Justice for All

by Radclyffe

  “I will leave a message at Ziggie’s. Olik usually comes around on Wednesday nights. To check on the girls. Collect money, I think. I’ll say I want to meet him.”

  “Okay,” Dell said. “Mitch and you. Ziggie’s. Wednesday night.”

  *

  “Rebecca, darling,” Catherine murmured, stroking Rebecca’s face, “it’s time to get up.”

  The night before they’d driven an hour outside the city to a small bed and breakfast in the mountains. After an unhurried, intimate dinner, they’d gone to bed early with a fire burning in the fireplace in their room. Rebecca had fallen asleep in her arms, and Catherine hated to wake her. She studied her lover’s face in the predawn light. The bruises hadn’t completely faded yet and now smudges of fatigue were visible beneath her eyes. If she had her wish, they would stay here for a week, to heal in body and soul. But that was not to be.

  “Rebecca,” Catherine whispered.

  Usually, even when completely exhausted, Rebecca would awaken at full alert, but not this morning. She murmured something unintelligible and rolled closer, pressing her face to Catherine’s breast. Catherine felt her nipples tighten and the familiar stirring in the pit of her stomach, and even though she knew they needed to get up soon if they were going to beat the rush-hour traffic back to the city, she responded to an even greater need. Not for the sex, but for something far more important. Sliding her fingers through the short thick hair at the base of Rebecca’s neck, she cradled Rebecca’s head and guided her nipple into Rebecca’s mouth. She gasped in surprise at the swift tug of teeth against her already turgid flesh.

  “You’re awake, you faker.”

  Rebecca shifted her hips and pushed her leg between Catherine’s, forcing her onto her back and following her over. “I wanted to see if you were really worried about the traffic.”

  “I think you have your answer,” Catherine said, knowing Rebecca must feel the rush of wetness where her thigh was pressed to Catherine’s center. “I do have appointments, though.”

  “Don’t worry,” Rebecca murmured, kissing her way down Catherine’s body. “I’ll use the siren.”

  *

  Six hours later, Catherine leaned back in her office chair and closed her eyes, allowing herself a few minutes to relive the earlier moments of pleasure. The sex had been wonderful, but what lingered with her now was the unique feeling of connection to Rebecca that she shared with no one else in her life. Between clients, she thought about calling her just to hear her voice, but then she remembered that Rebecca had said she would be in court that morning and unavailable. Because the HPCU functioned outside the normal hierarchy of the department, Catherine often forgot that Rebecca still had to perform the routine duties of any other detective. The phone call would have to wait until the afternoon.

  Just as she reached for a stack of insurance forms, her secretary rang.

  “The special appointment you’re expecting has arrived,” Joyce said with a hint of disapproval. She’d informed Catherine in no uncertain terms earlier that morning that there was no time in her schedule to squeeze in another patient. She’d been very unhappy when Catherine told her she would work through her lunch hour.

  “Thank you. Detective Mitchell is with her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Send them both in, please.”

  “You have clinic at one,” Joyce said curtly.

  “I know. Thank you.”

  “Do you want me to get you a salad to take with you?” Joyce asked in a conciliatory tone.

  “That would be wonderful. You’re a dream.”

  “I know.”

  Catherine smiled to herself as she waited for Joyce to bring Dellon and Irina back. When the door opened, she walked around her desk to greet them. The beautiful young woman with Dellon was not what she’d expected. In Catherine’s experience, criminals tended to be either extremely guarded, hostile, or psychopathically charming. This woman appeared to be confident and without subterfuge. Her gaze was clear eyed and direct, and she regarded Catherine with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion.

  Adjusting her expectations for the interview, Catherine shook hands with her as the introductions were made, then asked, “Do you know why we asked you to come in to talk to me?”

  Irina sat on the edge of the armchair as though poised to flee at the first opportunity. “Mitch said if we talked, it might help the police.”

