Þ rm breast.

“Yeah.”

“You’re home earlier than usual. S’good.”

“Uh-huh.” Sandy debated sharing the news that she’d run into a girl at the Blue Diamond who’d seen Trudy in the club the night before, asking some of her old friends for a place to crash. After a few more stops in a few more strip joints, Sandy had Þ nally scored a phone number to get a message to Trudy. It wasn’t Trudy’s telephone number, of course. It was a link in a phone-message tree that the street girls often used to thwart their pimps when they were planning to cut out on them or if they just wanted privacy. Rather than risk having their cell phones

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conÞ scated and their messages intercepted, they passed messages from one to the other through a convoluted set of phone relays. Eventually a message would reach its intended recipient, and a callback number or time for a meeting would wend its way back up the tree to whoever had initiated the contact.

Sandy had gotten a return message—with the time and place for a meeting with Trudy the following night. She wasn’t certain their getting together would come to anything, because she didn’t know if the girl had any more information about the video porn ring than she’d already revealed. Still, it was a place to start, and Sandy could at least try to talk Trudy into contacting her if she learned anything new or if she had another offer to do a porn shoot. No way was one police raid going to shut down that kind of business for good. Anything selling sex was impossible to kill.

In the end, she decided that only Frye should know, because that was what the detective was paying her for. She didn’t like keeping anything from Dell, but she didn’t want to get her into trouble, either.

And, she admitted to herself, the less Dell knew about these activities, the better. She’d only worry. Or get protective. And even though Sandy liked the way it felt to have Dell care about her that way, the downside was having Dell get all bent out of shape about it. So she kept silent about the details.

“You okay about tomorrow?” Sandy asked instead, stroking the back of Mitchell’s neck.

“About the promotion ceremony?” Mitchell nuzzled Sandy’s nipple until it hardened, then ß icked at it with her tongue. “Yeah. You’re comin’, right?”

Sandy directed Mitchell’s mouth back to her breast. “Uh-huh.”

“Good,” Mitchell mumbled before devoting herself to sucking Sandy’s nipple to rigid attention.

“Mmm, that’s nice,” Sandy sighed, closing her eyes and savoring the heat that washed through her as Mitchell teased. “Did you hear from your sister today?”

Mitchell stiffened, but kept her mouth to Sandy’s breast. “No.”

“Does she know about tomorrow?”

“Don’t see how.” Mitchell rolled over onto her back.

In the silence that followed, Sandy leaned up on an elbow and

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settled her palm on Mitchell’s abdomen. The muscles beneath her Þ ngers felt like wood. “What did she do to you?”

“Nothing. She was only here an hour or so yesterday.”

“I don’t mean yesterday, Dell,” Sandy said impatiently. “I mean before. Whenever.”

“Look, Sandy, honey—”

“It’s like a splinter, Dell. You gotta pull it out, no matter how much it hurts.”

Mitchell laughed—a short, hard sound. “Jesus. First in therapy, now in bed. I can’t get away from old history.”

“You did, though, right?” Sandy smoothed her hand in slow circles, not the way she did when she wanted to get Dell hot, but the way she gentled her after she’d already made her come. Coaxing the clenched muscles to relax, Sandy continued softly, “Get away from it, I mean. All this time that you haven’t seen her—you’ve been keeping all of this stuff deep down inside somewhere.”

“How do you know that?” Mitchell rasped, her throat thick with the effort of keeping a lid on her emotions. Seeing Erica had been so hard, and then talking to Dr. Rawlings about Robin had hurt so much, and now…now, Sandy’s tenderness was crumbling the last of her defenses to dust.

“I can feel it. When I hold you. When you hold me. When we make love.” Sandy shifted until she was lying on top of Mitchell, her narrow hips between Mitchell’s thighs, supporting herself on her elbows so that she could see her lover’s face in the moonlight that angled over the top of the sleeping partition. “You don’t have to tell me. But I want you to.

It makes me feel…better…to tell you things.”

Mitchell wrapped both arms around Sandy’s waist and pulled her down into a tight embrace. With her face buried in the curve of Sandy’s neck, she haltingly surrendered her secrets.

v

“Rebecca, darling,” Catherine murmured. “Phone.”

Rebecca was already awake and leaning over her, fumbling on the bedside table for the handset. Clearing her throat, she said sharply,

“Frye…Where?…Be there in Þ fteen. Do me a favor and roust Watts for me too.” She paused to listen, sliding from beneath the covers and

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automatically tucking them along the curves of Catherine’s body. “And, Frankel, keep this quiet. I don’t want to see anything about this in the morning papers. Yeah, well, do the best you can.”

Catherine sat up and switched on the bedside lamp. A check of the alarm clock told her it was close to 4:00 a.m. “What is it?”

“Trouble,” Rebecca grumbled on her way to the bathroom.

“Four a.m. calls always are,” Catherine whispered. She followed her lover into the bathroom and pulled her robe from behind the door.

Slipping into it, she leaned against the vanity and observed Rebecca’s sleek form shimmer behind the glass shower doors. Raising her voice to be heard above the water, she asked, “Can you tell me?”

After twisting the hot water knob to off and enduring Þ fteen vicious seconds of cold water beating on her head, Rebecca stepped from the shower and took the offered towel. “Thanks.” Rubbing down briskly, she said, “That was one of the night Ds. He called in a homicide, and Captain Henry told him to call me. Details are sparse, but if Henry’s putting me in the middle of someone else’s case, it can’t be good.”

“That’s it?” Catherine leaned against the bathroom door and watched Rebecca efÞ ciently assemble her battle gear. Dark suit, pale shirt, thin black leather belt, shoulder harness, handcuffs, bifold leather wallet with its shiny gold badge declaring to all the world just who Rebecca Frye was.

“For now.” Rebecca halted abruptly in the midst of dressing and leaned to kiss Catherine’s cheek. “I’ll let you know when I know.”

Catherine stepped into Rebecca’s arms and kissed her mouth. “If you don’t get home before morning, call me. I have a break at noon.”

Rebecca took the time to hold her lover for an extra twenty seconds that in the past she would never have spent. Holding Catherine, savoring her warmth and remembering the sound of her climaxing just hours before, Rebecca murmured, “I’ll call just as soon as I can. I love you.”

“Be careful, darling. I love you too.”

Catherine went back to bed, retrieved a book from a stack on the bedside table, and tried to read. It was always hard to sleep when Rebecca worked at night, and now that she was wondering what new challenge her lover was about to face, it was impossible.

v

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“Don’t touch anything yet,” Dee Flanagan ordered automatically and, since she was addressing Rebecca, needlessly. Rebecca always waited until given the go-ahead before slipping on gloves and examining anything at a crime scene. At least, at one of Flanagan’s crime scenes.

“Just give me the word,” Rebecca replied as she always did, even though Flanagan routinely made a point of telling her Þ rst when she released the scene.

Rebecca hunkered down next to Watts. Their shoulders and thighs touched as they stared into the open driver’s side of a BMW sports coupe. A white male, thirty to forty years of age, was slumped behind the wheel, very dead. “Is the ID for certain now?”

“Yeah.”

“Fuck.”

“You got that right.”

“Time of death?” Rebecca questioned.

“Flanagan hasn’t graced us with her opinion yet.”

Rebecca nodded, silently assessing the body. The victim was casually dressed in chinos and a polo shirt. His topcoat was unbuttoned, as if he had been sitting in the car with the heater running—waiting for someone, perhaps. Or holding a conversation. No sign of a struggle. No sign of a weapon.

“There’s blood and such on the driver’s door,” Watts said quietly.

“The window’s down a couple of inches, so maybe he was here awhile.”

“Looks like one shot. Exit wound on the left temple.” Rebecca studied the two-inch crater between the corner of the victim’s left eye and ear. The edges of the wound—a pastiche of skin, muscle, and bone—were exploded outward, indicating the shot had come from the opposite side. “Passenger?”

“Could be. Or else he met someone here who opened the passenger door, leaned into the car, and—bam.”

Rebecca looked over her shoulder, scanning the empty parking lot between Market and Front Streets under the massive arch of the Ben Franklin Bridge. Under ordinary circumstances, the lot was shrouded in shadow, but the potholed surface now appeared eerily bright under the halogen glare of the portable crime scene unit lights. A bevy of black-and-whites were parked along the perimeter, the reds and blues from

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their light bars adding to the surreal glow. Yellow crime scene tape ringed the block-square asphalt Þ eld. “Desolate area under the best of circumstances. Had to be someone he knew to get him down here this time of night.”

“Or someone he wasn’t afraid of,” Watts said.

“Or maybe someone he was afraid of. And couldn’t refuse.”

Watts grunted. “Can’t wait to see what the surveillance team has to say about this.”

Rebecca studied George Beecher, the man she had spent the previous three nights shadowing. She had been relieved of that burden after Captain Henry had assigned round-the-clock surveillance on him.

Clearly, something had gone awry. “Anybody talk to them yet?”

Straightening slowly, stretching his back before casually adjusting his crotch, Watts shrugged. “Who the fuck knows.” He looked around with a sour expression. “Between the brass and the press, it’s a goddamned three-ring circus. I can’t even tell who’s in charge of the case.”

“Wait until the DA hears about this. She’s going to have someone’s head.” Rebecca searched the crowd for Flanagan. Right now, what she needed was hard data. And Flanagan was the only one who would have it.

Watts grunted. “Well, as long as it ain’t ours.”

“Don’t bet on it.”

“You know, Loo,” Watts said with uncharacteristic hesitancy, “this place is three blocks from Sloan’s.”

Rebecca gave him a sharp look, but the fact hadn’t escaped her.

“You have a point?”

With his gaze Þ xed somewhere beyond Rebecca’s left shoulder, he nodded. “I don’t like coincidences.”

“Neither do I.”

“We got company.”

The increasingly dyspeptic expression on her partner’s face tipped Rebecca to the identity of the new arrival. Her own face expressionless, she turned to watch Avery Clark cross the parking lot toward them.

“Man, this guy gives me a giant pain in the balls,” Watts muttered.

“Me too.”

Watts chuckled and shifted his weight from foot to foot, as if

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expecting a punch—or getting ready to throw one. Rebecca doubted that he was aware of just how intimidating he looked—a bulky, hard-eyed, tough guy who could just as easily have been a thug as a cop. She hadn’t the slightest inclination to rein him in.

“Well, Lieutenant, this is an unfortunate occurrence,” Avery Clark observed, bending down to peer into the vehicle.

“I’d wager Mr. Beecher feels the same,” Rebecca replied.

Clark straightened. “Yes, well, we have a bit of a problem, don’t we?”

Rebecca said nothing, aware of Watts next to her, rocking back and forth like a rodeo bull ready to burst from his pen. Clark pretended not to notice.

“We’ve lost a suspect,” Clark intoned as if it were news. “A high-proÞ le suspect likely to give us credible intelligence concerning a major crime organization in this city. That does not look good.”

“To who?” Watts asked abruptly, the words chopped out with the force of a blow.

Clark spared Watts a glance before locking eyes with Rebecca.

“To anyone.”

Rebecca took this to mean that some of the dirt from this Þ asco was going to rub off on Clark, and he didn’t like it. She didn’t really care whether he liked it or not. What she did care about was that they’d had a brieÞ ng in Police Plaza less than twenty-four hours earlier where they’d discussed their suspicions regarding George Beecher, and now he was dead. He was undoubtedly their leak, and now it appeared as if he might not be the only one. He’d been neatly and swiftly eliminated before they could question him.

“We need to move quickly to freeze all of his accounts, get his computers from both his residence and his ofÞ ce, and start looking for connections,” Rebecca said. “Because whoever eliminated him is burying their trail right now.”

When she turned as if to leave, Clark nonchalantly stepped into her path. “I’m wondering if this hit might not be something a bit closer to home.”

Beside her, Watts made a sound in the back of his throat that reminded Rebecca of an attack dog warning off an intruder. She said nothing, because she knew Clark’s game. He was looking for information and hoping to goad her into providing it.

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“Maybe this has nothing to do with anything…professional,”

he went on. “Maybe it’s someone with a personal score to settle with Beecher.”

