Justice in the Shadows

by Radclyffe

  “I agree.” Rebecca’s voice was low, flat, the way it got when she was simmering with rage. “It wasn’t anyone directly related to the team.”

  Watts waited for the rest, and the silence grew. Then he whistled, low and long. “Fuck me. You think it might be the captain?”

  Rebecca pulled into the passing lane and blew by an eighteen-wheeler. The speedometer tipped ninety and headed right. Watts made a grab for his seat belt.

  “There’s something you don’t know,” she said at length. “Trish Marks over in Homicide told me that Captain Henry got with her captain behind closed doors, and then she and her partner were pulled off the investigation into Jeff and Jimmy’s murders.”

  “That smells bad.”

  “Yeah, it does.” Rebecca eased up on the gas. There wasn’t much traffic, but they were about to cross the Delaware line, and the state boys down there might not be all that friendly to a Philadelphia cop tearing up their highways. “I don’t want to think it’s him, but...”

  “You’d be a puss...ah, a chump to trust him right now.” He fingered his cigarettes wistfully, wondering if she’d ever let him smoke in her ride. “But it could be someone higher up in the department.”

  “Maybe. Or someone with access to department records.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know, but someone pulled all of the CSI evidence reports on Jeff and Jimmy.”

  “Stole ’em? How in hell did they get past that ball-buster Flanagan?”

  “It’s a long walk back, Watts. And Dee Flanagan’s a friend of mine.”

  “Yeah, well, I speak the truth.” His tone was righteous. Flanagan, the head of the Crime Scene Investigation Unit, was notoriously unfriendly to cops.

  Rebecca grinned. “In this case, I agree.” She slowed, made a U-turn across the median, and headed back north. “They hacked the reports out of her computer, it seems.”

  “Huh.” He watched the scenery fly by for a few miles, apparently half-asleep. When he spoke, however, his voice was clear. “But we have our very own computer whiz kids, and one of ’em’s got an ax to grind.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Watts turned in his seat and studied Rebecca’s sharply hewn profile. “You’re thinking about running a shadow investigation of your own, aren’t you? Going after the leak in the department?”

  “It all ties together somehow, Watts. I feel it. The porn ring, the Justice inquiry, the sex videos, Jimmy Hogan’s intel—all of it.” She gripped the wheel hard, although her face revealed nothing. “Who knows, this case might even shake loose Zamora and bring down a big piece of the organized crime operation.”

  “We could get hung out to dry, too.”

  “Who said anything about we?”

  He huffed. “We’re partners, Sarge. Right?”

  Rebecca eyed the shabby cop in the clean blue suit and sighed. Almost too quietly for him to hear, she grunted, “Right.”

  *

  “The Haldol should be fine for the agitation,” Catherine remarked as she signed off on the resident’s progress notes. She handed the chart back to him and checked her watch. She had an hour before clinic.

  Just outside the intensive care unit, Catherine saw a redheaded woman walking in her direction. Slowing at the woman’s nod, Catherine said, “Hello. I’m Catherine Rawlings. We were never properly introduced the night Michael was brought in.”

  “Sarah Martin.” The redhead extended her hand.

  Catherine noticed that her creamy skin was dusted with pale freckles and there were faint circles beneath her eyes. The smile was soft and genuine, but her cornflower blue eyes were troubled. “How’s Michael?”

  “Not awake yet.” Sarah glanced briefly at the double steel doors leading into the intensive care unit. “God, what a place.”

  “Yes. So necessary, but so terrible as well.” Catherine remembered what it had been like when Rebecca had been sequestered behind those doors, attached to tubes and machines and surrounded by medical personnel who were kind, but often too busy to notice the terror of those waiting for their loved ones to live or die. She shivered. “How are Sloan and Jason holding up?”

  “Jason is at Sloan’s. I think he’s working on whatever they got from last night’s operation.” She sighed. “He’s crazy about Michael and adores Sloan. It’s his way of helping.”

  “I only met Michael the night of the accident,” Catherine said, “but Sloan is wonderful.” They stepped out of the path of a lumbering portable x-ray machine being guided effortlessly by a woman so small she was dwarfed by it. “You and Sloan have known each other a long time, I gather.”

