by Radclyffe
Maggie’s expression darkened. “Jeff Cruz and Jimmy Hogan were cops, and someone killed them in broad daylight and got clean away. The sort who would do something like that wouldn’t think twice about protecting themselves if someone else started poking around. I don’t want them comin’ after you.”
Dee’s first impulse was to argue, but she’d heard the faint quaver in Maggie’s voice. Maggie had come to America as a child, but not before losing her father and a brother to the ongoing conflicts in Ireland. She’d seen them die in the streets when a bomb exploded, and even two decades later, she still awoke screaming. “You don’t have to worry, my love. I’m sure I fall well below anybody’s radar. If anyone is going to draw unwanted attention from this, it’s going to be Sloan in there, or Frye.”
“Oh, Dee, do you think I don’t know you? If there’s a fight to be had and it has anything to do with what’s yours, you’ll be right in the middle of it.”
“How come you think you know so much?” Dee’s brown eyes softened, and for a brief instant, she wrapped her fingers around Maggie’s, squeezing gently.
“Because I’m the one who loves you.”
“Don’t worry. I promise I’ll stay clear of anything that looks like trouble.”
Maggie nodded, trusting the sentiment but not believing the words. There were things she had learned on the bloody streets of her childhood, and one was that the nature of a person could not be easily changed. Not even for love. “I’ll be getting back to work then, before the boss catches me shirkin’.”
Dee watched her walk away, knowing two things. She’d been blessed the day that Maggie Collins had walked into her office looking for a job, and if Rebecca and her friend Sloan discovered who was behind the theft of her files, she wanted to be there when they went after him.
*
“How’s it going?” Dee asked.
Sloan pushed back the tall stool on which she had been perched since midmorning and eyed the CSI chief. She didn’t notice the cramped muscles in her lower back or the ache between her shoulder blades. For three hours, she’d been so absorbed in her work that she’d almost been able to ignore the constant undercurrent of anxiety that she’d been living with for days. Almost. Her worry over Michael still skittered over the surface of her consciousness, but the full-blown terror had eased the instant Michael had opened her eyes, and the news that perhaps her lover would be coming home later in the day, had almost banished her fear. Almost.
“Your computer is a dinosaur. I’m surprised it still runs.”
“Police issue. You should see what the patrol cars look like.” Dee moved through the small space in which every surface was covered with stacks of journals, boxes of crime-scene mockups, files, and reference books. Her office was a cluttered contrast to the pristine, sparkling spaces of her laboratory beyond. “Find anything?”
“Not yet.” Sloan managed to smother a smile. Rebecca had warned her before entering the sanctum sanctorum of Dee Flanagan’s lab that the CSI chief was notoriously humorless where anything concerning her work was involved. Rebecca’s exact words had been, “Don’t touch anything and try not to piss her off.”
Dee sat behind her desk and sipped from the mug of coffee she had carried in with her. “Whoever took the files did it months ago. Do you really think you can find anything now?”
“If you had a body that had been buried for twenty years, would there be anything still there that would help you find the killer?”
“There’s always something there. The flesh decays, but even as it does, it changes the nature of whatever surrounds it—chemically, physically, biologically. The bones tell their own tale—age of the victim, gender, sometimes even the manner of death. The answer is always there; you just need to know how to read the story.”
Sloan nodded. “That’s what it’s like with a computer, too. Even the best hacker leaves a trail. Just by trying to erase the evidence of their presence, they change other things, always leaving some sign of having been there.”
“Locard’s Exchange Principle,” Dee murmured.
“Right. A criminal always leaves evidence of his presence at the scene and takes some bit of it away on himself.”
Dee regarded Sloan appreciatively. Not just a pretty face. But then she wouldn’t be, not if Frye trusts her.
Sloan grinned, catching the look. “Forensics is forensics—a computer’s just a different kind of crime scene.”
“Apparently.” Dee leaned forward over the desk, her intelligent eyes alight with excitement. “So—what does the intruder leave behind?”
