In Pursuit of Justice

by Radclyffe

  She shut off the engine. She wouldn’t find out what was going on in there by sitting outside in the street waiting for a clue. Besides, as bad as this was going to be, there was the possibility that it could lead her places. Places she wasn’t going to have easy access to any other way. Hopefully, this task force would open some doors that would bring her closer to understanding what the hell had gone wrong with Jimmy Hogan and Jeff.

  The wide reinforced door to the ground floor was locked, and she pushed the bell next to an intercom. A disembodied genderless voice requested, “ID.”

  Slowly, she opened the fold-over leather case displaying her badge on one side and a police photo ID opposite and held it up to a small camera mounted in the corner of a narrow recess above the entrance. The door lock clicked open, and she pushed through into a surprisingly well lit garage that occupied the entire ground floor. A sleek black Porsche Carrera convertible sat in the center of the large room. At the rear, she could make out a freight elevator with yet another intercom and no visible access panel. Probably remote controlled.

  “Third floor,” a voice instructed as she approached the lift, and several more cameras swiveled to follow her progress across the room. The whole setup made her skin itch, but she never even twitched. She did, however, unbutton her blazer as she stepped into the double-wide elevator car to allow access to her weapon. That at least was something that had gone well. An hour on the range with Watts to get her groove back, and then she’d nailed every one of the recertification targets. She had her badge and her gun. She was back.

  The elevator moved soundlessly upward and opened onto another huge space, this one lit by sunlight from the floor-to-ceiling windows on the wall opposite her as well as rows of overhead tracks. Through the windows, she had an unimpeded view of the waterfront and the river beyond. Prime Old City real estate. Definitely not city property.

  Rebecca took her time getting her bearings. Lots of computers, lots of other assorted electronic paraphernalia, and lots of communication equipment. It looked like a government operation from the scope and probable cost of the hardware. The government always went big on the technical stuff and skimped on the manpower.

  “Detective Sergeant Frye?”

  Rebecca turned slightly to her left and surveyed the woman who approached across the highly polished wood floor, right hand extended. Five-ten, one-forty, muscular build. Black hair, deep violet eyes, about thirty. White T-shirt, leather blazer, jeans. Heavy platinum band on the left hand ring finger.

  “That’s right,” Rebecca replied, taking the outstretched hand. The grip was cool and firm but not overpowering. Confident, like the stance and the voice. Clearly not Avery Clark, but someone used to being in charge.

  “J. T. Sloan.” She indicated a slender blond man, who looked like he could have been a Ralph Lauren model, seated at one of the computer consoles. “My associate, Jason McBride.”

  Nodding to him, Rebecca said, “I was supposed to meet Clark from Justice.”

  “He called,” Sloan said, her expression carefully neutral. “Said he’d been detained at the Federal Building. There’s a meeting set for here—0730 tomorrow.”

  Rebecca frowned. It was starting already. The inevitable meetings and lousy communications that usually ended up wasting more time than anything else. “With whom?”

  “Him, someone from Customs, you, and us.”

  “What department are you with?” Rebecca asked, feeling the beginnings of an enormous headache gathering behind her eyes. She was tired, and that added to her annoyance. Christ, she’d only been on her feet half a day. She shouldn’t be tired.

  “We’re private.”

  The words came as a surprise, although they shouldn’t have. Rebecca looked around the state-of-the-art room and thought about Jeff the last morning she’d seen him alive, two-finger pecking a report out on an ancient electric typewriter. This show was too elaborate for the police department, and somehow too sleekly efficient for the feds. “Your place?”

  “That’s right.” Sloan nodded, watching the detective who had slipped both hands into the pockets of her trousers, hands which Sloan was pretty certain were clenched into fists. This is one unhappy cop. Wonder whose shit list she got on to pull this assignment?

  “There’s supposed to be a uniform assigned here,” Rebecca remarked, trying to decide whether she should ask about the operation or wait for the guy from Justice. She had no idea what these two were doing on the task force, and she didn’t want to advertise her own ignorance of the situation. “Our department’s paper chaser.”

  “Haven’t seen anyone,” Sloan observed noncommittally. “Anyone else on your team?”

  “Another detective,” Rebecca replied carefully, wondering why she’d asked. Damn, she hated coming in cold on an operation, and the file Henry had given her had been very light on details. “You?”

  “Just us.”

  Rebecca made no comment. Looks like this is going to be a very small group, which means someone, somewhere, wants to keep whatever we find under tight control. Usually when the government is involved, there are so many management-level types in on the action that they’re falling all over one another. This seems just the opposite. Interesting.

  Jason had turned on his swivel chair and was watching the two of them, his head moving imperceptibly back and forth with the stops and starts of the staccato conversation. The two women regarded each other steadily in the loud silence—Sloan, darkly good looking and unconcernedly casual, Frye starkly handsome and tautly reserved. Lots of room for fireworks here.

  Sloan considered the upcoming operation and assessed the complexity of alliances and allegiances likely to be a factor. The past history with Justice was much further from her mind now than it had been a year ago, but some memories never fade completely, despite apologies and retractions and concessions. Avery Clark had never been an enemy, but neither was he a friend. He’d called her because he needed her, and she didn’t owe him anything except her expertise. She owed this detective, who was most likely going to end up with the dirty part of the job, even less. She studied the blue eyes studying her.

