by Radclyffe
A female voice answered on the second ring. “Hello?”
“Sarah? It’s Sloan.”
“Is Michael all right?”
“She’s great. Awake and talking.” Sloan felt a sudden wave of anxiety. “I don’t think she remembers much, though.”
“It will come back to her in time.” Sarah’s voice was calm and gentle. “In case you hadn’t noticed, darlin’, it’s six-thirty in the morning.”
“Huh. Getting late. Is Jason around?”
Sarah laughed. “He’s in the study. I’ll get him.”
A minute later, Jason came on the line. “Hey! Terrific news about Michael.”
“Yeah. There’s even a chance she’ll come home soon.” Saying the words made Sloan feel uncharacteristically superstitious, so she quickly moved on. “What are you doing?”
There was a beat of silence, then, “Phishing.”
Sloan frowned. Jason was referring to the practice of stealing confidential information from on-line consumers by pretending to be a legitimate business updating the consumer’s account. He would send an e-mail claiming that there had been a problem with the billing of an account and warn that if consumers didn’t update their billing information, they risked losing their account or being referred to a collection agency.
The message directed consumers to click on a hyperlink in the body of the e-mail to connect to the “Billing Center.” When consumers clicked on the link, they landed on a site that looked exactly like the company’s legitimate site, but which was, in fact, a front for Jason’s tracking program. When consumers entered their name, address, and credit card information, Jason would be able to record it.
There was one problem, and that was the possibility of being traced back by a savvy computer user. And Jason was working from home. Sloan asked, “You’re casting lines from there?”
“Not exactly. I’m routed through Amsterdam.”
“Ah. Okay then.” Sloan relaxed, knowing that there was little chance that the electronic trail would lead back to Jason or Sarah. “Learning anything about our friends?”
“Might be.”
Sloan caught her breath. “How about we discuss this at the office?”
“Sure. When?”
“I’m on my way.”
“Let me make Sarah some breakfast, and then I’ll be over.” After a second, he added, “You want me to bring you something?”
“No, that’s okay. Thanks. Hey, Jase—can you call Frye? Tell her I’m ready to saddle up.”
“You sure? With Michael still in the hospital?”
Sloan’s violet eyes darkened to black. “All the more reason to go after them.”
“I’ll tell her where we are. Okay if I get Mitchell, too? I could use some help tracking this information.”
“Frye said we could use her. Do it.”
“I’m on it.”
“See you soon.” Sloan hung up, her fatigue magically dissipating. She was ready to hunt.
*
At seven-thirty, Rebecca settled into a plain office chair in the drab institutional room and nodded perfunctorily to the middle-aged man seated across from her behind a laminated wood desk.
“Good morning, Sergeant,” he said.
“Doctor.”
“I was a bit surprised to learn that you had scheduled three more sessions with me.”
Three? Rebecca was about to say that she hadn’t scheduled anything, but thought better of it. The less anyone in an official capacity knew about her off-the-record investigation, the better. And the continued counseling, originally mandated as a result of her in-the-line-of-duty shooting, was part of that cover. “Captain Henry was in favor of it. It’s his call.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Fine.”
“I understand that you had a bit of a problem last week.”
A bit more than one. Rebecca waited. Never volunteer anything during an interrogation. Which was how she viewed therapy. Although she knew that theoretically Rand Whitaker, the police psychologist, was there to help officers who were traumatized from the daily violence they witnessed or stressed from the constant physical danger or addicted to drugs or alcohol, she didn’t trust him. He wasn’t a cop. Catherine was the only non-cop in her life she really trusted. Sloan and Jason were cops in their own way, and Sandy—well, Sandy was unique. Sandy had her own code of ethics. It wasn’t one most people would understand, but Rebecca did. Sandy was loyal to her friends and expected nothing from anyone that she hadn’t earned. One way or the other.
“...ER with a punctured lung,” Whitaker finished.
“Those are confidential files.” Rebecca’s voice was flat but resonated dangerously.
“The ER treatment summary was forwarded to your central file for insurance purposes and ended up on my desk.”
“Convenient.”
Casually, Whitaker rocked back in his desk chair and clasped his hands over his stomach. He regarded her benignly. “You weren’t this angry last week.”
Rebecca folded back the tab of the plastic cover on her lunch-truck coffee. Lifting the container, she asked, “You mind?”
Whitaker shook his head, indicating his own ceramic mug from which a tendril of steam wafted. “Something happen since you were here last?”
“Isn’t that in the report?”
“It’s always good for you to tell it.”
“Nothing out of the ordinary.” Rebecca sipped the scalding brew, wondering, not for the first time, how they made it so hot and so tasteless at the same time. Nothing, that is, if you don’t count a murder attempt, a sabotaged arrest, and a torpedoed investigation.
“You were on some kind of temporary assignment, as I recall. A desk job, wasn’t it?”
Whitaker showed no sign of annoyance at Rebecca’s obvious reluctance to engage in any kind of dialogue. When she merely nodded once more, he continued unperturbed. “How do things stand with that presently?”
“That assignment is over. I’m in-between now.”
“In-between?”