“Could be any number of things, depending on how your system is set up and how he accessed your hard drive. One of the first places to look is the log files, which are sort of a diary of events. Information is constantly stored automatically by the operating system without you ever being aware of it. An entry is made in a log file whenever a user logs into the system or attempts to log in, or opens a file, or attempts to open one, or runs a program, or accesses data in any form. There are also telephone logs which will tell us when attempts were made to dial into the computer from remote access, and usually, with a little creative backtracking, I can get those phone numbers. Once I secure your system, the next thing I’ll do is analyze the log files around the time your data disappeared and look for evidence of illegal entry.”
“Secure my system?” Dee frowned.
“I want to put some filters and blocks on the system to make it harder to hack into. And I want to expand the log files to gather more data each time the system is accessed.”
“No offense, but isn’t beefing up the security now a little late? Why waste the time? I got the impression Frye was in a hurry.”
Sloan regarded the other woman contemplatively. She didn’t know much about her, except that Rebecca had said Flanagan was the best crime scene analyst she had ever seen. The fact that Rebecca trusted the woman enough to reveal to her that she was running an undercover investigation within the police department was enough to make Sloan trust Flanagan as well.
“If someone tampered with your data once, there’s no reason to think that he hasn’t done it before or since. How often do your cases have something to do with organized crime?”
“Often enough.”
“It might be advantageous for certain people to access your files and find out just what evidence you had accumulated on a certain case, even if they couldn’t take a chance on altering it.”
“Altering it! Jesus Christ. Just the suggestion that evidence may have been tampered with could overturn dozens of verdicts.” Dee stood suddenly, quickly threaded her way through the obstacle path on the floor, and shut her office door. She turned, leaning her back against the closed door, and riveted Sloan with her gaze. “That kind of speculation would be disastrous.”
“I’m aware of that,” Sloan said quietly. “And I have no intention of combing through hundreds of case files looking for signs of tampering. Hopefully, we’ll be able to identify the hacker and then look elsewhere for corroborating evidence to link him to the crimes. That way, we can leave your department out of it completely. But we’d better be sure your system is secure now.”
“If you find something that suggests my files have been compromised in any way, I want to know.”
Sloan shook her head, appreciating the other woman’s integrity, but also recognizing her naïveté. “Look, I’ve been involved in this kind of thing before, and if that turns out to be the case, it’s going to fall on your doorstep. That’s not something you want to have happen.” Your career will be over, and you’ll be lucky to escape criminal charges. Even then, the civil suits brought by people claiming they were incarcerated unjustly will stretch for fifty years.
Before Sloan could elaborate, Dee repeated forcefully, “There are people in prison right now because of evidence I presented at trial. There are also a fair number of scumbags walking the streets who got off because my analysis exonerated them. I have to know I made the right calls.”
>
“Despite its importance, the crime scene evidence is only one piece of the case presented at trial. The verdict doesn’t rest on your testimony alone.”
“I don’t give a good goddamn about the other pieces of the case. I only care about mine.”
“I understand.” Sloan glanced at her watch. “I don’t have much time today, but I wanted to get a look at your system so that I could get a sense of what I need to do. I’ll be back either tonight or tomorrow morning. How do I get in here?”
“I’ll give you the combination to the touchpad lock on the morgue admissions bay door. You can walk here from there through the underground corridor. Just follow the red stripe on the floor, and it will lead you right to the lab.” As she spoke, Dee walked back to her desk, grabbed a scratch pad, and scrawled some numbers. She handed the slip of paper to Sloan, who took it, folded it, and slid it into the breast pocket of her white button-down-collar shirt.
“Thanks.” Sloan closed her black satchel, which held tools and software programs, and stood.
“I’ll get you a key to the lab on your way out,” Dee said as she opened the door.
“What if someone sees me in here and asks why I’m working after hours?”
