by Radclyffe
“It sounds suspiciously like the kind of hospital politics that Hazel has to deal with all the time,” Catherine said, speaking of her friend and department chair, Hazel Holcomb. “The difference is, of course, that no one is likely to shoot at Hazel.”
“It won’t be that way, Catherine,” Rebecca assured her firmly. “We’ll be doing a lot of work right from Sloan’s with computer traces, just the way we have been doing. You don’t need to worry.”
“Rebecca, darling,” Catherine said softly. “I will try my very best to understand and support you. I truly mean that. But you can’t expect me not to worry.”
“I promise it will be all right.” Rebecca reached for Catherine’s hand again. “Try to believe that.”
“Will you let me help?”
Rebecca’s first impulse was to say no. She hated having Catherine anywhere near an active investigation, because the first time Catherine had consulted on a case, she’d nearly been killed. She forced out the words. “Yes, if you really want to. Chances are we’ll need your profiling input.”
“Good. I hate what’s happened, too.”
Rebecca rubbed her face briskly with her free hand. “God, this relationship business is tough.”
Catherine laughed, her eyes suddenly sparkling. “I love you, Rebecca Frye.”
“What did I do?”
“And that’s one of the big reasons why. You give me what I need, just because you’re you.”
*
After Rebecca dropped Catherine off at the hospital, she drove twenty blocks south across the river that bisected the city and into a markedly different neighborhood. There the narrow run-down row houses fronted the sidewalks with tiny landings or none at all. Gentrification had not reached that part of Center City, and the poor and the disaffected naturally migrated there. She made one quick stop and then headed north for Old City and the renovated warehouse that housed both Sloan Security’s central office and Michael and Sloan’s home.
She found street parking and climbed the stairs to the recessed alcove in front of an unmarked door. A small security camera swiveled high in one corner, and she glanced up automatically. The front door lock was disengaged and she walked through into the enormous first-floor garage. Usually Sloan’s black Porsche Carrera was housed there, but the vehicle had been totaled during the hit-and-run that had injured Michael. It had been impounded as evidence in the subsequent investigation.
The industrial elevator in the rear was controlled electronically from above, and as she approached, the double doors opened soundlessly. She entered and disembarked a moment later on the third floor into a huge open space divided by simple workstations and filled with electronic equipment, most of which was not yet available on the general market. She made her way to the central console, where she found Jason McBride, Sloan’s business associate, studying a computer monitor. When he glanced in her direction, she could tell immediately that he’d been working without sleep for at least two days.
As always, his appearance was impeccable. His blond hair, parted on the side and combed back, was perfectly trimmed. His blended silk trousers and dress shirt were flawlessly pressed. He was astonishingly handsome, with refined features and a resonant tenor voice. There were deep shadows under his brilliant blue eyes, however, and when he spoke, his voice was hoarse with fatigue.
“Hi, Rebecca.”
“Jason.” She glanced around. “Mitchell and Watts here yet?”
“No,” a voice from behind Rebecca answered.
Rebecca turned and saw Sloan walking toward her. The security consultant, who wore her signature blue jeans, white T-shirt, and scuffed brown boots, had apparently just come from the shower. Her hair was still wet. She looked roughly twice as bad as Jason, but Rebecca was happy to see that Sloan’s eyes were clearer than they had been in days.
“Sloan. Good to see you.” Rebecca held out her hand in greeting. “How’s Michael?”
“She was awake for a few minutes this afternoon.” Sloan smiled as she shook Rebecca’s hand. “I’m going back to the hospital soon, but when Jason said you were coming over, I wanted to be here.”
“That’s great news about Michael.”
“Yeah. It is.” Sloan shrugged away the underlying worry that Michael’s recovery was too good to be true and glanced at Jason’s monitor. A series of images that appeared to be faces were rapidly flashing on and off the screen. “So far, no hits on the composite of the guy in the video. We’ve been working up images of the two girls as well. I’m just about to do a run with them.”