“My paperwork isn’t quite in order, and Henry won’t assign me to any regular duty because of it.”
“Ahh...I see. So I’m the sticking point.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re angry with me about the delay in returning you to full duty?”
His tone and expression were mild, but Rebecca had the insistent feeling that she was being very gently psychically probed. There was a faint tingle in her consciousness, as if someone were touching a hot wire to the surface of her brain. It was distinctly unpleasant. She let out a breath. “No, I’m not particularly angry at you. You’re only doing your job. But I’m tired of the bureaucracy and the bullshit.”
“Don’t you think those things are synonymous with city government, to some degree?”
Rebecca couldn’t help it. She laughed. “True.”
“So why do you persist?”
“What?” Her confusion was genuine.
“In the job. Why keep doing it when there are so many obstacles and, so often, very little reward?”
“Because it’s what I do best.”
“How do you know if you’ve never done anything else?”
“I just know.” I feel it. The rightness of it.
He looked as if he wanted to say more, but he asked instead, “Any other reason?”
“Because without laws and law enforcement, there’d be anarchy.”
He raised an eyebrow. “And with them?”
She hesitated, trying to figure his angle. Where is he headed? What is he searching for? And then she decided that the truth was the safest course. “Sometimes you get lucky. Sometimes, there’s justice.”
“How’s Dr. Rawlings?”
“She’s fine.” Rebecca held his gaze, refusing to reveal her surprise at the abrupt change in the direction of the conversation.
“How does she feel about your job?”
“Why does it matter?”
“One major source of stress
in a police officer’s life is stress at home. Very often, domestic discord stems from the erratic hours or complaints by a spouse of...emotional absence.”
A spouse? Clever bastard. But his words hit close to the mark, and Rebecca colored. “I’m not stressed.”
“Then you may be the only officer who isn’t.” Whitaker smiled slightly. “I’m not certain why you’re here, Sergeant, but I know it’s not because you want to be.”
“I was ordered to come.”
He shrugged as if to say he knew there was more. “Since you’re here, we might as well use the time productively.”
“What do you know about Catherine?” she asked abruptly. Never let the witness lead the discussion. Always take the offensive position.
Whitaker blinked. “Uh...I know you two met during the serial rape case. I know that you saved her life.” A beat passed while he visibly regrouped. “And I suspect that you’re lovers.”
“Why?” Rebecca’s tone was laser sharp.
“You haven’t denied a personal relationship, and every time her name comes up, you become defensive. No...not defensive. Protective.” He smiled. “Which is what you do, after all, isn’t it, Sergeant? You protect others. Especially those you’re responsible for.”
“That’s the job description.”
“Does she mind what you do?”
“Her name does not belong in your report. If you want me to come back for another session, you had best see that it isn’t there.” And you want me to come back, don’t you? You want something from me.
“You have my word.” He leaned forward. “Is she bothered by your job?”
“We’re not going to discuss Catherine Rawlings.” Rebecca glanced at her watch. “And it’s time for me to go.”
“We have another minute or two. Would you quit if she asked you to? Theoretically, of course.”
“What difference does that make, theoretically?”
“It says a lot about you.”
Rebecca stood, pulled down the cuffs on her charcoal blazer, and shrugged her shoulders infinitesimally to adjust her weapon harness. She pointed to the gold shield exposed on the flap of the leather badge case that protruded from her breast pocket. “That says all you need to know about me.”
“I don’t agree, Sergeant,” he rejoined softly.
“Your prerogative.”
As Rebecca reached for the door, she heard the quiet words from behind her. “You didn’t answer my question.”
She turned the knob, pushed the door open, and stepped out into the hall. She didn’t want him to see her face, because she was afraid he’d realize that she didn’t know the answer.
Chapter Eight
Rebecca walked directly from Whitaker’s office to the stairwell at the end of the corridor and climbed one flight to the third floor. Uniforms and plainclothes officers were coming and going at the change of shift, and she nodded to those she knew as she made her way to the vice squad division. As she had come to expect, even though it daily continued to shock her, Watts was already at his desk. As if by some sixth sense, he glanced up from the newspaper to the open doorway just as she stuck her head in. With the tilt of her chin, she motioned him out into the hallway.
“Anything new?” she asked as he leaned against a wall and fired up a smoke.
“There was a message on your desk to call Jason, so I did. The computer cops want us to come over.”
“Now?”
“Yep.”
“Well, it’s not like we have any hot leads to chase. And the less time we spend around here, the better. Let’s go.”
Twenty minutes later, they were buzzed into Sloan’s building, and in the span of another minute, they were upstairs. Jason and Sloan, and—to Rebecca’s surprise—Mitchell as well, were all seated at computer stations, cups of coffee on the counters beside them.
“Morning,” Rebecca said to the small group. The others returned the greeting; uncharacteristically, Mitchell merely grunted. Glancing at Sloan, Rebecca raised an eyebrow. “How are things at the hospital?”
Despite the creases of fatigue in her forehead and the shadows marring her cheeks, Sloan’s eyes were sparkling. “Much better. Thanks.”
“Glad to hear it. So, what’s up?”