Dee grinned, a mischievous look that was twice as charming for its rarity. “Just tell them I wouldn’t let you work in here during the day. You could throw in something about me being a pain in the ass—that will help with the authenticity of your story.”
Sloan laughed. “I’ll just mention that I touched something, and you threw me out.”
“I see that Frye instructed you well.”
“She’s very thorough.”
“She’s the best detective I’ve ever seen.” Suddenly serious, Dee said, “She’s taking a risk going after the traitor, especially if it’s a cop. But it has to be done, and she’s the one to do it. Still, they put down two cops without making even a ripple in the pond. She should watch her back.”
“Yeah, well, she’s not going to be alone. I can promise you that.”
Dee was surprised by the sudden harshness in the dark-haired woman’s voice, and when she looked into the vivid violet eyes, she saw deadly resolve. She felt a little better knowing that Frye had this tough cybercop on her team. “Good. Because I’ve finally browbeaten her into following the rules down here. I hate breaking in new cops.”
Sloan just grinned as she walked with Dee toward the exit. It was time to put revenge aside. Now it was time for Michael.
*
When Sloan entered Michael’s room shortly before two, she found what appeared to be a party in progress. Michael, looking pale but visibly stronger than just that morning, was seated in a padded hospital chair by the side of the bed, a thin blanket over her knees. A narrow strip of white tape encircled her left wrist where an intravenous line had previously been lodged. Its absence lifted Sloan’s spirits almost as much as seeing Michael out of bed.
Sarah crouched beside the chair, her hand on Michael’s knee. Ali Torveau leaned against the side of the bed, a plastic folder containing Michael’s hospital chart tucked under one arm.
“I’m not late, am I?” Sloan walked directly to Michael, leaned down, and kissed her briefly on the lips. In a quieter voice, she murmured, “Hi, baby.”
“Dr. Torveau says I can go home,” Michael announced, gripping Sloan’s hand with surprising strength.
Almost afraid to believe it, Sloan glanced at the trauma surgeon. “Today?”
“Right now,” Torveau replied even as she held up a hand. “Under certain conditions.”
“Anything,” Sloan responded quickly.
“Someone, preferably a trained medical professional, needs to stay with her twenty-four hours a day.”
“I’m an OMD,” Sarah interjected. “I’ll stay as long as you think necessary—that is, if Sloan and Michael don’t mind me moving in for a bit.”
“That would be great, Sarah,” Sloan said instantly. “Thanks.”
“That sounds good,” the surgeon agreed. “It’s also very important that I be advised immediately should there be any change at all in your symptoms, Michael—that means a worsening headache, visual disturbances, weakness—even temporary, cognitive or expressive difficulties, or seizures.”
Sloan felt slightly ill as she listened to the list of potential problems and struggled to keep her expression blank. “How long do we have to worry about something like that happening?”
“Some complications could develop months from now, particularly a seizure disorder, but I think it’s reasonable to say that after a week or two, we can all relax.”
“Can I work?” Michael asked. “I wouldn’t have to leave the house.”
“Michael...” At a swift look of warning from Sarah, Sloan clamped her mouth shut and swallowed the protest. All she could see, still, was Michael lying on the ground in a puddle of blood. But Michael didn’t know what had happened, and there was no reason to make her afraid now.
Ali raised an eyebrow. “I don’t expect you’ll feel like working for a week or so. But,” she added at the look of dismay on Michael’s face, “if it doesn’t involve digging ditches or moving heavy furniture, I don’t see why you can’t try it when you feel up to it.”
“Good.” Michael smiled wanly. “I already feel like I’ve lost time that I’m never going to get back. I just want to do something that makes me feel normal again.”
“I understand. Just remember, even though you’re being discharged, you’re still recovering. Don’t expect too much of yourself.”
“What about sex?” Michael kept her eyes on the surgeon’s face, but a soft sigh of resignation from Sloan’s direction was impossible to ignore. Michael merely smiled.