  “Ordinarily, I don’t discuss with the police the things I talk about with my clients,” Catherine said, settling back into the chair behind her desk. “Are you comfortable with Mitch being here? Because you do know Mitch is a police officer.”

  Irina smiled. “I know who he is. He can hear what we say.”

  “Detective Mitchell?” Catherine said. “If at any point Irina wishes you to leave, I’ll ask you to do that and what we discuss after that time will be confidential.”

  “I understand, ma’am.”

  “Before we talk about what’s happened to you since you arrived here,” Catherine said, “I wonder if you could tell me a little bit about your life before. Where you grew up. Detective Mitchell said you have a sister. What about the rest of your family?”

  “My sister is my only family,” Irina said. After a slight pause, she told them in a dispassionate voice of the small Russian village where she grew up. Of her father who died in an accident when she was too young to remember him. Of her mother, uneducated and unskilled, who had barely been able to provide for them. Of the men who offered young girls a way out of poverty, a chance to realize their dreams in a bright and shiny new world.

  For the first time, her voice faltered and she looked down at her hands. “I brought my sister here and now I cannot protect her.” Tears glittered on her lashes and she turned to Mitch, reaching out a hand. “Even if we find her, how can I get her away from these men?”

  Dell clasped Irina’s hand. “There might be something we can do about that. I didn’t tell you before, because it’s not totally set up yet, but my lieutenant called me this morning. She’s arranging for you and your sister to go into the witness protection plan. When we find her.”

  “Protection?” Irina looked uncertain. “We will have to go away?”

  “Yes.” Dell explained the plan, trying to make the legal process sound more straightforward than it really was. “You’ll be sent somewhere secret where you can start fresh. You’ll have people to help you. And you’ll be safe.”

  “What if we do not want this? To go away?”

  “Irina,” Catherine said gently. “You don’t have to decide that right now. You’ll be able to talk to the federal marshals who are in charge of the program. Then you can decide. But Mitch and the other police officers want to help you and your sister.”

  “Not the man who put me in jail,” Irina said. “He does not want to help me.”

  “Ah,” Catherine said. “Forgive me. I was speaking of the officers who work with Mitch. You can trust them.”

  Irina threaded her fingers through the detective’s. “I trust Mitch.”

  Catherine understood the message. Irina believed Mitch and probably no one else. “Tell me about your sister.”

  Irina picked up the purse she had placed by her feet. She rummaged in it for a few seconds, then withdrew a photograph and handed it to Catherine. “This is her. She was only thirteen in this picture.” She smiled sadly. “She looks different now.”

  “We can have our artist work with the image,” Dell said. “Change it until it looks more like her now.”

  “You will not need to,” Irina said. “You already have a better picture of her.”

  Dell frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  “You showed it to me last night.”

  *

  “We finally got a bit of a break,” Rebecca told Sloan and Jason when she arrived at the HPCU headquarters. “One of the girls Sandy got a shot of at the party the other night is Irina’s sister.”

  “Which one?” Jason said, pulling up the images.
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br />   “Give me the full-room shot.” Rebecca leaned down and pointed to one of two girls flanking a distinguished-looking man in his sixties. He was fondling one girl’s breasts while the other girl worked the erection that jutted through his open fly. She pointed to the girl with her hand on his penis. “That’s her.”

  “And that’s the Most Reverend Joseph Thomas,” Jason announced. “He’s that bishop who’s been getting all the press for wanting to root out gay priests, even if they’re celibate.”

  “Shit,” Rebecca muttered. If politics weren’t bad enough, now she had a high-ranking cleric in the middle of her case. “This has the makings of a real media nightmare.”

  “You know,” Sloan said, “as soon as Clark gets wind of this, that’s the guy he’s going to go after. The church will want the priest to cooperate and turn state’s evidence. The other guys in this photo—they might get fancy lawyers to keep their names out of the paper, protect their interests. But with a priest, nothing has to be made public and he’s still completely fucked if they ship him off to some backwater parish. His political power and influence within the church will go up in smoke.”