Unfortunately, Rebecca knew what he was after and also what needed to be done to protect the integrity of her team. “I’ll talk to her.”

“I’ll have one of my agents pick her up—”

Rebecca stepped forward so quickly that Clark took an involuntary step backward. With her face an inch from his, she shot out in a clipped, deadly voice, “You don’t go near her. I’ll question her. The report will be on Henry’s desk by eight a.m. If you want to know what it says, read it there.”

Clark blinked, a slow ß ush darkening his features. “I have jurisdiction—”

“You don’t have dick,” Rebecca interrupted. “This is a homicide.

This is PPD business. The only reason you’re standing here right now is because I’m trying to be cooperative. You touch any of my people and I’m not going to be so obliging in the future.”

For a moment, they stood toe to toe in the unforgiving glare of the artiÞ cial lights, looking like two Þ ghters in the middle of the ring waiting for the starting bell to sound. Waiting to throw the Þ rst punch.

Then, Clark abruptly pivoted and strode rapidly away.

“So now we know who’s really got the balls around here,” Watts remarked appreciatively.

Rebecca ß icked him a look of amused irritation. “Let’s go talk to Sloan.”

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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Michael surfaced slowly from deep sleep, roused by an annoying, repetitive beep. It took her a few seconds to recognize the sound as the alarm from one of the security sensors. She rolled over with a murmur of protest and extended one arm. “Sloan, darling…”

The bed beside her was empty. Sighing, she drew back the covers, reached automatically for her robe at the foot of the bed, and absently tied the sash around her waist as she walked down the hall. Beside the elevator doors, a panel slid open at the touch of a button to reveal a recessed cabinet holding a bank of security monitors. Squinting at the image on the screen above the blinking red light, she recognized Rebecca Frye standing on the small landing at the front entrance.

“Rebecca?” Michael asked after switching on the audio.

“Sorry to bother you, Michael, but we need to see Sloan.”

“She’s not here,” Michael replied. “Maybe downstairs in the ofÞ ce.”

“Can we come up?”

“Of course. I’m sorry. I’ll buzz you in.” Michael gave a small laugh. “I’m still half asleep.”

“Sorry.”

“No, no need to be. Come up. I’ll put coffee on.”

v

Two minutes later, Rebecca exited the elevator with Watts by her side. They stopped just inside the loft, waiting.

“Good morning,” Michael said with a smile, emerging from the kitchen alcove. She indicated the leather sofas in the living room.

“Would you like to sit down?”

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“No, we’re Þ ne,” Rebecca said out of habit.

“Coffee, then?”

Before Rebecca could answer, Watts jumped in. “That would be terriÞ c. I can smell it from here.”

“It’ll just be another minute or so. Please, won’t you sit down?”

Rebecca acquiesced, and they moved into the living room. Rebecca and Watts took opposite ends of a deep teal leather sofa while Michael settled on an ivory one across from them.

“Do you know where Sloan is?” Rebecca asked.

“No, I called downstairs while you were on your way up. No one answered, so I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

“It’s pretty early,” Rebecca said.

Michael laughed. “Sloan has no regard for time, especially when she’s involved with a case. She keeps odd hours.”

“But she was here earlier in the evening?”

“Oh, yes. We went out in the late afternoon and were back here by nine, I think. We…” Michael smiled faintly and blushed. “We went to bed early.”

Watts shifted uneasily and made a point of gazing out the wall of windows toward the Delaware River. Barge trafÞ c was already heavy on the river below.

“Would you happen to know about when you…got to sleep?”

Michael laughed softly. “I’m afraid I wasn’t watching the clock, Lieutenant.”

“No, of course not,” Rebecca said evenly. “So you have no idea when she might have left?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t. I seem to sleep very deeply once I Þ nally nod off.” Michael tilted her head, her expression quizzical. “Why don’t you call her cell phone? Most of the time she forgets to turn it on, but since I’ve been…ill, she’s very good about it.”

“We will,” Rebecca replied. At the moment, she wasn’t actually interested in speaking to Sloan. What she wanted was to establish a timeline for Sloan’s activities the previous evening. Hopefully, a timeline that would put her far away from the parking lot at Front and Market.

Rebecca waited until Michael had gone to the kitchen and returned with a tray holding coffee mugs, cream and sugar, and a small plate of

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mufÞ ns before continuing her questions. “Would you know if she made any phone calls last night from home?”

“No, I’m quite sure she didn’t. We came in and went directly to bed.”

Watts coughed and busied himself with his coffee.

“What about incoming calls? Did she perhaps receive a call and go out afterward?”

Michael frowned. “No. Nothing that I recall. What’s going on?

Is…she’s all right, isn’t she?” She sat forward, paling visibly. “You don’t think she’s hurt or in danger?”

“No,” Rebecca said quickly. “Nothing like that.”

“But something’s wrong. What’s happened?”

Rebecca hadn’t touched her coffee. She’d gotten little help from what Michael had given her, and that frustrated her. But the sudden change in Michael’s appearance worried her even more. Michael was trembling, and there was something close to panic in her eyes.

“Michael, I…”

The nearly inaudible swish of the elevator doors sliding open brought Michael to her feet, and the sudden change in position made her light-headed. She swayed unsteadily.

The Þ rst thing Sloan saw when she walked into her home was her lover, looking as if she was about to fall.

“Michael?” Sloan cried in alarm, reaching Michael’s side in four long strides. “Baby, what’s wrong?” She slid an arm around her lover’s waist and eased her down on the sofa. She brushed her lips over Michael’s forehead. “Hey. What happened? Did you get sick? Why didn’t you call me?”

“It’s all right, darling,” Michael murmured, smiling weakly. “I’m Þ ne. It’s Þ ne. I was asleep when Rebecca came. I’m just not quite awake yet.”

“You’re not hurt? Not sick or anything?” Sloan passed trembling Þ ngers over Michael’s cheek.

“No. I’m really all right.” Michael stroked Sloan’s arm, then covered Sloan’s hand with her own, placing a ß eeting kiss on the palm.

With one protective arm still around Michael, Sloan looked from Rebecca to Watts in confusion. “Then what are you doing here?”

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Rebecca was about to answer when a voice called from the other side of the room, “Hey, what’s going on?”

Sandy shufß ed into view, Mitchell’s T-shirt brushing her thighs mere inches below her panties. Mitchell was right behind her in a PPD

T-shirt and boxers. “We heard voices. Problem?”

Watts took one look in Sandy’s direction and immediately glanced away. “Jesus Christ. No one around here has any clothes on.”

“What do you sleep in?” Sandy mumbled as she walked past him in the direction of the kitchen. “Ugh. No, never mind. Forget I asked.”

“We needed to talk to you, so we thought we’d come by,” Rebecca said to Sloan. “Where have you been?”

Mitchell and Sandy returned, each holding a cup of coffee. Sandy curled up on the sofa on Michael’s left. Mitchell stood uncertainly midway between Sloan and Rebecca, who sat facing one another across the expanse of living room.

“What the fuck’s going on?” Sloan said sharply.

“I need to know where you were tonight, from the time you left here until now.” Rebecca’s face was a blank, her voice still calm. But now, a core of steel crept into her tone.

“Same question goes. Why?”

“Just answer the question, Sloan,” Watts urged in a surprisingly gentle voice.

Sloan jumped to her feet so rapidly that only Rebecca’s quick reß exes prevented her from being taken off guard. She surged upright just as quickly, so that she and Sloan ended up only a few feet apart.

“Do you think I don’t recognize an interrogation when I hear one?” Sloan’s body vibrated with fury. “You have the fucking balls to come here in the middle of the night and question my lover?”

“Sloan,” Michael said gently, standing as well. She placed her hand in the center of Sloan’s back. “Darling, let Rebecca talk.”

“She’s done talking. She’s leaving now. ” Sloan took another step in Rebecca’s direction, one hand raised as if to shove Rebecca aside.

“You don’t want to do that, Sloan,” Rebecca warned.

With surprising grace, Watts gained his feet and insinuated himself between them in one ß uid motion. His face was an inch from Sloan’s, his voice like granite. “You dumb fuck. If she hadn’t stood up for you tonight, you’d be downtown in a locked room with Clark right now. So

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put your dick away and answer the questions. Then we can all get back to work.”

Sloan stared into his eyes for a long moment. Whatever she saw in their hard, cold depths must have extinguished the blaze of fury consuming her reason, because the tension in her broad shoulders eased visibly. She took a long breath and shifted her gaze to Rebecca’s. “Are you going to tell me what this is about?”

“No. I’m going to ask questions, and you’re going to answer.”

Rebecca needed the interview to be by the book if it was to be credible to Avery Clark. She waited, wondering how far Sloan’s tenuous trust would extend. Wondering, not for the Þ rst time, what had happened during those lost years in Sloan’s past.

“I was here until just after two,” Sloan stated in a ß at, uninß ected tone. “I woke up thinking about the computer traces that Jason and Mitchell have been running. I haven’t had a chance to go over any of their data because I’ve been so busy at Police Plaza with the…other situation. So I decided to have a quick look at what they’ve got. I dressed and went downstairs.”

“Is there any way to verify that?”

“No. Michael was asleep.”

“What about a time stamp on the security cameras?”

Sloan shook her head. “The internal cameras are turned off when we’re home.”

Mitchell spoke up quietly. “There should be a record of when you logged on the system downstairs.”

“Circumstantial,” Sloan replied. “Doesn’t prove it was me.”

“It’s corroboration,” Rebecca said. “There are only a limited number of other people who it might’ve been.” She scrutinized Michael, then Sandy and Mitchell. “The only real possibility is Mitchell.”

“Dell was with me from one thirty on,” Sandy said immediately.

“Did either of you hear Sloan leave?” Watts asked.

Mitchell shook her head. Sandy replied, “We were talking, and then we were…busy.”

Watts snorted.

“So we wouldn’t have noticed,” Sandy added sweetly as Mitchell blushed.

Watts looked glum. “Perfect.”

“All right.” Rebecca made a notation in her notebook. “You were

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with Michael all night. Went to the ofÞ ces just after two.” She turned to Mitchell. “I want you to secure the computer logs. No one touches the system until you’re done.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Mitchell said smartly. “I’ll get dressed and get right on it.”

When Sloan opened her mouth to protest, Michael said softly,

“Let Rebecca help you, darling.”

Sloan reached for Michael’s hand, nodding silently.

“You weren’t here when we arrived at four Þ fty-Þ ve,” Rebecca stated. “There was no answer. Where were you?”

“I went for a walk after a couple of hours of scanning the data.”

Rebecca stared at her, and Sloan held her gaze unß inchingly.

Finally, Rebecca said, “At four in the morning?”

Sloan shrugged. “I was awake. I was restless. I went for a walk.”

“I don’t suppose you have any way of proving that?” Watts interjected.

“Not real…” Sloan slid her hand into the front pocket of her jeans and extracted a crumpled slip of white paper. “I bought a cup of coffee at the diner at Third and Market around ten minutes to Þ ve.”

“Christ, she couldn’t have been any closer to the scene and not tripped over one of us,” Watts muttered.

Rebecca took the offered receipt, smoothed it out, and noted the time and date in her notebook. She then placed it carefully in the breast pocket of her shirt. “Is someone there going to remember you?”

“The waitress. Jenny. She knows me.”

Watts looked skeptical. “She’s a…what? Friend?”

Sloan gave him a withering look. “Acquaintance.”

“There’s nothing between the two of you that might bring her veriÞ cation of your alibi into question?” Rebecca asked as discreetly as she could.

“No. Nothing. I’ve never even seen her outside of the diner.”

“Good,” Rebecca muttered.

“Look,” Sloan said irritably. “I’ve told you where I was. Now tell me what’s going on.”

“George Beecher was murdered about three blocks from here sometime in the last six hours,” Rebecca informed her, watching Sloan’s face intently. As she had anticipated, Sloan’s expression never changed,

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but her violet eyes darkened to nearly black. Rebecca was convinced she hadn’t known.

“And you think I did it?” Sloan’s voice was cool, her posture relaxed.

“No,” Rebecca replied. “I don’t.”

“But Clark does,” Sloan murmured, Þ lling in the blanks.