“You are feeling better. It’s amazing what a normal CT scan will do for some people.” Ali laughed. “Usually, my position is if you feel like it, then it’s safe to do it. I wouldn’t get too vigorous the first time or so, and if you experience a headache as you approach orgasm, slow down. Maybe stop and rest for a while.”
“Is making love dangerous after this kind of...accident?” Sloan took Michael’s hand, her attention directed at the surgeon.
“Not ordinarily, no. Remember, though, there are fluctuations in blood pressure during sex, and right now, Michael’s brain is a little sensitive to sudden changes.”
“Don’t worry, darling,” Michael teased softly, “I wasn’t thinking about it for tonight.”
“Darn.” Sloan grinned and hid her relief. The thought of anything harming Michael, even making love, terrified her.
Sarah laughed. “I’ll go pack some things and head over to your place, Sloan.”
Sloan gave her a swift peck on the cheek. “Thanks, Sarah. I owe you.”
“No, you don’t—not for this. You owe me a workout, though. You’ve been slacking off the last few days.” Sarah bumped Sloan playfully on the shoulder as she spoke, but her eyes were serious. Michael isn’t the only one who needs to get back to normal life. I’ve never seen you look so haunted.
Ali handed Sloan a card. “My office number. Call and make a follow-up appointment for a week.” She sketched a wave and followed Sarah to the door. “I’ll take care of the discharge orders now.”
Alone, Sloan crouched by Michael’s chair. “You sure you’re ready? Because you—”
“I want to go home.” Michael slipped her fingers into the back of Sloan’s hair and stroked her neck. “I want to sleep next to you tonight. I need that.”
Sloan closed her eyes. “So do I.”
Chapter Eleven
“Are you comfortable? Do you need anything?”
“I’m perfect.” Michael, in an oversized Cal Tech T-shirt of Sloan’s and loose pale blue cotton pajama bottoms, sat with her back propped against several pillows in the corner of the couch in the living room of the loft she had shared with Sloan for just over a year. A light throw blanket covered her legs and stretched along the length of the sofa. She’d been home twenty minutes, and Sloan hadn’t s
topped fussing for a second. The headache still throbbed, but less sharply now, and the pain was more distant, muted by the pleasure of being home. Michael smiled and held out her hand. “Come sit beside me, love.”
When Sloan kissed Michael’s fingers, then moved toward the opposite end of the couch, Michael protested. “No. Up here with me.”
“There’s not enough room.”
“There’s always been enough room before. We’ve made love here more than once. I’m a bit fuzzy but that I remember.”
You’re still so pale. And I can see the pain in your eyes. Sloan settled carefully onto the far end of the couch, afraid that the mere motion would somehow hurt Michael. “Dr. Torveau said bed rest, and we’re already cheating by letting you camp out here instead of in the bedroom. I want you to be able to sleep.”
“I will.” Michael shifted and patted the leather seat by her side. “Especially if you lie down here next to me.”
Sloan hesitated.
“I’m not going to break.” Michael’s voice was soothing, her eyes tender. She couldn’t miss the worry in Sloan’s face. “Please, love.”
That was all it took. Sloan could no more not answer that call than she could stop her heart from beating. Slowly, she eased herself down until she was on her side facing her lover, her head resting against Michael’s shoulder. “Okay?”
“Mmm.” Sighing, Michael rested her cheek against the top of Sloan’s head and stroked her face. “Wonderful.”
For a moment, they were silent, relishing the closeness after the days of separation and fear. Sloan listened to Michael’s quiet breathing as her lover’s gentle fingers traced her eyebrows, the arch of her cheek, the corner of her mouth. Michael’s touch spoke as clearly as any words of devotion and desire. Sloan closed her eyes and reveled in the sensation of being loved.
“Will you tell me what happened?”
Michael’s request was delivered so quietly that at first the words did not penetrate Sloan’s consciousness. When she finally understood their meaning, she stiffened. She would have drawn away, but Michael’s arm tightened around her shoulders.