  “We met when we were both stationed in Southeast Asia. Government jobs. God, we were green then.” Sarah pushed back her wavy, shoulder-length hair with both hands, her expression pained. “A long story and a long time ago.” She glanced at the gray doors again. “I hate this. I can’t get her to leave. She’s about to collapse.”

  “I know how she feels,” Catherine murmured. At Sarah’s look of surprise, she smiled wanly. “Rebecca Frye, my lover, was shot and almost died a few months ago. I was afraid if I left her for a minute, she...I just wanted to be there, as if my presence would make a difference.”

  “I’m sure it did.” Sarah touched Catherine’s hand gently. “I’m glad Rebecca’s okay.”

  “Yes, so am I.” Catherine wondered just how fine her lover really was, but pushed the worry aside. “I was just about to go check on Michael.”

  “Good,” Sarah said. “If you could talk to Sloan...”

  “Of course.” Catherine smiled kindly. “You should get some rest, too.”

  “I’ll try. I have patients this afternoon.” At Catherine’s questioning look, she added, “I’m a doctor of Oriental medicine. The only good thing that came out of my tour in Thailand, except my friendship with Sloan.”

  “Well, it sounds as if both Sloan and Michael will be in good hands when Michael comes home.”

  Sarah smiled appreciatively, and the two women parted.

  A moment later, Catherine entered the small cubicle where Michael Lassiter lay. Sloan, who was slumped in a chair by the bedside, head back and eyes closed, jerked upright at the soft sound of her entrance. “Hello, Sloan.”

  “Catherine.” Sloan’s voice was hoarse, her eyes dark hollows, their normally vibrant violet brushed black with pain.

  Catherine lightly touched Sloan’s cheek in passing and stepped to the bedside, taking Michael’s hand in hers. Leaning down, she said softly, “Good morning, Michael. It’s Catherine Rawlings. We met very briefly two nights ago. You’re in the hospital, but you’re doing very well. Sloan is here.”

  The only response was the slow, even rise and fall of Michael’s chest.

  Catherine turned, her heart twisting when she saw the tears on Sloan’s cheeks. Crouching down, she placed both hands on Sloan’s face, cupping her strong jaw. “You have to get some sleep.”

  “Do you think she heard you?”

  “Yes, I do. And I know she knows you’re here.” Catherine brushed the jet-black hair off Sloan’s forehead. “You cannot let her wake up and find you like this. She’ll need all her strength to get well, and worrying about you will not help her do that.”

  Sloan searched Catherine’s eyes, clinging to the certainty she saw there. “I’m afraid to leave. What if...” She looked away, trembling.

  “There’s an on-call room my residents use on the next floor. Rebecca’s slept there more than once. You can shower and get some sleep, and you’ll only be five minutes away.” Catherine pulled Sloan to her feet and slid her arm around the muscular woman’s waist when she swayed. “I’ll speak to Michael’s nurse and give her the number there. I’ll be sure that you’re called the second there’s any change.”

  Sloan wanted to protest, but she kept hearing Catherine’s words. Worrying about you will not help her get well. Carefully, she lowered the steel rail that ran along the side of the bed and leaned down to kiss Michael.

  “I�
�ll be right back, baby. I love you so much.”

  Catherine spoke to the staff, found scrubs for Sloan in the locker room next to the ICU, and walked her up to the residents’ room. “No one will bother you here.”

  “Thanks, Catherine.” Sloan passed a trembling hand over her face. “Where’s Rebecca? Did she find out anything about the guy we caught last night?”

  “God,” Catherine murmured. “Not another cop to deal with.”

  “I’m just a cybercop.” Sloan tried for a smile, but her brain was so fried she could barely move a muscle.

  “Not much difference that I can see,” Catherine grumbled. “You go to bed. I’m sure Rebecca will be by later to fill you in.”

  “Okay, sure. Thanks.”

  The minute she was alone, Sloan pulled off the clothes she’d been in for over a day, stepped into a cold shower for two minutes, and then collapsed naked onto the bed. She was instantly asleep.