“Darling, what is this all about?” Michael asked quietly. “Who is George Beecher?”

“No one.”

“No one who someone thinks you might want to ki—” As if a sudden realization had struck, Michael faltered and looked from Sloan to Rebecca. “Is this the person who might have had something to do with my accident?”

“That’s right.” Rebecca was curious as to just how much Michael knew. Although she believed Sloan innocent, she was too much a cop not to examine all the evidence from every angle.

“Sloan would never have done anything to him,” Michael said with absolute conviction.

“Why do you say that?” Rebecca asked.

“Because she promised me she wouldn’t.”

Watts laughed. “That will certainly go a long ways in court.”

Michael turned solemn eyes to his. “If you don’t understand why that matters, then you don’t know Sloan very well, Detective Watts.”

Watts blushed and actually ducked his head. “Sorry, ma’am.”

At that moment, Mitchell returned in black chinos and a navy shirt. “I’ll head downstairs, Lieutenant.”

“Good,” Rebecca said. “Watts, go with her and take Sloan. Make sure you document everything that Mitchell does.” She turned to Sloan.

“You don’t touch anything down there. If there’s even the possibility that you’ve altered the data, none of it will help us. All I want you to do is walk them through as much as you can remember of what you did and when.”

Sloan nodded. “Okay.” She kissed Michael, murmured something that none of the others could hear, and followed Mitchell and Watts to the elevator.

“I’m sorry to have upset you, Michael,” Rebecca said.

Michael sank onto the sofa. “I understand.”

Sandy leaned close. “You okay? How about I get some tea?”

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“That would be lovely. Thank you,” Michael replied gratefully, giving Sandy a small smile. Then, to Rebecca, she added, “Thank you for being so patient with her. I know you’re trying to help her.”

“I’m trying to do my job,” Rebecca rejoined. “If I thought she were guilty, I would do the same.”

“Yes, I know. And so does Sloan.” Michael shook her head. “She’ll realize you’re on her side when she’s feeling less threatened.”

“Don’t you mean pissed off?”

“Oh, that’s part of it, to be sure. But it’s coming from something far more serious. She was betrayed, Rebecca, by someone she loved.

Abandoned by the system she believed in. Incarcerated by those she thought she could trust.” Michael sighed. “She keeps expecting it to happen again.”

“It won’t,” Rebecca said empathically. “You’ll never betray her.

And I won’t let anyone make her a scapegoat. I promise that no one will touch her.”

“You didn’t say ‘if she’s innocent.’”

“I didn’t need to.”

“Thank you, Rebecca.”

“I’d better go—I want to catch that waitress at the diner. And I really am sorry to have put you through this.”

Michael shook her head. “No, you needn’t apologize. Not when you’re helping Sloan.”

“Thanks.” Rebecca turned and started for the elevator. She stopped as Sandy approached with two mugs of tea. “Anything?”

“Maybe.”

“I’ll call you later.”

Sandy shrugged. “Yeah, sure.”

v

When Rebecca left, Sandy returned to her spot on the sofa by Michael’s side, tea in hand. “Maybe you should go back to bed.”

“I can’t. I want to be here when Sloan comes back upstairs.”

“It could take a while.” Sandy didn’t add that if Sloan ended up downtown for questioning, it could take all day. “And you look kind of…tired.”

“I’m all right. I don’t do very well yet when I haven’t had enough

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sleep, that’s all.” Michael sipped the tea absently, her attention Þ xed on the elevator doors, willing them to open and Sloan to appear. “I can’t believe she has to go through this again.”

“What d’you mean?”

“Proving her innocence.” Michael closed her eyes, both hands clenched tightly around the mug on her lap. “God, it makes me so angry.”

“Frye is a great cop. She’ll Þ gure this out.”

“I hope so, because I can’t stand to see her hurt like this.”

“They’re not so tough, are they,” Sandy said. “They just kinda want you to think they are.”

Michael took Sandy’s hand, needing the comfort and the connection. “Sometimes I think the more tender the heart, the more easily it’s broken.”

“Yeah,” Sandy whispered, remembering Dell’s tears on her breast.

“You got that right.”

• 163 •

• 164 •

Justice Served

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Friday

The elevator doors slid open a few minutes before 8:00 a.m.

Mitchell exited, followed by Sloan. Mitchell headed directly down the hall toward the guest bedroom and disappeared. When Michael started to get up from the sofa, Sloan shook her head.

“No, stay there.” Quickly, she crossed the width of the living room and settled beside Michael, extending an arm to pull Michael into the curve of her body. She kissed Michael’s forehead and then leaned her head back with a sigh. “How do you feel?”

Michael nestled her cheek against Sloan’s shoulder, one arm wrapped around her waist. “Tired. No headache. I’m all right.” She lifted her chin to kiss the undersurface of Sloan’s jaw. “What happened downstairs? Is everything…cleared up now?”

Lids partially closed, Sloan stared at the exposed pipes overhead, idly following the branching pathways as they disappeared into walls and behind the high ceiling. When she worked at the computer, her mind’s eye saw the same pathways, highways of data, streaming within and between way stations in the network—a cyberuniverse as real to her as the concrete and stone that made up her physical world. “Mitchell’s done dicking around inside my system. She got everything there is to get.”

“Will it be enough?” Michael asked quietly.

“I don’t know,” Sloan admitted with a sigh. “It’ll depend on what the crime scene unit turns up—time of death will make a big difference.

Rebecca will know later today.” She didn’t add that even if the time of death placed her at home with Michael, she had only her lover’s word as an alibi. Not exactly ironclad.

“It’s ridiculous for anyone to think that you murdered that man.”

Sloan laughed softly and kissed Michael’s forehead again. “Baby, everyone knows I wanted that guy dead. And every cop—federal, state,

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or city—knows that the most likely suspect usually turns out to be the guilty party.” She stroked Michael’s arm, as much to comfort herself as her lover. “In this case, I’m the prime suspect. Christ,” she muttered disdainfully, “even I can’t blame Clark for going after me. I’d do the same in his shoes.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” Michael said vehemently. “You wouldn’t because you don’t take the easy way out. You do what’s right, not what’s expedient.”

“I’m not that noble, baby,” Sloan murmured. She buried her face in Michael’s hair, and some of her tension eased. Michael was the calm at the eye of her storm. She was the one Þ xed point in the swirling tide of Sloan’s anger and pain. “It feels so good when you hold me.”

With surprising strength, Michael rose, keeping her arm around Sloan’s waist and drawing her upward. “Let’s go back to bed. You haven’t had any sleep, and I need very much to have you in my arms.”

“Okay,” Sloan whispered, wanting nothing more than to lay down her shields and shelter in the protective circle of Michael’s embrace.

“Yeah, I’d like that too.”

v

“So, is everything okay now?” Sandy asked as she sat on the side of the bed watching Mitchell shed her clothes.

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.” Mitchell balled up her shirt and threw it on the ß oor by Sandy’s suitcase. “Man, this sucks.” Shirtless, she stalked across the room and ß opped on the bed next to Sandy. Legs dangling over the side, she ran her Þ ngers down the center of Sandy’s back. “I don’t know how the lieutenant did it this morning. The way she went after Sloan, like she didn’t even know her. I…fuck…I’m going to be a lousy detective.”

Sandy turned, her eyes sparking with indignation. “That’s bullshit.

Frye’s been doing it a long time. And besides,” Sandy said dismissively,

“Frye is ice. There’s no one like her.”

Mitchell thought back to the one time she and Rebecca had leveled with one another—when she’d confessed her love for Sandy, and Rebecca had admitted to the panic that had nearly crippled her when Catherine had been in danger. Mitchell had an inkling of the depth of emotion that Rebecca Frye never revealed and despaired that she would

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ever be able to control her own passions anywhere near as well. “She’s the best. But she still has feelings.”

“Yeah,” Sandy admitted, “I know. But you still can’t expect to be her, rookie. Not yet.” She feathered her Þ ngers through Mitchell’s hair.

“Besides, I like you a whole lot better than Frye.”

“I kept praying I’d Þ nd something that would clear Sloan.”

Mitchell turned on her side and pulled Sandy down beside her. She kissed her on the mouth, then tilted her forehead to Sandy’s with a weary sigh. “I don’t think that’s how I’m supposed to be feeling when I’m gathering evidence.”

“Baby…” Sandy played her Þ ngertips across Mitchell’s lips, then drew them away and traced her tongue in their place before kissing her again. “You’re supposed to feel the way you feel.”

“How come you make me feel so good?”

“’Cause you’re so easy.”

Mitchell laughed, sliding her hand under Sandy’s T-shirt. Sandy’s skin was soft and warm, her breasts free beneath the loose cotton.

Sweeping her Þ ngertips rhythmically across Sandy’s nipples, Mitchell asked softly, “Oh yeah?” She kept up the teasing strokes, intermittently squeezing the rapidly hardening nipples, watching Sandy’s eyes cloud with pleasure. “Easy, huh?”

“Dell,” Sandy murmured as she grasped Mitchell’s wrist. “Stop that.”

“You’re kidding, right?” Mitchell eased over on top of Sandy, pressing one thigh hard and high between Sandy’s legs. “You’re hot. I can feel you right through my pants.”

Sandy Þ sted both hands in Mitchell’s hair and yanked her head up and away from her breast, where Mitchell had just settled her mouth.

“You’ve got that thing. We have to get ready.”

Redirecting her mouth toward the soft, warm, wonderful ß esh, Mitchell muttered, “There’s plenty of time.” As if to drive her point home, she caught Sandy’s nipple between her teeth at the same time as she slid her Þ ngers beneath the edge of the pale blue wisp of material between Sandy’s legs. She sucked the tight nipple into her mouth as she sank her Þ ngers into Sandy’s depths.

Sandy arched her back and screamed.

“That’s it, baby, that’s it. Oh, yeah, you feel so good.” Mitchell was half out of her mind with the wild pleasure of possessing Sandy

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so completely and the indescribable comfort of just being inside her.

When Sandy pumped upward into her palm and simultaneously lifted a knee into Mitchell’s crotch, she felt herself unexpectedly teetering on the edge. “Oh fuck, I’m gonna come.”

“Do it with me, baby,” Sandy sobbed, hips thrashing with the Þ rst convulsive wave. “Oh, Dell…oh, here I come.”

Mitchell squeezed her eyes tight and tried to keep her rhythm, but everything was tearing loose inside her. She was aching and soaring and crumbling all at once. Shuddering, she pressed her lips to Sandy’s temple and whispered, “I love you.”

Lost in sensation, Sandy could only cling to her desperately, unable to answer. Her body, open and undefended, spoke for her.

v

Catherine stood by the bureau in her bedroom, still in her robe.

She’d showered an hour earlier but, since she’d taken the morning off from work, had not yet dressed. “There’s coffee for you on the bedside table.”

“Thanks.”

Leaning her hips against the dresser, Catherine sipped from her own mug and studied her lover’s carefully guarded face. Rebecca had said nothing since she’d walked in a half hour previously, placed her weapon on the top shelf of the closet, stripped off her clothes, and gone directly into the shower. Catherine supposed that cops had rules about this sort of thing—questions she should not ask, secrets she should not know. Like all rules, those dictums probably served a purpose. And like all absolutes, they often failed in the face of individual human circumstances. True or not, she did not care. What she cared about was the critical connection between herself and her lover. “Was it bad?”

“Typical homicide.” Naked, Rebecca swallowed coffee, unmindful of the temperature.

Typical homicide. Well, that’s something to ponder another day.

Catherine placed her mug on the dresser. “Can you tell me why they called you out in the middle of the night? I thought lieutenants got special dispensation around that sort of thing.”

Rebecca turned to face her.

“This is the part where I’m supposed to let you in, isn’t it?”

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Catherine smiled. “Am I being particularly unsubtle this morning, or are you just reading me frighteningly well?”

“Frighteningly?” Rebecca put down her coffee and circled the bed to Catherine. She put her arms around her and kissed her. “It’s what you want, isn’t it? For me to know what you need?”

“How long have you known that?”

“From the beginning.” Rebecca reached between them and loosed the tie on Catherine’s robe. With one hand she parted the silk fabric until their bodies touched, skin on skin. “I’ve just never been sure I could do it.”