Before Rebecca could reply, a small series of pings signaled activity from the perimeter cameras. She turned to her left and glanced at another series of monitors. Watts and Mitchell were displayed climbing the steps to the front door.
“Sector one, disengage,” Sloan said quietly, and the front door locks clicked open. “Come ahead, Detective Watts. Officer Mitchell.”
Another minute passed, and then Watts and Mitchell joined the group.
“Just like old times,” Watts rumbled. He glanced at Sloan with the merest hint of discomfort in his expression. “Uh...how’s your girl?”
Sloan smiled softly. “She’s better.”
“Good. That’s good.”
“That’s great,” Mitchell, also in jeans, a black T-shirt, and motorcycle boots, added.
She sidled over to Jason, peered over his shoulder at the computer, and began to talk to him in low tones, questioning him about the mechanics of the image formation. With a note of excitement in her voice, she murmured, “Sweet.”
“Mitchell.”
Mitchell spun around at the sound of Rebecca’s voice. “Yes, ma’am?”
“Talk with you for a minute.” Rebecca moved away and Mitchell followed. When they were out of earshot of the rest of the group, Rebecca said, “Sorry I didn’t have a chance to brief you earlier. Did Watts fill you in on the way over?”
“The detective said that we’d be following up on the leads we got during the investigation with Justice.” She straightened her shoulders. “I want to thank you for requesting m—”
“There’s a bit more to it than that, Mitchell.” Rebecca studied the young officer’s face, noting again that there was something in Mitchell’s eyes that said she’d had her share of trouble. “We’ll be flying without a net. If we come up empty or turn up something ugly, we could all burn for it.”
“Something ugly?” Mitchell queried immediately.
She’s quick. Smart, eager, dependable. Detective material. Rebecca hitched a shoulder. “An operation like this could tank your career, and you have promise.”
Mitchell almost smiled, but her eyes were dark. “I appreciate you saying that, ma’am, but—”
“Mitchell, Jesus. Can the ma’am.”
“Yes, Sergeant. But my career is about as sunk as it could get. Before your captain called my watch commander, they had me on a crossing-guard detail.” Mitchell shrugged. “But that’s not what I really care about. What went down with Clark was way wrong. They fucked us—excuse me, ma’am—and I want to see this through.”
“Yeah. They fucked us all right. You’re in, Mitchell, as long as you understand the situation.”
“Understood, ma—Sergeant.”
Rebecca nodded and walked back to Jason. “Can you leave that program running, or do you have to baby-sit it?”
He shook his head. “No. If we get a hit, it will freeze the frame.”
“Okay, then, listen up,” Rebecca said, getting everyone’s attention. “Let’s go get some coffee and assess the situation.”
They moved to the conference room in the rear, filled coffee cups, and settled around the granite-topped table.
“We’ve got a week, maybe two tops, to finish what we started with the investigation into the Internet porn ring.” Rebecca looked at the people gathered around the table. “I have two primary goals—the first is finding out how and where they’re getting the kids, where they’re stashing them, and who’s behin
d the video business.”
Sloan’s right hand tightened into a fist. “What about—”
“The second,” Rebecca continued, unperturbed, “is finding out who leaked the intel about the raid last night and ordered the hit on Sloan. When we know that, we’ll know who put Michael in the hospital.”
“How we gonna work it?” Watts asked.
“From two directions,” Rebecca replied. “Sloan and Jason will work the computers ID-ing the players in the porn video. Jason—you need to log on to the chat rooms under some of your aliases and see if there’s anything going on there that could lead us to a name. Mitchell—you work that angle, too.”
Mitchell nodded, her expression intent.
“Sloan,” Rebecca met Sloan’s hot eyes, reading the need for action, for retribution, in her purple gaze, “I need you to do some hacking.”
“Into where?”
Rebecca hesitated, glancing once at Mitchell. The young officer returned her scrutiny steadily. “Into the PPD.”
Watts muttered softly, “Fuck me.”
“Someone raided the Crime Scene Investigation Unit’s master files and derailed the investigation into the deaths of two police officers. One of those officers was Avery Clark’s contact within the department—Jimmy Hogan. The other was my partner.” Rebecca blew out a breath. “I’m betting that person was the same one who fingered you for the hit, Sloan.”