  It seemed like only a minute later when the phone rang.

  Chapter Three

  Yeah,” Sloan croaked groggily.

  “This is Dr. Torveau, Ms. Slo—”

  “Is she all right?” Sloan pushed herself upright, fumbling on the end of the narrow bed for the clothes Catherine had left her. “Is she...”

  “She’s stable. She’s not awake, but she’s starting to show some purposeful movement. It could be any time.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  Sloan dropped the phone into the cradle, stood abruptly, and almost toppled over. Her head was spinning, and she was forced to sit again until the dizziness passed. She tried to remember when she’d last eaten and couldn’t. Carefully, she pulled on the soft cotton scrubs worn thin by countless washings, then tried standing again. Better.

  Three minutes later, she was waiting by Michael’s bedside once again. The clock in the main ICU read 2:10 p.m. She’d been asleep almost three hours, but it felt like less than one. Fatigue was something she could deal with, if only Michael would wake up.

  “Baby, it’s me,” Sloan whispered, brushing her fingers over Michael’s pale cheek. “I love you.” She’d said it a thousand times in the last forty hours. It was all she could think to say. It was the only thing that mattered in her life. “I...”

  Michael’s lids fluttered. Sloan held her breath.

  “Michael? Baby?”

  Sloan blinked, because she thought she might be dreaming. Blue eyes, the crystal blue of clear ocean water, met hers. She sucked in a sharp breath, then reached trembling fingers for the hand that moved weakly across the crisp white sheets toward hers. She could barely make a sound as she lifted Michael’s hand, thrilling to the faint pressure from Michael’s fingers returning her grip.

  “Hi, baby.” Her voice cracked on the words.

  “Slo...?”

  “Right here.” Sloan looked around, wondering if she should call someone. But nothing in the world would get her to move from Michael’s side. “You’re going to be okay. You’re in the hospital, but you’re going to be okay.”

  “You?”

  “What, love?” Sloan leaned closer. She was shaking so much she thought her legs might go. “I can’t...”

  “Are you...all...” Michael swallowed painfully. “...all right?”

  “Oh God.” Sloan laughed, an edge of wild tears in her voice. “You’re here...that’s all I need.”

  “Water?”

  “I have to check.” Sloan searched in the tangle of lines and wires and tubes until she found the signal button. “It’ll just be a minute.”

  “Head...hurts.”

  “I know, baby. I’m sorry.” Sloan’s insides twisted as she remembered the blood and the bone-deep scalp laceration. Now that Michael was awake, Sloan felt her fear rapidly turning to rage. I’m going to kill the motherfucker who hurt you. I swear to God I am.

  Michael sighed and closed her eyes. Sloan’s heart tripped with sudden apprehension. “Michael?”

  “She’s just asleep,” Ali Torveau, the trauma surgeon, said quietly from the doorway. “She’ll be in and out like that for a while.”

  “When can she come home?” Sloan’s voice was thin with anxiety.

  “Too soon to tell. She could be ready in a day or two, or it might be a few weeks.” Torveau put a hand on Sloan’s shoulder. “Head injuries are—”

  “Yeah, I know. Tricky.”

  Torveau nodded. “That they are. But she’s going to be fine. Her chest x-ray is clearing up and the renal injury is stable. She was lucky.”

  “Lucky.” Sloan glanced back at her lover, so fragile, so precious. Her rage turned to acid in her guts. “Yeah.”

  *

  When Rebecca’s pager sounded for the third time in less than half an hour, she looked at the readout and grimaced. “I think our time is up. That’s the captain’s number again.”

  Watts just grunted.

  They’d been cruising around Twelfth and Locust, looking for contacts, hoping to find someone who’d heard some street gossip about the thwarted arrest the previous night. They’d gotten exactly nothing. If the guy had been some kind of player, no one was talking about it.

  “You want to come back to the station with me? See what he wants?”

  “Might as well,” Watts said, hiding his surprise. Frye didn’t usually include him in briefings with their superiors. “We ain’t getting jack out here.”