“You’re not supposed to do it all by yourself,” Catherine murmured.

She placed her palm in the center of Rebecca’s chest, then moved her Þ ngers over the scars. It was a gesture that had become automatic, almost essential, as if she could physically connect to Rebecca’s heart.

“I’m supposed to help you by telling you. I want to know where you go when you leave here, what you do, what others do to you. I want to know what you feel, what hurts you, what makes you feel satisÞ ed.”

“You,” Rebecca said thickly, her hands moving over Catherine’s back, the curve of her hips, the soft weight of her breasts. “You make me satisÞ ed. You make me happy.” She brushed her mouth over Catherine’s lips, a ß eeting, nearly fragile, kiss. “You Þ ll me up.”

Catherine’s body quickened as her heart soared. “When you say these things, when you touch me this way, all I want is to lie down with you and have you touch me everywhere.”

“Sounds just right to me.” Rebecca shifted a thigh between Catherine’s legs and kissed her again. She gave a surprised grunt when Catherine pushed her gently away. “What?”

“Talk Þ rst.”

Rebecca raised a brow. “That’s blackmail.”

Catherine nodded, feeling the heat in her face and the tight pebbling of her nipples, knowing that her excitement was apparent to her lover. Her words were breathy as her chest lifted unevenly, passion already rampant in her depths. “Besides, we have somewhere important to be.”

With a look of regret, Rebecca kissed her once more and then stepped away. “I’ll tell you while we dress.”

“All right.”

“The dead man’s name is George Beecher.”

• 169 •

RADCLY fFE

As Rebecca outlined the facts, leaving out the brutal details, she and Catherine moved around one another opening drawers, slipping into clothes, adding their individual accoutrements—watch and earrings, gun and badge. By the time Rebecca related her visit to Sloan’s loft, they were completely dressed. She turned from the mirror to face Catherine, tightening the knot in her tie. “Michael was shaken. Sloan was pissed. It wasn’t pleasant.”

Catherine had never seen Rebecca in her dress uniform before.

The formal jacket and striped trousers, the gleaming buttons, the badge perfectly placed just above the spot the bullet had struck. She was beautiful. Catherine had mixed feelings about Rebecca’s profession, especially having almost lost her to it. But in that moment, the only thing she felt was pride. “I’m sorry you had to question Sloan that way, but I’m glad it was you and no one else. I’m sure you’ll straighten this out for her.” She kissed her softly. “You look very handsome. I’m very proud of you.”

“Thank you.” Rebecca reached for Catherine’s hand. “I need you by my side, you know. I…count on it.”

“And I need you.” Catherine took Rebecca’s other hand and met her eyes. “Please won’t you marry me?”

Rebecca took a deep breath and then the corner of her mouth lifted into a grin. “I don’t want a big wedding.”

“Absolutely not.” Catherine laughed, her voice ringing with joy.

“Just a few friends, and William, of course.”

Rebecca made a choking sound. “Watts? No fucking way.”

“Well, we have plenty of time to discuss that.” Catherine kissed her again, a long, contented kiss that promised more. Then she linked her arm through Rebecca’s. “Now let’s go celebrate your promotion, Lieutenant.”

v

“Oh man,” Mitchell breathed, stopping in midmotion, her eyes huge.

“What?” Sandy said defensively.

“You look…” Mitchell swallowed, at a loss for words.

“Your mouth is open, Dell. You look dumb.” Sandy ß ushed, pleased. The navy Dolce & Gabbana pants had wide legs and a ß at

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front and sat low on her hips. An elegant silver pinstripe accented the tailored suit, and she wore the one-button, Þ tted jacket closed over just her silk bra, revealing the barest suggestion of cleavage. The Manolo Blahnik heels gave her several inches in height, and she liked the new perspective. Michael had said it was a sexy, low-key, professional look, acceptable for daytime. From the expression on Mitchell’s face, she’d been right about the sexy part. When Mitchell took a step toward her, Sandy held out one arm, palm up. “Do not come near me. You’ll mess me up.”

“Honey, that outÞ t screams ‘mess me up.’” Mitchell took another step. “Come on. Let me touch. Just one Þ nger.”

“Where?”

Mitchell reached out, her index Þ nger extended. She dipped it into the hollow at the base of Sandy’s neck, then slowly snaked down her chest to the vee where the jacket closed. Then she curled the tip under the edge of the lapel and along the top of Sandy’s bra. In a husky voice, she whispered, “Just here.”

Sandy slapped at Mitchell’s hand and backed away. “Cut it out.

You’re making me horny. I can’t be horny in this outÞ t.”

Mitchell laughed. “Why not?”

“Because I think I’m just supposed to stand around pretending I’m too cool to get hot.” She Þ ngered Mitchell’s uniform jacket. “Anyhow, look at you. I’m not making out with you in that getup.”

“Why not?” Mitchell asked again, glancing down at her dress blues. Her shoes gleamed, the creases in her pants were so sharp-edged the material barely moved when she walked, and her uniform jacket Þ t her form without an errant fold. “You don’t like it?”

“Baby,” Sandy crooned, walking her Þ ngers up the inside of Mitchell’s thigh. She cupped her for a ß eeting second, high between her legs, making her gasp, and then moved quickly out of reach. “I want you to fuck me blind.”

“Oh man,” Mitchell moaned, hurrying out of the room after her girlfriend. “I’m not gonna live through this.”

• 171 •

• 172 •

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CHAPTER TWENTY

You gonna be okay?” Mitchell asked quietly as she and Sandy exited the elevator on the second ß oor of Police Plaza.

“Sure,” Sandy said, her voice tight with bravado. The wide corridor was bustling with ofÞ cers, some in uniform and others in street clothes, all looking harried and ofÞ cious. Sandy’s stomach curdled as she thought about the few times she had been inside a police station.

None were pleasant memories. “Great. No problem.”

Mitchell caught Sandy’s hand and tugged her close to the wall, out of the stream of trafÞ c. “Look, you don’t have—”

“Jesus, rookie,” Sandy snapped, snatching her hand away. “Are you crazy? Look where we are. Do you want everyone to know?”

“I don’t care who knows.” Mitchell grabbed Sandy’s hand back.

“If you’re not comfortable here, you don’t need to st—”

“Hello,” a warm voice interrupted. “Quite a gathering, it seems.”

Sandy looked from Dell to the newcomer. “Hi. Yeah, it’s a big deal, huh?”

Catherine smiled. “Yes, it is. I’m looking forward to it. Hello, Dellon. Congratulations, by the way.”

“Thanks,” Mitchell said, coloring. She looked past Catherine. “Is the lieutenant here already?”

“Yes. She stopped downstairs to talk to Watts about something.

She should be right up.”

“Good.”

The relief in Mitchell’s voice was evident, and Sandy realized at that moment that her girlfriend was every bit as nervous as she was.

Moving closer, she gave Mitchell’s hip a tiny bump with hers. “You’re gonna be Þ ne. You look so hot.”

Mitchell grinned. “I don’t think anyone’s going to care about that.”

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“I do.”

“Sandy,” Catherine asked, “would you mind sitting with me? I’d appreciate the company.”

“Sure. Okay.” Sandy smiled shyly. “I’d like that.”

“Wonderful.” Then, as if hearing her name, which would have been impossible in the midst of so much activity, Catherine turned toward the elevators. The doors slid open, and Rebecca stepped through with Watts close behind. “Let me just say goodbye to her, and then you and I can go in and Þ nd seats.”

“She’s cool,” Sandy murmured as she glanced furtively up and down the hall. When no one seemed to be looking, she stretched up and quickly kissed Mitchell. “That’s for luck.”

Without glancing around, Mitchell leaned down and kissed Sandy back. “That’s for love.” Then she turned and walked down the hall toward Watts, who waited by the auditorium door.

Sandy watched her go, shaking her head, the kiss still tingling on her lips. In a voice too low for anyone else to hear, she whispered,

“Blockhead.”

“Hiya, Sandy,” Rebecca said.

“Hey, Frye,” Sandy replied, still watching her girlfriend. When she Þ nally turned to look at Rebecca, she gave a small murmur of appreciation. “Huh. Nice look.”

“I don’t think that was the intention. It’s good to see you. Good for Mitchell too.”

Then she too walked away, leaving Sandy staring after her. “What is it with them today?”

“They’re nervous,” Catherine commented upon hearing the question as she rejoined Sandy. “They’re much more comfortable doing than being the focus of attention.”

“So that makes them get all sappy—being nervous?”

Catherine smiled. “I think it makes them a little bit vulnerable. I don’t know about you, but I’m rather fond of sappy now and then.”

Sandy laughed. “It’s supposed to be a big secret, but Dell gets like that pretty much all the time.”

“How wonderful for her that she can do that with you.”

“You think?” Sandy asked, a hint of uncertainty in her voice. She didn’t like to think too much about why Dell seemed to love her, fearing how much it would hurt if she stopped.

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“I do.” Catherine reached for Sandy’s hand. “Shall we go in? I want to get seats up front so I can see everything.”

“Okay, sure…” Sandy’s voice trailed off. “Uh—you should go ahead. I’ll be there in a minute.”

Catherine followed Sandy’s gaze questioningly. Then she gave a small start, amazed to see a woman approaching who looked exactly like Mitchell except for the fact that she wore a different uniform.

“Well.”

“You got that right,” Sandy said, acid etching her tones. She took a step in the newcomer’s direction. “And there’s no fucking way she’s going in that room with Dell today.”

Before Catherine could even comment, Sandy was down the hall and in Erica’s path.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Sandy asserted.

Erica regarded her in confusion. “What? Who…?” She hesitated.

“Oh. Sandy, isn’t it? I didn’t recognize you.”

Sandy snorted. “No, I’m sure you only saw what you expected to see. Whatever. Dell doesn’t need you here today.”

“I hardly think that’s up to you to decide.”

“You know what? It is.” Even in heels, Sandy was inches shorter than Erica, but her eyes never wavered from the ice blue of the taller woman’s. “You walked out on her once when she needed you to stand up for her. She doesn’t need you now.”

“You don’t know anything about that.”

Sandy’s vision wavered as anger swept through her. She could still feel Dell’s tears scalding her breast and the way that Dell, always so strong, had trembled in her arms. She heard the broken words uttered through a throat choked with grief.

Robin was a captain and a general’s daughter. She was career Army, and I couldn’t let her lose everything. So when she denied that we were lovers and said that I’d gone off on the guy for no reason, I didn’t argue. They were willing to let me leave quietly, even gave me the honorable discharge, as long as I didn’t make waves. They didn’t want to know about us, and she wasn’t willing to give up her future for me.

“Yes, I do know,” Sandy grated. It was all she could do to keep her hands at her sides, because she wanted to smack the superior smirk off Erica Mitchell’s face. “I know you let her be treated like a criminal when all she did was defend her lover.” Sandy spat out the words.

• 175 •

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“Her lover who didn’t have the guts to stand up for her. And you didn’t either.”

“Dellon knew the rules.”

To Sandy’s astonishment, she heard pain in Erica’s voice. But no amount of hurt would make up for the suffering she had witnessed in Dell. “Love isn’t about rules. Love is just something that happens to you, and you don’t have a choice. You take it, you hold on to it, or you lose everything that matters.”

Erica stared at Sandy. “That’s how you feel about her?”

“Yes.” There was deÞ ance and pride in Sandy’s voice. She tilted her chin as if offering it for Erica’s punch, a warrior ready to take a blow in the name of honor.

“I thought…” Erica shook her head. “I don’t know what I thought.”

Catherine stepped up to Sandy’s side. “Is anything wrong?”

“No,” Sandy said levelly. “She was just leaving.”

“You must be Dellon’s sister,” Catherine said, extending her hand.

“I’m Catherine Rawlings. My partner and Dellon work together.”

“Ma’am,” Erica said, shaking Catherine’s hand. She looked uncertainly from Sandy to Catherine, obviously trying to discern their relationship. “I don’t want to keep you from the ceremony.”

“No, I don’t want to be late,” Catherine agreed. “My partner is being promoted as well.” She rested a hand lightly on Sandy’s shoulder.

