by Radclyffe
“It’s the one I made,” Sandy said quietly.
“I know. And it scares me.”
“You ever had a girlfriend before, rookie?”
A minute passed.
“Once.”
“You love her?”
“Yes.” Mitchell ran her hand over Sandy’s shoulder. “Sandy—”
“She leave you?”
“Not exactly...sort of.” Mitchell sighed. “That has nothing to do with this.”
“Every place we’ve been...everything we’ve done, or had done to us...has to do with this.” Sandy pushed up on her elbow and stared fixedly into Mitchell’s eyes. “The way things are is the way things are. I want you, Dell.” She searched Mitchell’s face. “So, you stayin’ or what?”
Mitchell pulled Sandy on top of her, wrapped her arms around her, and held her tightly. “Fuck, yes, I’m staying.”
“Good.” Sandy finally started to relax, the sick fear that had gripped her deep inside gradually relenting. “So do you think maybe you could shut up so we could get some sleep?”
“What, you’re not horny?” Mitchell smoothed her palm down Sandy’s back and over her buttocks.
“I’m saving myself.”
“For what?” Mitchell bit Sandy’s earlobe. “Huh?”
“The right girl.”
Mitchell laughed, and this time when she closed her eyes, Sandy’s heart beating next to hers, she slept.
*
“I fucked up in more ways than one the other night,” Sloan announced.
Jason and Rebecca sat facing her in the conference room, fresh cups of coffee in their hands.
“How so?” Rebecca asked, sipping the scalding brew. She was tired. Her chest ached. She knew she was running on less than full power—that she’d never quite gotten her strength back after the shooting—but she didn’t see that she could do anything about that now.
“I missed something.”
Jason sat up straight. “On the back-trace to Henry?”
“No,” Sloan sighed, “on the back door itself.”
“What, there isn’t one?” Rebecca asked sharply. Her fatigue coupled with her lack of expertise in a critical area of the investigation made her very short on patience.
“Oh, there is one.” Sloan grimaced. “In fact, the whole department’s system is so wormy it looks like swiss cheese.” She shook her head. “Man, I pity whoever’s gonna be running your electronic surveillance unit, because the first order of business will have to be cleaning up your own house—and it’s a mess.”
“Just give me the bottom line,” Rebecca snapped. “It is it Henry or not?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Christ.” Rebecca wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or to tear Sloan’s head off. “God damn it, how could you have made that kind of mistake? Jesus, we could have blown this whole case!”
“Sergeant,” Jason interrupted quietly, “maybe we should hear her out?”
Rebecca spun in his direction, but just before she let loose with another string of invectives, she caught sight of the shadows under his eyes. Then she took a good look at Sloan, who’d been up all night. Again. The cybersleuth looked worn out, although she was making an attempt to stand tall. “Ah, hell.” She leaned back and shrugged her shoulders, forcing herself to settle down. “Make it simple, but make me understand.”
“Networks, especially big ones like the ones that link municipal services, have all kinds of things going on internally. Maintenance functions, if you will, run in the background constantly. A lot of it happens automatically—preprogrammed updates and the like.” Sloan waited, gauging Rebecca’s reactions. At a nod from the detective, she continued. “There have to be avenues for that work—that information—to travel to individual computers, and the way that happens is via file transfer ports, or entryways.”
“Okay,” Rebecca said. “I got it.”
“Those ports are always open and provide a way into a network—if you know how to access them. In essence, they’re also huge potential highways for hackers. That’s how the Blaster and Sobig worms spread so fast.” Sloan glanced at Jason. “We get around that way a lot, too.”
Jason nodded grimly.
“So,” Sloan continued, “all someone has to do is bring in an infected computer, connect it to the system, and launch the worm. Some worms don’t even have to be attached to e-mail or any kind of file, so the user never even suspects. Just—boom—information will start pouring back to the source computer, or anywhere else the hacker programs it to go. Want a password? No problem. Want to read someone else’s mail? Have a seat. Want root access to alter or erase entire files? Tougher, but with a good code writer creating the worm, possible.”