  “And once Clark gets his witness,” Jason added, “he’s not going to care about anything else. He might even convince the brass to pull the plug on our end of things.”

  “Which leaves us with nothing,” Rebecca said, thinking about the men who would still be left to take advantage of girls like Sandy. “Jason, print me out a copy of Bishop Thomas and his friends. I feel the need for a little salvation coming on.”

  *

  Rebecca knocked on the door to Sandy’s room. “You decent?”

  “No. Come on in.”

  Laughing, Rebecca pushed the door open. Sandy, wearing a PPD T-shirt, sat up in bed, the covers pooled around her waist. She had an open magazine in her lap. The left side of her face was swollen and when she tossed the magazine aside, she moved carefully.

  “Mind a visitor for a few minutes?”

  “No, I wanted to talk to you anyhow.” Sandy patted the space beside her. “You can sit here. I’m too sore to jump your bones.”

  There was no chair in the room, so Rebecca sat where Sandy indicated and clasped her hands around her bent knee. “How are the ribs?”

  “They’re okay as long as I don’t move too fast or poke them.”

  “I’m sorry about the other night.”

  Sandy narrowed her eyes. “Why? You didn’t hit me.”

  “You shouldn’t have been out without backup. Not on this operation.” Rebecca shook her head. “We should have placed an undercover cop with you. Someone from vice, maybe.”

  “No way,” Sandy said dismissively. “You know these guys can smell a cop in the next state. Plus, you’re not going to have anyone young enough. These guys, they like them young. I’m surprised I made the cut.”

  “You look young, Sandy.” Rebecca took a deep breath. “I don’t want you going out again.”

  Sandy sat up straighter, then grimaced. “Fuck.”

  Rebecca put her hand on Sandy’s arm. “Hey. Take it easy. I didn’t come here to upset you.”

  “Then stop acting like you get a say in my life.”

  “I get a say in what you do for me. And I say—”

  “Look, I feel like shit. I don’t want to fight with you, okay?” Sandy covered Rebecca’s hand.

  The contact was so out of character that Rebecca took a few seconds to react. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up right now. I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

  “I will be.” Sandy withdrew her hand. “But I’m glad you came by. There’s something I need to talk to you about. Something I don’t want you to tell Dell.”

  “Sandy.” Rebecca shook her head. “She’s my officer. Hell. And you’re my CI. I knew this was a bad idea.”

  Sandy laughed and then caught herself, rubbing her side. “Just listen. Okay? You think you can do that?”

  “I’ll try, but it’s not my strong suit.”

  “Yeah, no kidding.” Sandy hitched up the oversized T-shirt that had fallen down over her shoulder. “Here’s the deal.”

  When she finished, Rebecca studied her for a long moment. Sandy held her gaze, looking years older than her age.

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah. I really am.”

  “Okay then.”

  Sandy’s eyes flashed. “You mean it?”

  “Yes. I mean it.” Rebecca squeezed Sandy’s knee. “But you have to deal with Mitchell. And soon.”

  “Okay,” Sandy said with a sigh. “I will.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Alone in the office, Sloan stared at the screen. A lot more than a minute had passed since she’d traced the IP address for the computer where the images of Michael and Zamora had originated and pulled up a name and address for the account. Frye expected her to provide the details as soon as she was certain, preferably within sixty seconds. Before she took action. That was the part Sloan struggled with, because as soon as she turned over the information, what happened next would be out of her hands. And Michael’s safety was at risk.

  She tilted her head back and closed her eyes, trying to sort through the labyrinth of choices, some of which would take her well outside the law.

  “What’s the matter?” Michael said from behind her.

  “I’m pretty sure if I open my eyes,” Sloan said, not moving, “I’m going to see the Sword of Damocles right above my head.”

  “So if I’ve got this right,” Michael began to knead the bunched muscles in Sloan’s shoulders, “you know something you’re not certain you want to know. That’s not like you.”