“Based on what?” Sloan’s head pounded and all she could feel was rage. She didn’t want justice. She wanted blood.
“Gut feeling.”
Sloan searched the cool blue eyes. Not a hint of anything soft in them. “Yeah. Okay. Your call then.”
“We need street intel,” Watts said into the ensuing silence. “All this computer jerking o—uh, investigating, is fine, but we need names, leads, something to chase.”
“That’s the second wing of our operation. You and I will work that, Watts.” She glanced at her watch just as the repetitive ping of the security system sounded once more.
“System—show sector one,” Sloan ordered and a monitor mounted on a wall bracket flashed to the landing in front of the main entrance.
Mitchell gasped.
A thin blond in low-riding jeans and a skin-tight top stood staring into the camera. The audio picked up her voice. “I’m here, so you gonna open up or what? Hey, Frye? Jesus.”
“That would be my CI,” Rebecca remarked flatly. “Better let her in before she starts in on the door.”
Chapter Five
Watts swiveled in his chair to follow the progress of the newest arrival on the monitor. As the image on the screen switched from one security camera to the next, he whistled softly and watched the woman saunter across the garage to the elevator.
“Tasty. Looks like jailbait, though.”
“Detective,” Rebecca said in a voice so soft it would have been inaudible were it not so deadly. “Be careful what you say about one of mine.”
Mitchell, whose eyes were riveted on the monitor as well, stiffened. One of mine.
“No offense, Sarge,” Watts said in a mollifying tone. “I just meant to say she looks about thirteen and—”
“No further commentary is required.” Rebecca watched Sandy’s progress as she disembarked on the third floor and looked around in astonishment. Jason rose to go meet her and escort her back to the conference room. “She’s on my payroll now and that’s all that matters.”
“Officially?” Mitchell’s voice sounded loud compared to Rebecca’s.
Rebecca regarded her solemnly, noting the tension in the young officer’s body and the harsh edge to her voice. So there is something going on with those two.
She’d seen the two young women together more than once in the Tenderloin, walking together late at night or meeting in the all-night diner. They hadn’t been aware of her scrutiny most of the time, but if she had seen them, eventually others would as well. Rebecca saw no need for Mitchell to know the details of her arrangements with a CI; in fact, it was information she rarely disclosed. But Mitchell’s eyes were hot and her hands balled into fists, and the only way to defuse the situation was with a reprimand or the truth. “Yes. She’s registered.”
Since when? Mitchell clamped down on her response. It wasn’t her place to question her sergeant. It was just that she had never realized that Sandy was working so closely with Rebecca. Being a registered confidential informant meant that Sandy was listed with the department by name and paid out of department funds on a regular basis. Mitchell had read between the lines earlier when Rebecca had intimated that their investigation might turn up something, or someone, dirty in the department. And if that were the case, Sandy’s identity was now on file for that person to find. Jesus, as if being on the streets isn’t dangerous enough for her already. Why not just hang a target around her neck?
She must have made some kind of noise, because Watts jostled her shoulder and muttered, “Take it easy, kid. Just sit back and watch the Sarge work her snitch.”
Mitchell managed a nod as Jason walked in with Sandy beside him, but her stomach was in knots.
“Can I get you some coffee or a Coke?” Jason asked.
“How about a beer?”
“I think we’ve got some Stoudt’s. That okay?”
Sandy did a quick scan of the room, hesitating for a millisecond on Mitchell’s face before fixing on Rebecca with a defiant stare. “Yeah, sure. Why not.”
“Hi, Sandy,” Rebecca said before going around the room and introducing each individual. She referred to Watts and Mitchell by rank. She did not give Sandy’s last name.
Addressing the group at large, Rebecca explained, “I asked Sandy to come down because I want her to look at last night’s live feed. It’s possible she might recognize the location, or the girls, or even the guy. We got some sound, too, so maybe a voice will be familiar.”