“And that’s what happened?” Rebecca asked.
Sloan nodded. “Someone inserted a worm into the system at the PPD, and it’s infected any number of computers. I missed it the first time, because it’s a tiny bit of code piggybacked onto a huge file, and when I saw that log-in hack, I went off in another direction. Henry’s computer is one that was hit, which is how his password was usurped. I don’t know how many others there are, but there could be any number.”
“You’re sure it’s not Henry?”
“I couldn’t find anything in his files to suggest he’s wrong.” Sloan shrugged. “And my guess is that he’s just a fall guy. But someone is able to read and possibly even modify just about every bit of data in the entire system.”
Rebecca rubbed her face, drank more coffee, and digested the information. The thought made her stomach heave. Entire cases were built on lab reports, witness accounts, and other information stored in the system. Personnel files, home addresses, health records—the list was endless. And Sandy’s name is in there now, too. All spelled out and officially listed as my CI. “This is bad.”
Sloan and Jason were silent.
“So, we’re nowhere?” Rebecca looked from one to the other, working to beat back the hopeless feeling. She’d been at this point before in an investigation. Hell, she’d been stalled for half a year on the death of her own partner. She still had only one recourse, and that was to keep doing the job.
“No, we’re definitely somewhere.” Sloan’s eyes lit up. “I know where the worm came from.”
Jason whistled. “You have been busy.”
“I screwed up the other night.” Sloan’s eyes were hard, her voice like granite. Thinking about what she had almost done based upon an oversight, no matter how understandable, made her stomach churn. “That could have cost us all.”
“Who?” Rebecca’s heart raced. Name. Just give me a name.
“Not who, yet,” Sloan advised. “But I’ve got where. It came from a computer in the district attorney’s office.”
“A name,” Rebecca said quietly. “I need a name.”
Sloan and Jason spoke in unison. “We’ll get you one.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
What’s that?” Sandy mumbled, pulling the thin blanket over her head and burrowing deeper into Mitchell’s side.
“Huh?” Mitchell grunted. “What?”
“That noise.”
Mitchell lifted her head and looked around the room. Her pants and boots were by the bed, her shirt inside out on the coffee table, her gym bag with extra clothes and her— “Shit!” She jumped from the bed and almost fell over Sandy’s platform sandals. “My beeper.”
“Mmph.” Sandy rolled over, her back to the room and Mitchell, who sat down on the edge of the sofa bed and punched numbers into the phone.
“Mitchell,” she said after a few seconds. “Uh-huh. Okay...sure.” She put the phone down and stood up, dizzy with fatigue and hunger. She looked for a clock and couldn’t see one. “I gotta go.”
“Where?” Sandy’s voice was muffled by the pillow over her head.
“Sloan’s.”
“Now?”
“First I gotta shower. I smell like I spent the night in the drunk tank.”
Sandy stumbled into the bath
room in Mitchell’s wake and crowded into the tiny shower stall with her. Eyes closed, she put her arms around Mitchell from behind and rested her cheek against her back. “Fuck, Dell, you worked all night.”
“Yeah,” Mitchell muttered as she let the spray hit her in the face. The water was still cold and the warmth of Sandy’s body felt good against hers. “That was Jason. He needs help with something.”
“Frye there?” Sandy asked, reaching around Mitchell to the small basket that hung from the showerhead to extract a bottle of shampoo.
“Dunno.” Mitchell doused her whole head in the lukewarm water. “Why?”
“I wanna talk to her.”
“You got something?” Mitchell asked, waking up quickly now.
Sandy stood with her head back, eyes closed, desultorily working up the lather in her short blond hair. “Maybe.”
“You didn’t say anything last night.”
“We were fucking, remember?” Sandy yawned and edged Mitchell aside to stand under the water.
“Yeah.” Mitchell grabbed her around the waist and kissed her neck. “I recall it was spectacular.”
“It was.” Suds-free, Sandy threw her arms around Mitchell’s neck and kissed her, rubbing her wet skin against Mitchell’s. “Mmm, that’s so nice.”