  “I know.” Sloan opened her eyes, swiveled her chair around, and tugged Michael onto her lap. Kissing her neck, she said, “I think I’m losing my edge.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re finding a different edge.” Michael rested her cheek against the top of Sloan’s head. “Tell me.”

  Sloan hesitated. Involving Michael went against every instinct she had. Her need for secrecy, her need to protect, her need to mete out justice according to her own rules. She’d lived by those tenets all her life, and the one time she’d broken her own rules, she’d paid with her career and a huge piece of her heart. But all that had transpired before Michael. And now everything had changed.

  She took a breath, and before she could question where this new path would take her, she said, “I know who sent the pictures of you and Zamora. I’m supposed to tell Frye.” She looked at her watch. “Twenty-two minutes ago.”

  “Why haven’t you?”

  “Why aren’t you asking me who it is?”

  Michael caressed the side of Sloan’s neck. “Because I care about you more than I care about them.”

  “If I tell Rebecca, then what happens will be beyond my control.”

  “What do you want to do that Rebecca would stop you from doing?” Michael asked as calmly as she could, but her heart was racing and she felt slightly sick to her stomach. She didn’t fear what Sloan was capable of, only what Sloan might suffer as a consequence of her actions. She felt as if she were walking through a minefield, but she would not be the victim of a misstep. Sloan would. Michael was certain of only one thing. All that mattered was helping Sloan find her way to a decision that would not destroy her. “Baby?”

  “I want to pay her a visit.”

  Michael stiffened. “Her?”

  “Yes. The redhead you saw talking to me at the fund-raiser the other night.” Sloan laughed shortly. “I guess that wasn’t a coincidence.”

  “Apparently not,” Michael said coolly. “What kind of game do you think she’s playing?”

  “I imagine they’re hoping to buy my cooperation with a threat to you.”

  “So why would she reveal herself to you at all? Why not a phone call? A message on your computer?” Michael walked a few paces away, then spun around. “She might be in league with Zamora, or someone like that. But she’s got her own agenda.” Michael pointed a fing
er at Sloan. “And you are on the menu.”

  Sloan’s eyebrows rose. “Me?”

  “Darling, you are so clueless sometimes.” Michael walked back and leaned down, gripping the chair arms on either side of Sloan’s body. “I thought at one point the other night, when I noticed the two of you together, that she was flirting with you, but I told myself it was just my imagination. Obviously it wasn’t. She has designs on you.”

  “Designs?” Sloan thought back to the business card and the phone number. “She gave me her card. With her home number on it.”

  “Did she?” Michael studied Sloan through narrowed eyes. “Does that happen to you often? Women you’ve just met giving you their number?”

  “Not anymore.” Sloan held up her left hand, where she wore a platinum band that matched the one on Michael’s finger. “But I knew something was off, that’s why I kept it.”

  Sloan lifted Michael’s arms away from the chair and kissed her soundly as she stood up. Talia Ballenger had made a mistake by revealing herself. She’d misjudged just how meaningless Sloan found the attentions of any other woman except Michael.

  “Not so fast.” Michael grabbed the back of Sloan’s shirt when she would have hurried away. “What are you going to do?”

  “Why, I’m going to call Rebecca, of course.” Sloan pulled Michael close and kissed her once again. “What else?”

  *

  “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Bishop Thomas,” Rebecca said, taking the chair he indicated across from his desk.

  The Most Reverend Joseph Thomas was even more distinguished looking in person than the poor-resolution photograph had conveyed. He wore a black suit and dark shirt with a clerical collar. His steel gray hair was thick and expertly cut, his body fit, and his face tanned and healthy. His blue eyes regarded her with speculation.

  “How can I help you, Officer?”

  “Lieutenant.” Rebecca crossed her legs and regarded him silently for a moment, letting him look her over. She waited until his gaze flicked away. “I wonder if you could account for your whereabouts Saturday evening from, say, ten p.m. until three a.m.?”