Watts grunted in appreciation. Mitchell said nothing, but her eyes never left Sandy’s face.
“I can bring it up on the big screen in the viewing room,” Sloan offered.
“Great. So’s we can all get a close-up of the guy’s pecker.” Watts inclined his head toward Sandy. “Any chance you’ll be able to recognize that?”
“Depends,” Sandy said flatly as she took the can of beer from Jason. “Most of them look pretty much the same, except...” her eyes dropped briefly to Watts’s crotch, “some of them are a lot smaller than others.”
Watts grinned, not looking the least bit offended.
Mitchell stood quickly, pushing back her chair so hard it nearly tipped over. “Can we just see the video and find out if there’s something there?”
“Good idea, Officer.” Rebecca gestured toward the door. “Let’s get started.”
Sandy stayed close to Rebecca’s side as the group wended its way through the core of the work area toward another smaller room at the opposite end of the building. She was aware of Dell walking just behind her, but she didn’t acknowledge the rookie’s presence. Frye didn’t tell me Dell would be here tonight. Jesus, she looks pissed, too.
In the viewing room, Sloan slid a DVD into a computer. “The original’s in our vault. This is a copy, but the quality should be fine.”
She pushed a button and immediately images sprang to life on the large screen on one wall. Quickly, everyone took seats as she dimmed the lights. With the exception of Sandy, they’d all seen parts of it before. Jason, Sloan, and Mitchell had spent countless hours trolling the Internet sex chat rooms and bulletin boards, assuming various personae, including young girls and the men who were interested in having sex with them.
Ultimately, Jason, posing as a potential customer willing to pay high fees for live sex sessions broadcast via the Internet, had lured a man known only as LongJohnXXX into a face-to-face meeting. LongJohnXXX was directly connected to the pornography ring they were working to expose. He was the man they had hunted, trapped, and ultimately lost when Avery Clark and his Justice agents had usurped the arrest.
No
w they were forced to begin again.
“I want you to look at the girls first,” Rebecca said into the silence. “Then we’ll go back and you can look at him.”
Sandy was oddly silent as she watched the action on the screen. A man in a generic uniform meant to be playing a deliveryman entered a nondescript room in which the only furnishings were a bedroom set of the type sold in discount warehouses, a few lamps, and a chair. The bed was made up with a faded quilt.
“Faked,” she muttered.
“What?” Rebecca asked. She pulled her chair close to Sandy, and in the near-dark, they looked as if their shoulders were touching.
“It’s a movie set, not a house. You can see there’s no ceiling, there in the corner.”
Rebecca nodded. “We figure it’s some kind of warehouse or abandoned factory. Maybe a garage.”
Sandy leaned forward as two girls entered the room. One was Asian and the other Caucasian. Both appeared very young. The man stripped as they feigned surprise and awkward shyness.
“Can you...you know...make this bigger?” Sandy stared fixedly at the screen.
“Which part?” Watts grunted.
“I want to see their faces...their eyes.”
“Just a second.” Sloan made some adjustments and zoomed in on the Asian girl’s face.
Sandy nodded in satisfaction. “She’s young, but not quite as young as they want you to think.”
“How old?” Rebecca asked intently.
“Fifteen, maybe sixteen. Do they take their clothes off?”
“You think anyone would pay if they didn’t?” Watts’s previous jocularity had dissipated, replaced by an unusual undertone of anger.
Right on cue, the two girls disrobed and began to caress the man, running their hands over his chest and back, pressing their bodies to his. The dialogue was sparse and typically uninspired, peppered with the liberal use of “Oh yeah, baby” and “Ooh, you’re so big.” Someone in Sloan’s viewing room made a disgusted sound.
All the activity was obviously staged but with enough realism, apparently, to satisfy the viewing market. On the screen, the now-naked thirty-year-old man, a big beefy guy who looked like a college football player gone to fat, stood by the side of the bed while one of the girls performed fellatio on him. Kneeling on the floor next to them, the other girl fondled him while his large hand roamed over her barely perceptible breasts.