“Are you coming in?”

“I…” Erica shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Sandy looked up at Catherine. “I don’t want anything to spoil this for Dell.”

“I know. Neither do I. But you’ll be there, and that’s the most important thing.” She gave Sandy’s shoulder a squeeze. “But I think she might like it if her sister were there too.”

“What if it throws her…seeing her?”

“It might, for a second or two.” Catherine smiled. “But you know…she’s got good reß exes.”

Sandy laughed, then cast Erica a considering glance. “You be careful with her. You don’t get another chance.”

“Understood,” Erica said quietly.

“Well, then,” Catherine said quietly, including both Sandy and Erica in her gaze. “Why don’t we go in?”

• 176 •

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v

Mitchell shouldered her way through the throng congregated in front of the stage. She kept losing sight of Sandy as people cut across her line of vision. Finally, she edged her way up to her girlfriend. “Hey, how’re you doing?”

Sandy broke off her conversation with Catherine and smiled up at Mitchell. “Okay. I didn’t know you were going to get a medal too.”

“And well deserved,” Catherine added. “Congratulations, Dellon.

Now, I’m going to Þ nd Rebecca and try to steal her away for lunch somewhere.”

After a quick look around, Sandy brushed her Þ ngers over the medallion pinned above Mitchell’s left breast. “It’s nice.”

Fleetingly, Mitchell caught Sandy’s hand and squeezed. “Thanks.

I’m glad you’re here.”

“Me too.”

The closeness of the crowd made it easy for Mitchell to ease her thigh against Sandy’s hip, and as she did, she steeled herself to greet the other woman present. After another few seconds’ hesitation, she met her sister’s eyes. “How did you know about this?”

“Your colleagues are very talkative. When I called the station earlier this week looking for information about you, I heard most of the story.” Erica extended her hand. “Congratulations, Detective.”

Mitchell swallowed and blinked against sudden tears. She forced the words through a sandpaper throat as she took her sister’s hand.

“Thanks.”

Erica held Mitchell’s hand in the silence that settled between them. Sandy wrapped an arm around Mitchell’s waist and squeezed, murmuring, “You okay, baby?”

“Yeah,” Mitchell replied softly, letting go of Erica’s hand. She smiled at Sandy. “I’m okay. I’m great.”

“I should go say something to Frye,” Sandy said with obvious reluctance, her eyes ß icking to Erica.

“Go ahead. Everything’s Þ ne,” Mitchell urged, sounding more like herself. “Then how about we grab some takeout for lunch and go home.”

• 177 •

RADCLY fFE

“Okay, if you’re sure.” Sandy looked once more from Erica to Mitchell, then ventured into the crowd.

“So,” Mitchell said. “What are you doing here?”

“You were being honored for bravery and promoted. It’s a big deal.”

“Yeah, and nothing I’ve done in the last year and a half has mattered to you, so why should this?” Mitchell tried to curb the bitterness in her voice, but failed. “Why did you come here at all this week?”

“Because I have to work at not thinking about you every day, and when I found out you were injured and in the hospital, I couldn’t stop worrying. I just…had to come.” Erica’s shoulders sagged slightly and she inched closer, her eyes dark with pain. “I miss you. Damn it, Dell.

I miss you.”

“Nothing’s changed…” Mitchell caught herself and grinned ruefully. “Actually, everything’s changed. I know who I am. I like who I am. I love Sandy. What are you going to do with all of that, Erica?”

“I don’t know.” Her sister shook her head. “Sandy is…she’s Þ erce, the way she…loves you.”

Mitchell’s eyes sparkled. “Yeah. She’s pretty amazing.”

Erica studied her, her expression puzzled. “And you’re happy?

She makes you happy?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe.”

Erica’s gaze swept the room where small groups, composed mostly of men, continued to mill about, talking and laughing. The rumble of many voices drowned out neighboring conversations. Nevertheless, she lowered her voice. “That’s not a problem, here?”

“Sometimes it can be,” Mitchell acknowledged. “But I don’t care.

I can handle it.”

“You always thought you could handle everything,” Erica said with a mixture of affection and irritation.

“That’s because I can.”

Erica laughed, sounding very much like Mitchell. “You are so full of shit, Dell.”

“Yeah. Like you’re not.” Mitchell reached out and Þ ngered the row of ribbons on her sister’s chest. “Looks like you’ve been busy racking up the points. You must be looking at a promotion yourself soon.”

Erica blushed. “Maybe, I don’t know.”

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“They’re fast-tracking you, aren’t they? The posting in DC?

Grooming you for a command post somewhere soon.”

“Probably,” Erica admitted.

Mitchell was surprised to realize that she felt no animosity, no jealousy. With a start, she realized that she no longer wanted the life her sister was headed for. The life she had thought she wanted. Some of the anger she had nourished to shield herself from pain eased. “That’s cool. That’s good.”

“I have to get back to the base,” Erica said. “I wish we could talk.”

“About what?”

“About…Robin. What happened.”

Mitchell shook her head. “There’s no point. It’s over. We all made our choices back then. And we’re all living with them now.” She looked away, scanning the crowd, smiling as she spied Sandy heading their way. “Sometimes the choices we’re forced to make take us to the place we wanted to be all along.” She met her sister’s eyes. “I’m happy, Erica.”

“You ready to go?” Sandy asked as she reached Mitchell’s side.

“Yep.”

Sandy turned her attention to Erica. “If you’re anything like Dell, and I guess you probably are, you’re insane for pizza. We can order extra.”

“Thanks,” Erica said sincerely. “I need to catch a train.” She held out her hand to Sandy. “It was very nice meeting you.”

Sandy appeared thoughtful as she took Erica’s hand. “It would probably be good if you came back for another visit.”

“Thank you.” Erica looked from Sandy into her sister’s eyes. “I’d like that very much.”

Mitchell and Sandy were silent as they watched Erica walk away.

Then Sandy said, “Are you sure everything’s okay?”

“Have I mentioned that I really like it when you take care of me?”

Sandy stood on tiptoe and spoke quietly, close to Mitchell’s ear.

“Yeah, but you’re usually talking about sex when you do.”

Mitchell laughed. “Well, then too.”

“So what do you say we pick up some pizza, and I can take care of you some more.”

• 179 •

RADCLY fFE

“Oh yeah—love in the afternoon,” Mitchell said, grasping Sandy’s hand. “I think I just got lucky.”

“Yeah, yeah, rookie. Don’t get used to it.”

“Too late.” Tugging Sandy through the crowd, Mitchell Þ nally knew that she was exactly where she wanted to be.

• 180 •

Justice Served

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

This is such a nice treat, having you all to myself in the middle of the afternoon,” Catherine said, leaning her head against Rebecca’s shoulder.

Rebecca, in sweats and a T-shirt, her feet propped on the coffee table next to the empty deli containers, sighed. “I could get spoiled, that’s for sure.” She kissed Catherine lightly. “But I have to go back to work. Flanagan said she’d have something for me today on the shooting.”

“I know, and I need to go in to the ofÞ ce and take care of billing before Joyce loses patience with me entirely.” Catherine too had changed into a favorite pair of slacks and a pullover, and now she drew her legs onto the sofa to curl closer against Rebecca’s side. “I really enjoyed the ceremony. I noticed you trying to slip away from the photo-op at the end.”

“The department never passes up an opportunity for publicity,”

Rebecca said wryly. “Hardly my style.”

“But you are newsworthy, darling.” When Rebecca stiffened, Catherine laughed and hugged her. “This is the second time in less than a year that you’ve received a departmental commendation, you were just promoted, and you’re without question the sexiest police ofÞ cer in the city.”

Rebecca tilted her head back to look into her lover’s face. “About that last part…”

“We have to work,” Catherine murmured, captured by the light dancing in Rebecca’s eyes. Her body ß ushed hot, then she shivered.

“But there’s something about you in that uniform that’s had me on edge since this morning.”

“The uniform, huh?” Rebecca guided Catherine’s hand beneath

• 181 •

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her T-shirt, then pressed Catherine’s palm to her stomach. “Will this outÞ t do?”

“Darling,” Catherine whispered, sliding her hand up to cup Rebecca’s breast. “You in absolutely anything does it for me.”

Laughing, Rebecca pulled Catherine down on top of her. Work would always be there.

v

“You want that last piece of pizza?” Mitchell, propped up naked in bed, looked down at Sandy, whose head was cradled in her lap. The pizza box lay on the ß oor beside them where they’d placed it earlier so they could eat in bed. When Mitchell had indulged herself by licking off a few drops of sauce that had fallen on Sandy’s breast, they’d gotten sidetracked. They’d made love, fast and hard, and then consumed the rest of the pizza in postcoital indolence.

Sandy nuzzled Mitchell’s navel, then tugged at the skin around it with her teeth. “Nuh-uh.”

“Jeez, San, cut that out. I don’t have time to go again.” Mitchell squirmed as Sandy bit harder. “Ouch. Come on. I’ve got that doctor’s appointment, and Jason’s been waiting all day for me to Þ nish up some stuff.”

“Say please,” Sandy muttered, circling her tongue where her teeth had just been.

“Oh man,” Mitchell sighed, her stomach quivering as her body went molten. “Honey. ”

Sandy slid a hand beneath the sheet and up the inside of Mitchell’s leg. “What do you say?”

“Please,” Mitchell whispered.

v

“Good afternoon, Lieutenant,” Flanagan said when Rebecca rapped on her open ofÞ ce door. “I hope you’re not bringing your bulldog in here.”

“Watts?” Rebecca grinned. “No, he’s down at the docks following up on some paperwork with Port Authority.”

“Good, because even when he does keep his hands in his pockets,

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I don’t trust him in my lab.” Flanagan capped her pen and shufß ed papers into a folder. “So, nice showing this morning.”

“I didn’t see you there,” Rebecca said, surprised. Flanagan was not one to appear at departmental gatherings, ofÞ cial or otherwise.

“Maggie make you go?”

Flanagan harrumphed as she stood. “Actually, no. I just put my head in for a minute. Saw you get the commendation. Congratulations.”

“Well, thanks.”

The two regarded one another from a few feet apart, then spoke at once.

“About the case…”

“So regarding the Þ ndings…”

With comfortable routine once more restored, they moved companionably into the laboratory where Flanagan led Rebecca to a workbench.

“Nothing new about COD. GSW at close range. From the trajectory, I put your shooter in the car with the victim, not just leaning in the door. That means considerable blowback—his, or her, clothes and body would have been grossly contaminated with the spray. No professional would get into another vehicle like that.”

“I’ve got uniforms checking every dumpster, sewer drain, and alley in a three-block radius. But down there, in the middle of the night, with no one around, the shooter would have had ample opportunity to discard the weapon and their clothing somewhere we’d never Þ nd it.”

Rebecca shrugged. “And by now, any evidence that might have been on his body is gone.”

“Probably dumped the clothes in the river.”

“Yeah,” Rebecca agreed. “The dive team is dragging in the immediate area, but with the currents…we’d have to get real lucky to Þ nd anything. How are we doing on time of death?”

“According to the surveillance team, Beecher dined at eight at a Thai place on Third.” Flanagan leafed through several pages clipped inside a Þ le folder that had been labeled with a case number, the initials GB, and the date. “Decomposition of the stomach contents puts TOD at three a.m., give or take an hour and a half.”

“Can you narrow it down any more than that?” Rebecca asked, thinking that Mitchell’s report had put Sloan squarely in front of her computers at 3:00 a.m. There was ample data to make a case that it

• 183 •

RADCLY fFE

couldn’t have been anyone else using the computers. Neither Sandy nor Michael had the expertise. Mitchell did, but Sandy had stated unequivocally that Mitchell was with her from 1:30 on. Tapes from the exterior cameras had shown Sandy’s arrival at 1:20, supporting that.

The tapes also veriÞ ed that no one else had entered the building until Rebecca’s arrival. The only occupant who could have been logged on to the system at 3:00 a.m. was Sloan.

But a time of death of 4:30 a.m. was going to be a problem, because Sloan had logged off at 3:52 a.m. The crime scene was only three blocks from her building. She could easily have walked there and killed Beecher a few minutes after 4:00 a.m.