Mitchell tightened her hold, running her tongue over Sandy’s lips and into her mouth. Somehow they ended up against the wall, legs entwined, bucking and groaning and groping each other. Mitchell yanked her head back, panting. “Honey, I don’t have time!”
“What?” Sandy gasped unbelievingly. She grabbed Mitchell’s hand and tugged it between her own thighs. “You don’t have a minute? Feel me.” She rocked against Mitchell’s palm. “Come on, baby. Touch me.”
Time lost all meaning as Mitchell eased her fingers into the heat and promise of her lover’s desire. “You’re so beautiful,” she whispered, slowly pushing deeper into the welcoming folds.
Sandy arched her back and threaded her fingers into Mitchell’s hair, claiming her mouth with bruising intensity as the sensation of being filled spread though her belly. Never, never had anything—anyone—touched her like this. Being this connected, even more than the sharp and simple pleasure of release, was why she wanted Mitchell so fiercely, constantly, without end. “You make me feel so alive,” she whimpered, her hips beginning to lift with the first ripple of orgasm.
“I love you,” Mitchell whispered, her thumb caressing the undersurface of Sandy’s clitoris as she steadily stroked in and out, one deep thrust after another. “God. I love you.”
Stomach taut, legs trembling, Sandy came, filled with the sound and fury of Mitchell’s passion. Sobbing faintly, she held on to the one solid thing in her world, helpless to do anything but surrender to the desire she both needed and feared. Slowly, the rolling contractions stopped and she could breathe again. “I’m...like...addicted to you or something. I can’t stop wanting you to do that to me.”
“What?” Mitchell murmured. “Make you come?”
“Uh-uh,” Sandy replied, cupping Mitchell’s breast and toying with her nipple. “Making me come out of my mind.”
“Sandy, honey.” Mitchell laughed shakily, easing Sandy out of the stream of water and backing away. “I have to go.”
“What about you?”
“I’m fine.”
“You are?”
Sandy looked just a little worried, and Mitchell shook her head. “No, I’m stone hard, and I’d probably come if you touched me for ten seconds, but—”
“But work’s more important?” There was more than a bit of ire in Sandy’s voice. “Right?”
“No, I just can’t come while imagining Frye’s face if I show up any later.”
“Oh.” Sandy reached for a towel. “I can see that. So let’s go already. Jeez.”
“You’re coming with me?”
“I said I wanted to talk to Frye,” Sandy replied while hunting under the sink for an extra toothbrush. She handed it to Mitchell. “Here.”
“You got a lead on something?” Mitchell asked around a mouthful of toothpaste. When Sandy didn’t answer, she stopped brushing. “You’re not gonna tell me, are you?”
Sandy shook her head.
Mitchell tossed her toothbrush on the counter and stalked into the next room. She kicked her gym bag into the corner, then, after a second, retrieved it and yanked out fresh jeans and a plaid button-up shirt. Turning, she found Sandy leaning in the bathroom doorway, naked, watching her with an unreadable expression on her face. Mitchell pulled on her jeans and snatched up the shirt.
“What?”
“You think because we’re screwing that gives you some rights?”
“Yes.” Mitchell stopped buttoning her shirt. “No. I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Did you mean what you said in there, or was that just sex talk?”
Mitchell stared at her, for a moment angry enough to consider not answering. Then she remembered waking with the softness of Sandy’s body curled into hers and the stubborn angle of Sandy’s jaw when she was set on doing something and the million other ways that Sandy made her heart turn over, and she forgot why she was angry. “I meant it.”
“Say it again.”
Mitchell took a step toward her, and Sandy held up one hand, stopping her. “No—from over there. Not when you have your hands on me, or you’re horny and looking to get laid.”
“I love you.”
“I’m a hooker, Dell. And you’re a cop.”
Mitchell never hesitated. “I love you, Sandy.”
“God, you make me nuts.” Sandy shook her head. “I’m still not gonna tell you what I have to tell Frye. First of all, I can’t—she and I have a deal. Second of all,” she said firmly when she saw Mitchell open her mouth, “Frye would chew you up and spit you out in itty-bitty pieces. You want that?”