“Jason,” Sloan said, swiveling away from the computer screen to face Rebecca, who leaned a hip against a waist-high file cabinet, “go ahead and bring them up to speed.”
“I pulled some of the old transcripts from the chat rooms,” Jason explained, “especially the ones that LongJohnXXX logged on to frequently. I made a list of all the e-mail addresses of people who used to chat with him on a regular basis, figuring that some of them must be subscribers to the porn videos he was relaying.”
“How’d you do that?” Watts asked, still at sea where computers were concerned.
“Sometimes the addresses were available through the member listings of the Internet newsgroups, and other times I had to trace them back through their ISP addresses.”
Watts’s expression registered something between confusion and constipation. “Yeah yeah. I’m sorry I asked.”
Jason smothered a grin. “Unfortunately, the list is long, and there’s no way of knowing at this point how many of the individuals are locals. There’s also no way to know if they really have anything at all to do with the porn ring.”
“But?” Rebecca could hear the excitement in his voice.
“But once I get names and addresses, it shouldn’t be that difficult to find out other things about these guys. If they really are guys, that is.”
“What?” Watts snorted. “You think there’s gonna be a whole lot of broads who like to jack...uh...get their jollies watching that kind of stuff?”
“Remember,” Sloan interjected mildly, “a lot of these bulletin boards and chat rooms are just places for people to talk about sex. They aren’t necessarily looking to do anything other than find material for their fantasies. And a lot of times, women hide their identities, especially at first, so that every guy on the bulletin board doesn’t descend upon them.”
“Kinda like in real life, huh?”
“A lot more than you might think.” Sloan glanced at Jason. “Go ahead, Jase.”
“I can put together profiles, and we can do the same thing we did with LongJohn. Maybe we’ll get another hit.”
Rebecca looked skeptical. “It’s a long shot.”
“It’s not like we have a lot else going right now,” Jason responded, looking not the least bit deterred. “Mitchell can help with the runs, and once we have some probables, I thought Catherine might look at them. She can...sense things. She’s a great profiler.”
Rebecca opened her mouth to say no, and clamped her jaws tight instead. Catherine had said she wanted to be part of what was happening. The team could use the help, and this seemed safe enough. She rubbed the bridge of her nose where a headache was forming. There seemed to be no way at all that she could keep Catherine away from the investigation.
“Yeah. That’s a good idea.”
Watts studied her curiously. Under his breath, he said, “You feeling okay, Sarge?”
Rebecca gave him a withering glance. “Bite me, Watts.”
Watts looked inordinately pleased.
“Anything new at the cop shop?” Sloan inquired.
“Let’s go back to the conference room for a briefing,” Rebecca suggested. “I’ve got some ideas.”
Once they were all settled around the table with fresh coffee, everyone waited for Rebecca to speak. Feeling their expectant gazes, Rebecca knew that she had to make a decision now as to how much she would share with the team. Two people present were civilians, one was just a rookie cop, and what she had to say was beyond sensitive. But each of them was willing to walk the high wire without a net in the name of justice. She owed them her trust.
“Sandy gave me a lead last night. It’s not much, but she thinks she might have seen the guy in the porn video at this sex club called Ziggie’s.”
�
�Whoa, that’s choice,” Watts exclaimed. “That place is supposed to be mobbed up.”
“Right.” Rebecca nodded. “It may be another connection to Zamora. More importantly, it might be our way into the sex network in this city.”
“Can Sandy work the place?” Sloan asked. “It would be good to have someone on the inside there.”
Mitchell’s face turned white. “You want her to turn tricks in there for information? Why don’t you just shoot her instead? At least that would be quick and painless.”
Shocked at the outburst, Sloan jerked around in her seat to stare at Mitchell.
“Officer,” Rebecca shot out. “You’re out of line.”
“I think what Sloan means, kid,” Watts interjected hurriedly, “is for Sandy to talk up the staff and maybe the clients, see what she can find out, not actually peddle her ass in the back room.”
Mitchell blushed and met Sloan’s eyes. “Sorry. I guess I jumped the gun.”
“It’s okay.”
“Not a bad thought, Sloan,” Rebecca said, “but unfortunately, I think Sandy’s too well known in the Tenderloin.” Rebecca watched Mitchell as she spoke. The young officer stared straight ahead, her back ramrod stiff, her neck flushed. She was controlling her anger, but just barely. “If Sandy started hanging out at Ziggie’s for no good reason, especially if she were talking around, someone would notice.”
“Good point.”
“She might be able to put me with someone who knows a little bit more, though. I’ll meet with her later and see what else I can get.”
“What you need is someone undercover,” Jason observed mildly. “Sandy’s a good source, but she’s at risk if she becomes too visible. You need someone who’s part of the club scene.”
Watts spoke up. “What about getting someone from vice who works undercover?”
“It would mean bringing someone else into the loop,” Rebecca mused. “It’s an idea, though. Maybe we can put a female cop in Ziggie’s.”
“To do what?” Jason asked pointedly. “Dance topless? I think most of your detectives would consider that a little beyond the call.”
Rebecca smiled. “I agree. But maybe we could have someone ask around, say she’s looking for a job, see what we can get that way.”