“You want a window of less than ninety minutes?” Flanagan snorted.

“Less than sixty.”

Flanagan eyed her speculatively. “That critical?”

“Yes.”

“Get one of your detectives to question the wait staff at the restaurant. I’ll need as precise a time as possible for when he was actually served the meal. If you want a window that narrow, I need to know if we’re talking eight thirty or nine. Without that, what I gave you is as good as you’re going to get.”

“I’ll talk to them myself as soon as we’re done. What else do you have?”

“Something personal going on here?” Flanagan asked. “You’re pushing more than usual, even for you.”

Used to keeping the facts of a case to herself, often not even sharing everything with Watts, Rebecca hesitated. Flanagan, however, was one of the few people in the department she trusted implicitly. “Clark has a suspect in mind whom I’d like to clear.”

“Then the less I know, the better. I don’t trust the feds not to claim collusion.”

“No one in their right mind would believe that about this lab.”

“Thanks,” Flanagan said grufß y. “So, not much else to tell you.”

Then as if on an afterthought, she said, “Except about the bullet.”

“You’re kidding.” Rebecca whistled softly. “You got a bullet?

How? It was a through-and-through shot, the bullet went through the window of the driver’s door, and the car was parked in the middle of nowhere.”

• 184 •

Justice Served

“True. All true.”

Rebecca followed as Flanagan moved down the aisle to the far end of the bench and lifted a section of wood that, on closer inspection, proved to be a round cut from a tree. Rebecca raised a questioning eyebrow.

Unable to suppress a grin, Flanagan picked up a thin metal probe and pointed out a neat, round hole punched into the bark that led into the interior of the section of wood. A bullet track. “Voilà.”

“No way.”

“This morning, Maggie and I took a crash-test dummy, sat him behind the wheel of Beecher’s car in the position we assume he was in prior to death, and shot a hole through its head using the same trajectory as that found in the body.” Flanagan pointed to the section of tree. “Then we aimed a laser beam through the hole in the dummy’s cranium, out the open window of the car, and traced its path through the parking lot, across the street, and into this tree.”

“Beautiful,” Rebecca breathed in true awe.

Flanagan’s expression grew serious. “The bullet’s a match to a previous homicide, Rebecca.”

Alerted to the unusual use of her Þ rst name, Rebecca tensed.

“Okay.”

“It’s the same gun that killed Jeff and Jimmy.”

“Son of a bitch.” Rebecca’s jaw clenched.

“The shooter probably didn’t think we’d Þ nd the bullet, so he wasn’t worried about a match. Or maybe he just doesn’t care.” Flanagan shrugged. “Some professionals get very attached to their weapons.

Some just Þ gure they’re too clever to ever get caught. For whatever reason, he didn’t ditch the gun after the Þ rst murders.”

“Or he did, and someone else is using the gun this time,” Rebecca pointed out.

“And how likely do you Þ gure it is that Beecher, who is peripherally, at least, related to the Þ rst murders, was killed by a different shooter?”

“Not very likely,” Rebecca said grimly. “We always assumed that Jeff and Jimmy were done by some out-of-town hit man. Looks like we were wrong. This has got to be local.”

“Because of the timing?”

Rebecca nodded. “Whoever did this set it up very quickly. There wasn’t enough time to bring someone in to do that hit.”

• 185 •

RADCLY fFE

“Find me a gun, and I’ll tie these all together for you in a neat little package.”

“This guy just made a big mistake,” Rebecca said, almost to herself. “He just stuck his head out where we can see him.”

“Look, Frye,” Flanagan said carefully. “I know this guy shot Jeff, but…”

“There aren’t any buts about this.” Rebecca’s expression was completely unreadable, but her eyes were molten pits of fury. “He pays.”

v

Sloan absently reached for the phone on the desk beside her, still scrolling with the other hand. “Sloan.”

“Got a minute?” Rebecca asked.

Her voice decidedly cool, Sloan replied, “Do I have a choice?”

“I’ve called the team together for seven at your place. I’d like to meet with you alone Þ rst.”

“I was about to wrap things up here anyhow,” Sloan conceded.

She stretched her back and swiveled in the desk chair to survey the room. The two detectives assigned to the new unit had left for the day, and she found the solitude welcome. Boxes of computer equipment, tools, stacks of cartons Þ lled with Þ les—years of data to be sorted and input—surrounded her. Peaceful. “Where are you?”

“Downstairs. How about I buy you a drink at Barney’s?”

The cop hangout was a ten-minute walk away. Sloan had never been there. “Sure.”

It took Sloan less than that to get there, and when she did, she found Rebecca already seated at a booth in the back of a long, narrow, noisy, smoke-Þ lled bar. So much for the No Smoking signs. Of course, with the room Þ lled with cops, who was going to complain? She settled onto the cracked leather-covered bench across from Rebecca. “Frye.”

“Thanks for coming,” Rebecca said.

A waitress appeared, and Sloan ordered scotch on the rocks after Rebecca asked for a cup of coffee. Then Sloan waited.

“I just Þ nished a brieÞ ng with Captain Henry and Clark,” Rebecca said with a hint of disdain. “George Beecher was killed by the same shooter who took out Jimmy Hogan and Jeff Cruz. Also, Beecher was

• 186 •

Justice Served

killed sometime before four a.m this morning, within the frame of your alibi.”

“I suppose no one could come up with a good reason why I might have wanted to kill two cops I didn’t know?”

“No one tried. You’re clear regarding last night’s shooting.”

Rebecca saw no point in adding that Clark had grilled her relentlessly about the evidence, but she’d had Flanagan’s report in hand, and that was unimpeachable. No one questioned Dee Flanagan’s conclusions.

“I suppose Clark was disappointed,” Sloan said.

“What’s he got in for you?”

“I’m not sure he has anything in for me, not personally.” Sloan nodded her thanks to the waitress who passed her her drink. She took a swallow, then set the glass on the wooden tabletop. The scars of many years marred the surface, each with a tale to tell. “Federal agents don’t look kindly on those of us who’ve left the fold. Especially when we leave under a cloud. It’s in his nature not to trust me.”

“Do you know why he’s here?”

Sloan shook her head. “My guess is that your case bumps up against something the feds are interested in. I don’t think it’s a local Mob organization. I don’t think it’s Internet porn, either.”

“No, neither do I. I don’t think it’s ever been about that. Clark put Jimmy Hogan undercover in the PPD because something was going on here that the feds were interested in. He wanted someone deep undercover—so deep that we didn’t even know.” Rebecca cursed under her breath. “That’s probably what got Jimmy killed. And Jeff. Jimmy was essentially on his own, and he couldn’t even ask us for backup. He was trying to feed Jeff information without revealing his identity, and the whole thing came apart in his face.”

“Which means Jimmy was getting close to whatever it was Clark is after.”

Rebecca nodded. “And I think we are too. Beecher’s a piece of it, but I’m not sure where he Þ ts.”

“Someone probably thought he’d talk if you squeezed him. Cut a deal to save his own skin.”

“Someone tightening up their ship. Snipping loose ends,” Rebecca mused. “That plays.” She took a sip of coffee, then winced. “Christ, this is awful. Jason has spoiled me.”

“Why don’t we go over to the ofÞ ce and wait for the rest of them,”

• 187 •

RADCLY fFE

Sloan suggested. “May not be as good as Jason’s, but I think I can manage to put together a passable pot of coffee.”

“Good idea.” Rebecca made no move to leave but instead leaned forward, her eyes Þ xed on Sloan’s. “I’m sorry I upset Michael this morning. Is she all right?”

“She was sleeping when I left,” Sloan said quietly. “But she’s Þ ne.

Getting better every day.”

“I’m glad.”

Sloan took a breath, blew it out slowly. “I keep walking around thinking something’s going to happen to her. That she’ll end up back in the hospital. This morning…when I saw her like that…” She looked away, swallowed. “I got pretty hot with you. I’m sorry.”

“Forget it. I’d’ve done the same if it had been Catherine.”

“I appreciate you getting me off the hook with Clark so fast.”

Rebecca stood. “Fuck Clark.”

Sloan slid from the booth to join her. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not.”

• 188 •

Justice Served

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Okay,” Rebecca said, turning with coffee cup in hand and surveying the team, who had gathered at the conference table. “Let’s start with Beecher.”

She brought the others up to speed with the forensic evidence and the link between the previous homicides and the present one. It took a full minute for the murmured curses and general unrest to settle after she’d announced that whoever killed Jeff and Jimmy had also eliminated Beecher and was still eluding them. “So what else do we have?”

“I got a positive hit on Beecher’s Visa card from an on-line porn relay station,” Jason reported. “The same network we busted.”

“Doesn’t mean he knew anything about the actual operation,”

Watts pointed out.

“True, it’s only an indirect link, but it’s still a connection.”

“On the other hand,” Mitchell interjected, “it does prove he used it, and it’s one more link in the chain tying him to organized crime.” She glanced at Rebecca as if seeking conÞ rmation. When Rebecca nodded, she continued, “And if you put this together with all the other evidence we have linking Beecher to criminal activity, it would only be a matter of time before we had something solid to charge him with.”

“Which,” Rebecca added, “made him a very bad security risk.”

“Not anymore,” Watts said.

“Precisely.”

“Except no one could’ve known how much we had on him,” Jason said reasonably.

“It would seem that way on the surface of things.” Rebecca settled into her seat at the head of the table. “We’ve been careful not to circulate our reports.” She queried Sloan with a raised eyebrow. “What are the chances that whoever was using Beecher’s computer to access the law enforcement network would know you were onto him?”

• 189 •

RADCLY fFE

“If they were good, which they are,” Sloan answered, “they’d know I’ve been looking. Hell. They’ve known all along we were looking, because we reported it all to Henry before we knew how widespread a leak we really had.” She grimaced and shook her head.

“They may not know just how close I’ve gotten, but they have to know it’s only a matter of time. It’s impossible even for the best cracker to hide their tracks from someone just as good.” Her smile was vulpine.

“Or better.”

“There’s one more thing,” Jason said. “I just got a hit on the deep-level Þ nancial search we ran on Beecher’s accounts. Until eighteen months ago, he made sizable cash withdrawals from his personal account on a regular basis, extending back over a period of three years.

Then they stopped.”

“What’s your take on that?” Rebecca asked, leaning forward with interest.

“I’d say he was being blackmailed.”

“And then,” Rebecca thought out loud, “someone thought he would be more useful as a source of information. Once they started using him to inÞ ltrate the department, they stopped blackmailing him.

Probably an incentive for him to cooperate. Any idea what they had on him?”

Jason shook his head. “Not yet, but I’m willing to bet it has something to do with his taste in young girls. Remember, he had a previous sexual assault charge that was dismissed.”

“So someone knew about his…proclivities…and used it as leverage—Þ rst to blackmail him and then to set him up as their inside man.”

“That’s the way I see it,” Jason said.

“When he became a liability, they cut their losses,” Watts noted.

Rebecca turned to another page in her notebook. “I’m going to hand off Beecher’s case to the homicide team that caught it. They can follow up on the routine leads and forensics. I’m having his personal and work computers brought here.” She looked at Sloan. “That’s yours.”

Her eyes glinted. “Got it.”

“Watts,” Rebecca said, moving on. “Anything from Port Authority?”

“You mean other than a big, fat headache?”

Rebecca suppressed a smile.

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Watts gave an eloquent grimace. “You know how many pieces of paper it takes to move a crate of overpriced Þ sh eggs from some Commie factory on the Caspian Sea to America?”

“Are you telling me that Jimmy Hogan had developed an interest in caviar?”

“I don’t know what the hell he was interested in,” Watts said grumpily. “The only thing I know right now is that all three ships he asked about originated from the same port in Russia.”

“Whoa,” Mitchell said, unable to restrain her excitement. “That has to be something, right?”

“Damned if I know, kid. Carla…uh, Captain Reiser…says that 30 percent of the ships coming into this port start out somewhere over there. The big question is why those three ships.”

“You need to track down everything about them,” Rebecca said, making another notation in her pad. “Check the shipping companies, the cargo manifests, the origination and Þ nal destination points, the crew—anything that they might have in common. Jimmy picked up on something. We have to know what it was.”