  “Why don’t we grab some coffee, and I’ll fill you in on what I know.”

  *

  Rebecca glanced at her wristwatch, a functional unadorned timepiece with a broad leather band and solid gold face. She wore it every day, just as her father had until the day he’d died. 4:59 p.m. She stretched her long frame in the uncomfortable straight-backed chair in the small, windowless room and thought about the spacious waiting room outside Catherine’s office. Thick oriental rug, shaded floor lamps, a coffee table with up-to-date magazines. Professional, but human. Warm and welcoming. Like Catherine.

  She remembered that first night—her own impatience, the pressure of a horrendous case, Catherine’s calm, firm resistance to being questioned. A stalemate that had eventually led to something far different. Just a few months ago, two very dissimilar women finding—

  “Sergeant?” a male voice asked as the door across the tiny anteroom opened with a creak. The plain entrance to the inner office carried no identifying label or occupant name.

  “Yes.” She stood, her face carefully blank.

  A middle-aged man with thick, unruly brown hair and a linebacker’s build dressed in a plain white shirt and dark trousers, sleeves rolled to mid-forearm, extended his hand and stepped toward her. “Rand Whitaker.”

  She shook his hand and followed him into another bland room crammed with an institutional-appearing desk, a wall of mismatched bookcases, and two generic armchairs after he said, “Come on in.” Fluorescent lights in a drop ceiling and wall-to-wall dark gray carpet completed the impersonal space.

  “Have you done this before?” he asked as he settled behind the desk in a swivel chair that squeaked in protest.

  “No.” She eyed the plain manila folder that lay closed in front of him. The label was obscured, but she knew what it was. Her jacket. Everything the department had accumulated on her
during her twelve years of service. To her knowledge, there were no reprimands, no inquiries, no investigative reports in that file. There were two citations.

  “You understand this is routine after an officer-involved shooting or a serious injury to an officer in the line of duty. In your case…” He regarded her intently, then continued, “It’s both.”

  I understand I won’t be able to get back to work until you say I can. I understand that you’re supposed to be here to help the rank and file, but you’re not one of us. And I understand that cops aren’t allowed to have problems, at least not the kind of problems that you deal with. She met his gaze directly. “Yes, I understand.”

  “Any problems with that?”

  “Not a one.”

  “Okay. Good.” He leaned back in his chair, seemingly undisturbed by the ominous sounds produced by any movement. “You’re Special Crimes, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Like it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s my job.”

  He smiled. “Have you ever been shot at before, Sergeant?”

  “Yes, once.” She knew it must be in the file—it had been a domestic dispute, like the one in which her father had been killed. Like him, she’d responded to a call from a concerned neighbor who had heard screams from the apartment next door; and as with him, when she and her partner had announced themselves as police officers, the husband had opened fire. Unlike her father, she had been lucky.

  “You weren’t hit that first time, were you?”

  “No.”

  “Did it frighten you?”

  “Not really,” Rebecca replied, wondering where he was going. “It happened quickly, and then it was over. We fired over his head, he threw out the gun, and we were on him in a second. There was nothing to be afraid of.”

  “Did you think about it later?”

  “No.”

  “Dream about it?”

  “No.”

  “What about this time?”

  It had been different this time. She’d known it was coming. She’d been prepared for it from the second that she’d stepped into the dark, cavernous room. She’d been looking right at Raymond Blake while he held a gun to Catherine’s temple. She could see him now as clearly as she had that night. He’d been twitchy, raving, and she knew there wasn’t much time. She wanted him to focus on her; he had to be angry at her; he had to move the weapon from Catherine’s head and put it on her. She knew exactly what would happen, exactly what was coming, as she goaded and taunted him into turning the semiautomatic on her.

  “No.”

  “What do you remember about it?”

  “Not much,” she answered, sitting relaxed in the chair, one ankle crossed over the opposite knee. “It was only a minute or two.”

  He opened the file, shuffled a few papers, glanced down for a few seconds as if reading, then regarded her neutrally. “The report from Detective Watts says that you and the suspect—Blake—exchanged words, but your partner stated that he couldn’t hear what you said.”

  Rebecca waited. He hadn’t asked a question.

  “What did the two of you talk about?”

  “I identified myself as a police officer and ordered him to drop the weapon.”

  “That’s all?”

  “There wasn’t time for anything else.”

  “You were alone at the time?”

  “No,” Rebecca replied evenly. “Detective Watts was behind me.”

  “Outside the building.”

  “Yes—with a clear sightline to the subject.”

  The psychologist was silent for another few seconds. “I’m not IAD.”

  She waited again. He might not be Internal Affairs, but she didn’t doubt that her confidential psych eval would be available to them for the asking. She was not about to say anything that they could use against her, now or the next time something like this happened.

  “I’m not inquiring because I’m faulting your procedures, Sergeant,” he continued. “I’m wondering why a seasoned detective would walk into a situation where the risk was so high.”