“I hate secrets.”
“What, you tell me everything?”
“No, but...” Mitchell’s voice broke. “I want to.”
There was some long-ago hurt in Mitchell’s voice, some unhealed wound in her eyes, and Sandy came to her from across the room in the space between two heartbeats. Unmindful of her still-damp skin, she pressed against Mitchell, tilting her head to meet Mitchell’s eyes. “I love you.” Quickly, she covered Mitchell’s mouth to stop the next words. “That’s about us.” She replaced her fingers with her mouth and kissed her swiftly. “This thing with Frye, that’s business. Remember a long time ago, we said we wouldn’t talk shop?”
“I remember.” Mitchell’s chest was tight. God, I want you.
“Well, I guess we can’t go back.” She kissed Mitchell lightly again. “But we gotta keep things separate, okay?”
“I’ll try,” Mitchell whispered. She didn’t want to let go, but she had to. “Say it again.”
“I love you...you blockhead.” Sandy laughed. “Now lemme get dressed, rookie. We’re late.”
*
When Mitchell got off the elevator with Sandy, the first person she saw was Jason in his usual place, busy with a computer scan of some kind. On the other side of the room, Frye and Watts stood in front of the windows, deep in conversation. Mitchell looked around, her heart racing.
“Where’s Sloan?” she asked when Jason swiveled around in his chair to greet them.
“Rebecca sent her to bed.”
“Lucky her,” Sandy grumbled, squinting in the bright sunlight. “Jesus, it’s not even noon and we—”
Mitchell coughed and Jason grinned.
“Just get to sleep, did we?” Jason asked archly.
“Who said anything about sleeping?” Sandy tossed back.
“Sandy,” Mitchell groaned.
Jason sighed. “Sorry, you two, but I need help. Frye wants these backgrounds done yesterday, and I can’t run them all myself.”
“Have we got someone hot?” The excitement was evident in Mitchell’s voice as she took the seat at the next console.
“I gotta go talk to Frye,” Sandy announced a
s she walked away.
Jason and Mitchell mumbled goodbyes, then Jason confided, “Three someones—Sloan traced a worm back to the DA’s office, so we’re looking at the two ADAs and the judge for being our inside person.”
“When did this break?”
Jason filled her in, and a minute later, they were plotting the quickest route to the information they needed.
“What about the porn user profiles I was working on?” Mitchell asked as she worked her way through a series of links that opened George Beecher’s most recent federal income tax return.
“Launch the phish programs, but let the active traces go for now,” Jason said. “This is the best lead we have.”
“Okay.”
“How did Mitch do last night?”
Mitchell glanced across the room to where Sandy stood talking to Frye. “Depends on how you look at it.”
Jason glanced over and raised an eyebrow. “Things looked pretty good with Kennie and the others.”
“That was fine. It was later.” Mitchell stared straight ahead at the monitor. Data scrolled by, and she watched it, automatically shifting through the figures. “This is between us, right?”
“Who don’t you want to know? Rebecca or Sandy?”
“Neither of them—for different reasons.”
“Dell, if you’re having trouble—”
Mitchell turned to him, her eyes focused and sharp. “I’m okay. It’s just that I didn’t expect it to be so...intense.”
“What? Being undercover, or the drag, or the club scene?”
“The drag is no problem. It’s fine.” Mitchell opened another window, clicked through to another site, and started a second scan. Maybe too good.
“This is kind of our home away from home, after the Troc,” Ken explained as the four of them piled out of his 1968 Camaro. “We just mostly come here to relax and have a few drinks.”
Mitch’s heart sped up. The flickering blue neon sign above the black windowless door read Ziggie’s.
“Dance club?”
“Yeah,” Ken said, falling into step as Dino and Phil led the way. “Dance club, sex club, probably a little bit of everything club.” He shrugged. “Nobody keeps score, nobody asks questions, and nobody cares who you screw or how you do it.”