“Reiser is already on it. I’ll have more information for you to feed into your computers in a day or so.”

“Good,” Rebecca said. “You run with that for now.”

“No problem.” Watts’s tone suggested that he did not mind the assignment.

“Mitchell, what’s your duty status?”

“Dr. Torveau cleared me today,” Mitchell said, unconsciously sitting up straighter in her seat. “All I need is my psych clearance.”

“I don’t know, kid,” Watts muttered. “You could wait a long time for that.”

Mitchell grinned.

“Get it. I want Mitch and Jasmine back in the clubs. With Beecher dead and nothing solid from Port Authority, the only place to shake out a new lead is there.” Rebecca folded her notebook and slid it into the inside pocket of her blazer. “My street sources are coming up empty.

The bust at the video studio has sent people underground, and with the hit on Beecher, it’s not safe for my CIs to do much digging. I don’t want them calling attention to themselves.”

No one at the table looked at Mitchell; everyone knew that Sandy

• 191 •

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was one of Rebecca’s CIs. Mitchell pressed her palms hard into her thighs to prevent herself from curling her Þ ngers into Þ sts.

“Saturday night is always a big night at Ziggie’s,” Jason said into the void. “Mitch and Jasmine and the Kings could hit it tomorrow night.

There ought to be enough after-hours activity that no one would notice us asking a few questions.”

“Do it. It’s time to make something happen.”

v

“Just think about it,” Mitchell heard Michael say as she stepped off the elevator.

“Yeah, okay,” Sandy replied hesitantly.

“I mean it. You’d do Þ ne.” Michael turned to the sound of Mitchell approaching. “Hi, Dell. Is the meeting over?”

Mitchell nodded, looking curiously from Sandy to Michael.

Sandy appeared uncomfortable, a distinctly unusual condition for her.

Mitchell had seen her angry, stubborn, even hurt. But almost never uneasy. “What’s up?”

Sandy popped up and hurried down the hall in the direction of the guest room. “Nothing.”

“Something’s going on,” Mitchell insisted as she hustled to catch up.

“I think we should go home,” Sandy said, walking directly to the closet and lifting out her suitcase.

“Me too.” Mitchell sat on the side of the bed, her arms out to either side, watching Sandy pack. “I’m pretty much healed, and it’s time for me to get back to work.”

“Don’t you have to see Cath—Dr. Rawlings too?”

“Yep—Þ rst thing tomorrow.”

“Huh.” Sandy folded one of Mitchell’s white T-shirts and laid it next to a camisole in her suitcase.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Then how come you won’t look at me?” Mitchell frowned. “Did Michael say something to upset you?”

“No,” Sandy snapped.

“Well, it’s something,” Mitchell persisted.

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Sandy slammed the dresser drawer hard enough to knock over several bottles of perfume that stood on its top. She whirled in Mitchell’s direction, her eyes glinting with irritation. “If I wanted you to know something, I’d tell you. So stop with the questions.”

Mitchell blinked at the unanticipated assault. Then, in an extraordinarily quiet voice, she said, “I want to know what Michael said that bothered you. If you don’t tell me, I’m going to go ask her.”

“You can be a real pain in the ass, Dell. Once in a while you should just mind your own business.” Despite her words, Sandy’s voice had lost most of its edge.

“You are my business.”

Sandy sighed and joined Mitchell on the bed, her thigh their only point of contact where it lightly touched Mitchell’s. Staring straight ahead, she said in a subdued tone, “She offered me a job.”

“Yeah?” Mitchell said, carefully hiding her surge of excitement.

“How did that happen?”

“She had to drop some papers off at her ofÞ ce the other day when we went shopping for my new outÞ t. While we were there, she showed me around. Innova takes up the whole twentieth ß oor, and you can see everything—all the way to New Jersey—from up there.”

“Cool.”

“Yeah,” Sandy said quietly. “You can tell everyone thought Michael was like…a queen or something. And she was nice to everybody.”

“She’s like that,” Mitchell observed, her hand creeping across the space between them to grasp Sandy’s. “She pays attention to everyone.”

Sandy nodded silently.

“So?” Mitchell asked Þ nally. “What about the job?”

“The guy who runs the supply room—you know, orders all the stuff that everyone needs, like paper and Þ les and even cell phones—is leaving soon. Moving out of state. They want to train a replacement before he goes.”

“So that’s the job?”

“Yeah.”

“What do you think?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never done anything like that before.” Sandy unconsciously squeezed Mitchell’s hand. “What if I messed it all up?”

“Like how?”

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“I don’t know—ordered the wrong stuff. Or forgot to order something.”

“Well, I suppose you’d just return the wrong stuff and order the right stuff.” Mitchell shrugged. “I bet that happens a lot.”

“There’s computers.”

Sandy said the word as if it were a life-threatening disease.

Mitchell couldn’t help herself. She laughed.

“Shut up,” Sandy snapped, slapping Mitchell’s arm and trying desperately not to smile.

“Honey, look at what I do every day. You don’t think maybe I could teach you what you needed to know?”

“I’ve never had a job. I don’t how how to do it.”

“Well,” Mitchell said softly and kissed Sandy gently on the cheek.

“We’ll just have to teach you. There’s nothing you can’t do, San. I promise.”

“I don’t want to disappoint you.”

Mitchell gaped. “You’re kidding, right?” She tugged Sandy upright and framed her face with both hands. Leaning close, she said very distinctly, “I love you. If you want to try this job, then you should.

You’ll be great. If you don’t want it, then forget it.”

“But you’d like it if I did, wouldn’t you?”

“It’s too dangerous out there, doing what you’re doing for Frye.

I want you to stop. Job or not, I want you to stop.” Mitchell kissed Sandy’s forehead, then her mouth. “If you had another job, you’d feel better about quitting this one.”

“I have some things to Þ nish for Frye, Dell.” Sandy drew away, anticipating Mitchell’s protests.

“Look,” Mitchell said, trying hard to contain both her temper and her fear. “Frye said just this afternoon that the heat is on around this whole Internet porn thing, and that it’s too dangerous for the CIs. She’s going to pull you anyway.”

“Well, she hasn’t yet.” Sandy stood, thinking about her upcoming meeting with Trudy. She had to at least see her, warn her to keep her head down. She resumed packing, pretending not to hear Mitchell’s teeth grinding.

“Honey,” Mitchell said, “you have to trust me on this one. It’s not safe ou—”

“You have to trust me.” Sandy scooped up a pile of panties and

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dumped them into her suitcase. She closed the hasp and straightened.

“I have a meeting tonight. It’s important. I’m going.”

“Then I’m coming with you.”

“No,” Sandy barked. “Jesus, Dell. I might as well put a big sign on my head that says police informer. Get a grip.”

“I can’t,” Mitchell whispered. “I’ll go crazy if something happens to you.”

Sandy’s features softened and she strode quickly to Mitchell, driving her Þ ngers into Mitchell’s hair, tilting her head back before kissing her soundly on the mouth. “Nothing’s going to happen. It’s just another night—business as usual.” She stroked Mitchell’s cheek.

“Except I’m not doing any business anymore. And that’s because of you.”

Mitchell frowned, then her eyes darkened with understanding.

“Nothing?”

Sandy shook her head.

“For how long?”

Sandy lifted a shoulder.

“Honey?”

“A while.” Sandy didn’t protest when Mitchell pulled her down into her lap. Rather, she threaded her arms around Mitchell’s neck and rested her head against the curve of Mitchell’s shoulder. “I got so I didn’t want anyone near me except you.”

“Oh man,” Mitchell moaned, burying her face in Sandy’s hair, her hand sliding under Sandy’s top. “I gotta have you all the time.”

“You already do,” Sandy said with a shaky laugh.

Mitchell shook her head, the Þ ngers of one hand splayed beneath the soft curve of Sandy’s breast. “I don’t mean that way. Well, I do, but I mean the other way too.”

Sandy leaned back to look into Mitchell’s face. “What are you talking about, rookie? You’re sounding a little crazy.”

“I am crazy. Totally.” Mitchell’s thumb brushed Sandy’s nipple, and she smiled at the instant response. “I want to be with you all the time. I want us to live together.”

Caught off guard, Sandy laughed harshly. “There’s no fucking way I’m living in that fancy place you’ve got. I probably wouldn’t even pass the security check.”

“Fuck their security checks,” Mitchell spat. “If that’s where we

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wanted to live, that’s where we’d live. But I don’t want to live there either.”

“You don’t?” Sandy couldn’t hide her curiosity. “Where then?”

“I was thinking maybe we can get a place around here somewhere or Queen Village. There’s a lot going on down here—you know, with Jasmine and the Kings performing and everything.” She traced a Þ ngertip over Sandy’s lips. “We can look for a place as soon as this case wraps up.”

“I didn’t say yes.” Sandy licked the end of Mitchell’s Þ nger with the tip of her tongue, then nipped at it with her teeth.

“Yeah, I know.” Mitchell eased her Þ nger between Sandy’s lips and into her mouth, closing her eyes partway as Sandy sucked on it.

“But you will.”

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CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Saturday

The sensation began in the pit of her stomach—an ever-increasing pressure like the tight coiling of the spring mechanism in an old-fashioned clock. The muscles on the insides of her thighs quivered, her calves contracted, and her heels dug into the mattress as her hips lifted. She had stopped breathing, the moan dying in her throat. Searching desperately behind her with one arm, she found the smooth, curved edge of the headboard and clamped her Þ ngers around it. She cupped the back of Rebecca’s head in her palm and thrust her clitoris hard against Rebecca’s mouth. In her mind, she was screaming, but only the barest groan escaped. Flames licked her skin and she ß ushed hot; an agony of raw nerves and raging blood beat between her thighs; hot lightning scorched the length of her spine. She summoned all her strength but managed only a whisper.

“I’m coming.”

For a few seconds, minutes, hours, eternity, there was no thought, no awareness beyond the torrent of pleasure ß ooding the plains of her body, rolling through the Þ elds of her mind, laying waste to reason, replenishing her spirit like a deluge in the desert. And then, mercifully, peace followed the cataclysm, and the tension left her body. Catherine drew in her Þ rst full breath in what felt like eons and expelled it on a long sigh.

“Oh my God. My ears are still ringing.”

Rebecca grunted and rolled away, fumbling with one hand on the nightstand. She was still struggling to recover from her own orgasm, induced by a few swift tugs on her tumescent ß esh when she felt Catherine approaching climax. “Fucking phone.”

“Oh no,” Catherine protested, running her hand down the center of Rebecca’s bare back.

“Yeah. Frye.”

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Catherine knew the instant her lover slipped away and the detective took her place. Rebecca swung her legs to the side of the bed and sat up in one ß uid motion. The muscles beneath Catherine’s Þ ngers tightened, as if preparing to surge into motion. The very air around Rebecca’s body crackled with tension.

“What was she wearing?”

Rebecca’s tone was sharp. Catherine did not need to see her face to envision the Þ erce focus in her ice blue eyes.

“No! Stay there. I’ll get back to you as soon as I make a few calls.”

Rebecca swore under her breath.

“All right. I’ll pick you up in Þ fteen minutes.”

As Rebecca closed the phone and stood, Catherine checked the clock. A little before six a.m. “What is it?”

“Sandy’s missing.”

v

Rebecca drove with one hand on the wheel, the other on her cell phone. Beside her, Mitchell sat rigid, her back so stiff it did not touch the seat. Her feet were planted ß at on the ß oor, palms pressed to her thighs. Her splayed Þ ngers were white.

“What exactly did she say when she left?” Rebecca asked.

“She’d set up a phone meet with Trudy. It was the Þ rst time they’d connected since the bust.” Mitchell’s voice was gravelly, her throat desert dry. She stared through the windshield at the familiar neighborhoods, registering nothing. There was an odd numbness in her chest and belly, as if she’d been gutted. There was no pain, only a vast emptiness, dark and endless. “She didn’t say where.”

“What’s your best guess?”