  “I’ll come back out later tonight—see if I can shake down some of my sources.”

  “How ’bout that whore you mentioned the other day?”

  Rebecca stiffened and said nothing. Although the description was true, she rarely thought of Sandy as one of the marginal, beaten-down women who sold their bodies with seemingly careless disregard for their own ultimate fate. Sandy wasn’t like that, not yet. She was still clear-eyed and spirited, still fighting the forces that colluded to drag her down.

  “You said she knew some girls who had made a couple of skin flicks.” He watched the muscles in Rebecca’s jaw tense and chose his words carefully. “If she could maybe reach out to them, get a line on who contacted them—”

  “I’ll see if I can put her with someone from Juvie.” Rebecca’s tone was clipped and short. “Let her look at some pictures. Chances are those girls have been picked up for something by now, and they’re in the system. Maybe she can ID them for us.”

  Watts cleared his throat. “We’ve got our own pictures she could look at, maybe. Better than Juvie’s mug shots. Recent pictures.”

  “What?” Rebecca pulled into the lot behind the one-eight and turned in her seat to regard him with just the faintest hint of suspicion. “Spell it out. I’m not in the mood for twenty questions.”

  Looking slightly affronted, he replied, “Didn’t Sloan say she was recording that little fuckfest last night? There’re two girls right there that we know are involved for sure.”

  “And a guy,” Rebecca said softly. “Jesus, Watts. You’re beautiful.”

  He smothered a smile and pulled out his cigarettes.

  “Not in here,” Rebecca warned automatically as she unclipped the cell phone from her belt. She doubted that anyone would be in at the converted warehouse on Front Street where Sloan lived and worked, but she tried the main number for starters. A male voice answered on the fourth ring.

  “Sloan Security.”

  “Jason, it’s Frye.”

  “Hey.” His voice was flat, tired.

  “Any news on Michael?”

  “Not yet.”

  Rebecca pushed aside both her sympathy for Michael and those who loved her as well as her anger at the assault. The best thing she could do was find whoever was behind it. “Do you have Sloan’s laptop there? The one she used last night to monitor the live feed of the sex video?”

  “Sure. I was just about to call you.”

  “You have something for us?” Her pulse rate quickened, and she saw Watts sit up straighter beside her, apparently listening intently.

  “Maybe.”

  “Let’s
hear it. I could use some good news.”

  “I’ve put together a decent facsimile of the guy. I was just about to run it through the databases.” Jason’s tone was animated for the first time. “If we’re lucky, I’ll get an ID.”

  “Excellent. How good is the likeness?”

  “Average. The cameraman was smart and stayed away from the guy’s face. I had to extract the images from several partial views and do a computer simulation to get the composite, but it’s good enough for an ID if he’s ever been entered anywhere.”

  “Wait a minute—back up,” Rebecca said. “What databases are you talking about?”

  “The usual—DMV, NCIC, Armed Forces—”

  “Ah, those would be restricted access files, Jason.”

  Silence.

  “Right.” Rebecca blew out a breath. “Do it.”

  “It’s working now.”

  “Good.” Rebecca opened her door and stretched a leg down to the curb. “I’ll be by...” She glanced at the man in the passenger seat. “We’ll be back sometime tonight.”

  “I’ll be here.”

  “Later then,” Rebecca said before she ended the call.

  Whistling softly, Watts levered himself out of the car and lit a cigarette. He’d barely dropped the match when Rebecca slammed the door, keyed the alarm, and headed toward the back entrance of the station house at a fast clip.

  “Where’s the fire?” he puffed as he hurried to her side.

  “Look—we probably took whoever’s running the kiddie porn show by surprise last night. They’re going to be tightening up their Internet security ASAP, especially if they know that Justice has one of their mid-level guys.” She shouldered through the rear fire door on the first floor and headed toward the elevators. “They could be reorganizing the whole operation, too—changing personnel, switching out the kids, relocating the studio right now.”

  They were silent as they rode to the third floor in the company of two uniformed officers and a clerk. Once in the hallway leading to the vice squad room, Rebecca continued, “We’ve got to get as much as we can as fast as we can.”