  “I felt that the hostage was in immediate danger of execution.”

  “Dr. Rawlings.”

  “Yes.” Catherine. The bastard had struck her, torn her blouse open, bound her wrists. He had put his hands on her. He hadn’t had enough time yet to do anything else to her, but I knew what he intended to do. I remembered his voice on the tape, describing it in detail, and I wanted to kill him then. I can still hear his voice. Sitting there now, recalling his smooth, intimate tone as he’d talked about fucking her lover, she had to concentrate not to clench her fists.

  “Detective,” Rand Whitaker asked softly, “did you walk into that room intending to trade yourself for the hostage?”

  Rebecca met his eyes, her cool blue eyes unwavering. Very clearly she replied, “No.”

  Chapter Five

  At 9:40 p.m., Catherine stepped out onto the sidewalk in front of a building that had once been a gracious Victorian before it had been purchased by the university and converted to offices. It was dark, the night was cool; summer was dying. A shadow moved from beneath a tree nearby, and she stiffened.

  “It’s me. I’m sorry—didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “Rebecca,” Catherine said with a soft sigh. She held out her hand. “How long have you been here?”

  “Not long—fifteen minutes, maybe. Joyce said that you had an 8:30, so I figured you’d be done about now.” She linked the fingers of her left hand through Catherine’s. She was right-handed and needed to keep her gun hand free on the street.

  “You could have waited inside.”

  “I didn’t want to run into a patient. Besides, it’s nice out here.” They began to walk. “Drive you home?”

  “Mmm, yes. My car’s in the parking garage. I can leave it if you bring me in tomorrow. Can you stay tonight?” Needing to ask was hard, but this was new territory for both of them. She didn’t want to make assumptions.

  “I have to go in early. There’s a meeting in the morning.”

  “Ah, so you’ve seen your captain.” I see you’re already wearing your gun again. I knew it would be soon, but did it have to be this fast? Of course, there are some things that you police always do quickly. You work nonstop when a case is new and the blood is still fresh; you interrogate people before the tears have dried and they’re emotionally the most vulnerable; you bury your dead and move on before the ground is cold. You ignore your own pain, at least you try to, until something inside you breaks or turns to stone.

  Catherine thought about her new patient, the young officer who was trying so hard not to acknowledge the pain and terror and abandonment she must have felt walking down that dark alley with no one at her back. Her heart twisted, but her voice was steady. “You’re working again, then?”

  Rebecca leaned down to unlock the Vette. “Not quite. He put me on a desk. Have you eaten?”

  “Uh…lunch.” She was relieved at the idea of a desk assignment and then reminded herself that the reprieve was temporary at best. “Doing what?”

  “Feel like Thai?” Rebecca pulled away from the curb and reached for her cell phone at Catherine’s affirming nod. “There’s a menu in the door. Just call out what you want,” she added, punching in numbers from memory. She relayed the order, then drove in silence, watching the traffic, the people on the sidewalks, the city teeming with life.

  Catherine rested her hand on Rebecca’s thigh and, when it became apparent that Rebecca wasn’t going to answer, asked again, “What kind of desk assignment?”

  “I got a half-assed briefing of sorts this afternoon.” Her jaw tight, Rebecca replayed the conversation with Sloan in her mind. Finally, she continued grimly, “I’m not entirely sure what I’m supposed to be doing. I’ll find out in the morning—at another briefing. Bare bones—it’s a task force to ferret out the important players in a porn ring. One that uses kids, apparently. There’s some kind
of Internet angle and that’s what got the feds involved. I don’t have the details yet. It’s the usual federal need-to-know bullshit, which means that probably no one knows anything.”

  “Why a task force?”

  “To make the job twice as complicated and three times slower.” Rebecca shrugged. “The feds are involved, but they can’t really operate effectively on a local level—not one-on-one. They’re bureaucrats—they don’t have any street contacts.”

  “But you do,” Catherine said slowly. No wonder she’s not more upset.

  “Yes.” Rebecca smiled for the first time. “I do.”

  “How come I get the feeling that this isn’t such a desk job after all?”

  Rebecca pulled to the curb and turned in the seat, stretching her arm behind Catherine’s shoulders, her fingertips resting on the bare skin at the base of her neck. “It’s the fastest way for me to get back to work, and the captain didn’t give me much choice. And I do know this territory. Four months ago, Jeff and I busted two prostitution houses that were dealing children. We bagged a handful of pushers and pimps, but we knew at the time it was just the tip of the iceberg. We were never able to figure a way inside the network. Everything we tried dried up—nothing but dead ends. Then the Blake thing sidetracked us. Maybe this Internet investigation will give us a break.”

  Catherine listened to Rebecca talk about her partner Jeff Cruz as if he were still alive. Of course, he had only been dead a few days before Rebecca herself had been shot, and the two intervening months had an aura of unreality about them. Time and events had been suspended while the detective struggled to survive and then to heal. It was no wonder that Rebecca hadn’t really assimilated the hard truth of his death. What in God’s name is the police psychologist thinking to let her work? She’s barely recovered physically, and she hasn’t even begun to deal with everything that’s happened emotionally.