In the silence that followed, Rebecca pushed her own sick fears deep down inside. She’d put Sandy out there. Never mind that Sandy knew the risks. In the end, she alone was responsible for anything that happened to her. Sandy—sharp-tongued, quick-witted, tough, vulnerable Sandy. She probably weighed all of a hundred pounds. Jesus Christ.

“Mitchell?”

“I don’t know.”

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Rebecca slammed on the brakes, downshifted hard, and swerved to the curb. In the same motion, she turned in the seat and grabbed Mitchell’s shoulder, forcing the younger woman to look at her. “She’s out there, and we’re going to Þ nd her. That’s what we do. If anyone’s hurt her, we’ll take care of it. Now get your fucking head together, because I need you. And so does she.”

Mitchell blinked. The Þ ngers digging into her shoulder created small circles of pain, a welcome reminder that she was still capable of feeling. The sharp edges of Rebecca’s words cut through the mist of desolation that clouded her mind. She was not helpless. Sandy was not gone.

“The…diner, maybe.”

“No, too busy. Too many pimps who might see them.” Rebecca inched closer, easing her viselike grip. “Come on, Mitchell. She’s your girl. You know her. Someplace she trusts. Somewhere safe.”

“Chen’s. That’s where we used to meet, back when we Þ rst started…going out.” Mitchell shivered as the ice encasing her heart cracked. It hurt to feel her heart beat, but the pounding was a welcome ache. “South Str—”

“I know where it is,” Rebecca snapped as she shifted back into her seat, her foot already jammed on the gas pedal. The Corvette peeled down Bainbridge, the engine screaming in the nearly empty Saturday-morning streets.

v

“Yes, I remember,” Lilly Chen said. She’d answered their knock immediately, wrapped in a long robe, looking as if they hadn’t just awakened her from a sound sleep. “With another girl. Last booth in the back. Two o’clock.”

“Anything unusual happen?” Rebecca asked.

Lilly frowned. “I don’t think so. They talked, they ate. We were busy. Friday nights are like that.”

Rebecca sensed Mitchell growing restless beside her, but she kept her own posture and expression relaxed. Witnesses frequently didn’t realize how much they truly knew, and if they felt pressured, they often forgot or fabricated. Neither was desirable, especially not now, when they had so little to go on. “Do you remember any customers acting

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strangely right about that time—say, leaving without Þ nishing their meal?”

“There was one like that!” Lilly exclaimed, her eyes bright. “He ordered but didn’t eat. Left too much money on the counter because the check wasn’t ready.”

“What time was this?” Mitchell asked calmly.

“Just after two, I think.”

Mitchell’s heart jumped into overdrive. “Did he talk to them?”

Lilly shook her head. “No. No one did, or at least I didn’t see.”

“What about your waitresses? Would they have noticed?” Rebecca asked.

“My children. They were working last night. I could wake them.”

“No,” Rebecca said, “not right now. We may want to talk to them later, if that’s all right.” Questioning the kids would take too long, and what they needed now was an idea of where Sandy might have gone.

Finding out who might have gone after her could wait.

“Anything else you can think of? Anything that was at all different.”

Lilly started to shake her head again, then stopped. “Sandy gave me money at the table, not up front at the register like usual. I don’t remember seeing the girls leave.”

Rebecca’s eyes narrowed. “Back door?”

“Maybe,” Lilly agreed. “The Þ re door is back by the restrooms.

They could have left that way.”

“Thanks,” Rebecca said. “Sorry to wake you.”

“It’s okay,” Lilly called after them.

As they hurried down the sidewalk, Rebecca said, “There’s an alley that runs behind this row of storefronts. Let’s check it out.”

“Okay. Right.” Mitchell spun away, only to be jerked to a halt by Rebecca’s hand on her shoulder again.

“Take it easy. There’s probably no one still around, even if he did follow them out the back. But keep your head on straight.” Rebecca waited, watching, knowing that now was the moment that would deÞ ne Mitchell’s future.

Mitchell took a deep breath and thought back to the months and years of training that had been part of a career she had tried hard to forget. This was the war and these streets the battleÞ eld that she had spent a lifetime preparing for. Her mission was now, and nothing would

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ever matter more. The roaring in her head grew still. Her heart rate slowed, her vision cleared. The faint trembling in her hands dissipated.

She turned and met her lieutenant’s eyes. “Yes, ma’am. I’m Þ ne.”

“Good. You approach from the north, and I’ll come in from the south. We’ll check the alley directly behind Chen’s Þ rst, and if there’s nothing there, we’ll follow their most likely path.”

“Understood.”

Five minutes later they met again beside the unmarked brown metal door that was only identiÞ able as Chen’s service entrance by the crates of moldering vegetable remains stacked by the nearby dumpster.

“Nothing,” Rebecca said ß atly. “Where would they likely head for?”

“Jesus,” Mitchell muttered, rubbing her face. “If they were done talking, Sandy would either check out the strip or come home.”

“If she thought they were being followed, she’d want to shake him pretty fast,” Rebecca mused. She turned, orienting herself in the narrow, dank alley, trying to put herself in the place of two frightened girls. “At 2:30 in the morning, the only activity around here is on South Street. It’s the only place they might be able to blend in with other people on the street.” She pointed west. “And if they were trying to make it to the strip, they’d go that way. I’ll take this direction, you head toward the river. Just in case I’m wrong.”

“What about backup?” Mitchell asked.

“No point yet. You have your cell?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll check in with you every Þ ve minutes. Call me sooner if you Þ nd something.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

v

Rebecca walked quickly, eyes scanning both sides of the narrow thoroughfare. All of the business establishments were closed, and it was too early for deliveries, so she was alone. City smells accosted her: gasoline, garbage, and an occasional hint of someone’s breakfast.

It was fall, and the morning was cold. She left her jacket open for easy access to her weapon. She didn’t think about Catherine. She didn’t think about Sandy. She thought about where a young girl running for her life

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might go. Her cell phone rang. It was three minutes before the next checkin time with Mitchell. She looked at the number on the readout as she pulled the phone from her belt. Her hand never wavered, but her stomach tightened painfully.

“Frye.”

Mitchell’s voice came through clear, surprisingly steady, surprisingly normal, except for the absolute absence of inß ection.

“I’ve got a body.”

v

Don’t touch anything, the lieutenant had said. Secure the scene, she had said.

Mitchell moved mechanically, instructing one of the uniforms who had arrived within minutes to cordon off each end of the alley with yellow crime scene tape, advising the other to start canvassing for witnesses. It was the Þ rst time she’d ofÞ cially acted as a detective, and she didn’t feel a thing. No pride, no arrogance, no nerves. Nothing. She didn’t feel anything.

“Mitchell.”

“Ma’am,” Mitchell said reß exively, turning toward the sound of Rebecca’s voice. Funny, how just that little bit of movement made her dizzy. The lieutenant had an odd expression on her face—a searching, almost tender look.

“What do you have?”

“Female…” Mitchell’s voice died and she frowned. Coughed.

Tried again. Odd, how much her throat hurt all of a sudden. “Female victim. Behind the dumpster. Down the alley.”

“Show me.” Rebecca ducked under the tape and put her hand in the center of Mitchell’s back. The muscles beneath her Þ ngers were as hard as stone. Rivulets of sweat ran from beneath Mitchell’s hair, soaking the collar of her leather jacket. “Are you certain she’s dead?”

“Has to be.” Mitchell moved forward in measured steps, stiff legged and disjointed, far from her usual ß uid stride. “So much blood.”

“Did you touch her?” Rebecca’s question was soft, her tone nearly gentle.

“No, ma’am. I saw…I saw an arm. The jacket.” Mitchell laughed, a short, broken sound. “That stupid jacket. I told her it wasn’t warm

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enough. She never listens.” She stopped abruptly Þ fteen feet from a green commercial dumpster. “There was blood everywhere. He shot her. He shot her in the head.” She shivered violently. “Oh Christ.”

From where she stood, Rebecca could see only part of the body.

A pale, open-Þ ngered hand extended from the sleeve of a bright red vinyl jacket. A shoe, its strap torn loose from the cheap plastic sole, lay abandoned close by. Part of a leg in shiny black satin. A thick spreading puddle that could only be blood. She’d seen it before. Hundreds of times. Smelled the scent of death, felt the hopelessness and despair.

This time, rage rode hard through her. Even as her fury mounted, her mind grew ever clearer, her heart colder.

“I want someone knocking on every door on both sides of this street for three blocks in every direction. Someone heard the shot—I want their name. No one interviews them but me. No one comes down this alley until the crime scene techs have cleared it. I want Flanagan.

No one else.” She angled her body between the victim and Mitchell. “I want you out of here. Go to Sloan’s. Wait for me there.”

“I want to see her.” Mitchell’s eyes were bleak, barren wounded things. “I didn’t…earlier. I saw the jacket. The blood. I can’t leave her here.”

“No. You go now. Do you understand?”

“Please. Please, Lieutenant.”

Rebecca hesitated, considered what she would need to do if it were…the pain struck so swiftly she gasped. Jesus. She gripped Mitchell’s arm and stepped close enough to her so that no one from the street could see them. This was Mitchell’s private hell, and there would be no witnesses.

“Come on.”

Together, they moved within three feet of the body and squatted down. With practiced, cool efÞ ciency, Rebecca surveyed the scene. The victim lay on her stomach, face turned away. She’d almost certainly been running and he’d caught her from behind, spun her around, and put the gun in her face. The exit wound told Rebecca that. There was so much blood even her hair color was obscured. A purse lay not far away, partially open, the clasp probably having been sprung from the force of the fall. Rebecca considered going through it, and then decided that Flanagan would shred her skin from her bones if she did. Beside her, Mitchell moaned.

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“All right,” Rebecca said sharply, starting to rise. “That’s it. You’re out of here.”

“No. No no no,” Mitchell intoned.

“Detective, I said—”

“There’s a tattoo on her ankle.”

“What?” Rebecca looked back down at the body, at the small rose tattoo just behind her ankle bone.

Mitchell stood swiftly, every drop of color bleached from her skin.

“That’s not Sandy.”

Without another word, Mitchell pivoted sharply, marched directly to the end of the alley, and ducked under the crime scene tape. She made it another ten feet down the street before she leaned against a lamp post and vomited into the street. A dozen cops saw her. No one laughed.

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CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Here you go, kid. Drink some of this.”

Mitchell leaned against the lamppost, eyes still closed, laboring to get her system under control. She still felt dizzy, her stomach rolled dangerously, and her heart skittered crazily in her chest.

She inclined her head in Watts’s direction but did not yet open her eyes.

“In a minute.”

“Sure. Sure. Just take your time.”

“What are you doing here?” Mitchell Þ nally rasped, taking the can of soda he offered. “Thanks.”

“The Loo called and said we had a situation. I pulled up just as you were…uh…well.”

“Yeah. Nice show for all the uniforms,” Mitchell said bitterly.

“Fuck them,” Watts said emphatically. “And you owe me two bucks. I used my last quarter in the machine over there getting that soda for you.”

“I’ll buy you a six-pack.”

“Fair enough.” Watts hunched his shoulders in his shapeless sports coat. “Fucking freezing out here. So…I guess the scene’s pretty rough, huh?”

Mitchell took a mouthful of the tasteless but heavily carbonated liquid, rinsed her mouth, and spit it out into the gutter. Then she drained the rest of the can in one long swallow. “Yeah. You could say that.”

“What’s the story?”

“Looks like someone got Trudy.”

“Fuck.” Watts stiffened as if someone had poked him with a sharp stick. “Where’s Sandy?”

“I don’t know,” Mitchell said hoarsely. “At Þ rst I thought it was her…down there.”

Watts extended a hand and touched her arm tentatively. “You’ve

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got nothing to be ashamed of, kid. Everyone loses their lunch sooner or later.”

Mitchell gave him a grateful smile. “Well, I’m glad I’m running true to form.” She shoved her hands into the pockets of her leather jacket and looked past him toward the crime scene van that had just pulled up. “Flanagan’s here.”

“Well, I better give the Loo a hand. Why don’t you take a brea—”

“No, I’m Þ ne.” To prove it, Mitchell took a tentative step, glad to discover that her still-shaking legs were functional. “There’s a lot of work still to do, and—”