Неизвестный - 5. Justice Served

“I told her about most of it.” Mitchell’s voice was pitched low.

Catherine said nothing.

Mitchell sighed. “Actually, I told her about working with Jason on the computer traces.”

“Rather sedentary.”

“I didn’t say I had a desk job…” Mitchell raised her eyes to Catherine’s. “Not in so many words.”

Catherine nodded.

“But I might have let her think it was…mostly…a desk job.”

“Why did you let her think that, do you think?”

“Because I want to get back to work.” Mitchell forcefully enunciated each word, as if the importance of what she was saying couldn’t be overemphasized.

“I know you do. But why tomorrow and not a week from tomorrow?”

“Because this is my big chance, and I don’t want to miss it.”

“Big chance. Tracking down the rest of the Internet

pornographers?”

Mitchell shook her head impatiently. “No. I mean, that’s part of it. But that’s not…that’s not what I’m going to be doing.” She leaned forward, her hands loosely Þ sted. “I’m going to be working undercover.

That’s a big deal for a detective. Especially a rookie detective like me.

I’m going to be going after the intel that could break this case. Not just the pornographers, but maybe the whole prostitution ring. It’s big, and the lieutenant is putting me right in the middle of it.”

It’s big and it’s dangerous and you can’t wait. Catherine had worked with police ofÞ cers long before she’d fallen in love with one, and she’d rarely seen one who didn’t live for the excitement. Rebecca, she believed, thrived on the hunt, and although that drive was instinctual, her deeper motivations were philosophical. Rebecca sought justice. She wondered what Dellon searched for. “Why is it good?”

“Are you kidding me? This is a chance to really do something. To put away some of the scum who use girls like they’re disposable—to be

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wadded up and tossed in the toilet after they’ve come in th…” Mitchell colored and looked away. After a second, she said quietly, “Sorry.”

“For what, Dellon?” Catherine asked just as quietly.

“Look, it’s my job. This is an important case, and I want to do my job.”

Catherine considered the unanswered question and then decided to let it pass for the moment. She’d learned in their previous sessions that Dellon often revealed more in what she didn’t say than in anything she might if pressured. And the young detective was pale and shaking, a vivid reminder that she had been out of the hospital less than a week. “I know how much the job means to you. But you understand my concern for your safety.”

Mitchell nodded. “If I get Dr. Torveau to sign off for me to resume active duty— real active duty—will you clear me to go back too?”

“Dr. Torveau and I are interested in slightly different things, Dellon.” Catherine smiled. “Are you having any problems sleeping?”

“Not when I get the chance.”

Catherine looked puzzled. “I don’t follow.”

“I just meant…well…Sandy’s staying with me at Michael and Sloan’s. So, sometimes I don’t get to sleep until…late.”

“How are things between the two of you?”

“They’re…” Mitchell colored. “More or less…fantastic.”

Catherine laughed. “May I infer then that your lack of sleep and your new relationship are related?”

“Pretty much. Yeah.”

“Congratulations.”

Mitchell Þ nally grinned. “Thanks.”

“No nightmares?”

“What?” Mitchell grew very still, pressing her palms to her thighs.

“No.”

Catherine was familiar with the posture. She’d seen it when Dellon had Þ rst been referred to her following a temporary suspension from duty after a physical altercation with a suspect. Some might have interpreted her body language as defensive, but Catherine recognized it now as protective. Her question had triggered something in the young woman with the potential to hurt.

“Have you found fragments of the episode breaking into your

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consciousness at odd moments? Memories surfacing and taking you unawares?”

“No,” Mitchell said, her voice suddenly rough. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Like what, Dellon?” Catherine asked softly.

“Like what nightmares are made of.” Mitchell gazed at Catherine, but she was seeing the past.

“Tell me about the other time.” Catherine’s invitation was gentle, her voice soothing. But there was strength in her tone, as if whatever was coming would not be too much for her to hear.

Mitchell blinked and shook herself, as if she had just surfaced from the bottom of a murky pond into bright daylight. She smiled crookedly.

“Tired. I guess I’m a little out of it.”

“You were going to tell me about the nightmares.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” Mitchell said briskly. “I don’t have nightmares.”

“Anymore?” Again, the question was gentle.

Mitchell’s eyes blazed, a combination of pain and deÞ ance. “That’s right, not anymore.”

Catherine waited, but Dellon remained silent. The clock behind Dellon revealed they were almost out of time. “When do you see Dr.

Torveau again?”

“Not until the beginning of next week—for the suture removal.”

“You’re not ready for duty, Dellon.”

Mitchell’s jaw set hard, her chin jutting forward as the muscles tightened. “How long?”

“I really can’t say. Certainly not before Dr. Torveau reevaluates you in light of what you are likely to be doing in any kind of street situation. Let’s talk tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

Catherine laughed. “You want to get out of here and back to work, don’t you?”

“Almost more than anything.”

“Then I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Catherine watched the young detective carefully rise and make her way with a determined gait to the door. Despite her best efforts, she couldn’t hide her limp. And Catherine now knew that in addition to the knife wound, there was some former trauma, some other pain, that had

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once plagued her. And whatever that old pain was, it had the potential to rise up again and cause destruction if not purged once and for all.

v

Rebecca grimaced as the pager on her belt vibrated. She was twenty feet from the front door to Catherine’s ofÞ ce building and had hoped to catch Catherine between patients for an early dinner or a quick cup of coffee. Spending the major portion of the last two nights tailing George Beecher had meant that she’d seen little of her lover in the past half week, other than a few murmured words when she’d slipped into bed in the middle of the night.

In previous relationships, days, sometimes weeks, had passed without meaningful contact with her lover when she’d been in the midst of a case. Her excuse had always been that she had to work when the trail was hot, because once the case grew cold, she had little chance of breaking it. But in truth, she’d always been most comfortable alone in the night, chasing evil or, if that pursuit failed, chasing away her own demons with a drink. Even after she’d given up the bottle, she hadn’t been able to give up the obsessive need to work until she had nothing left inside but the ashes of fury and frustration.

Now, she had another need.

She needed the touch of Catherine’s hand to settle her, the sound of Catherine’s voice to soothe her, and the press of Catherine’s body in the night to replenish her.

She was a better cop now, a better woman, because of Catherine.

Her pager vibrated again. Swearing, she pulled it from her belt and read the number. Exchanging the beeper for her cell phone, she pressed two on the speed dial.

“What?” she said by way of greeting.

“I might have something,” Watts replied, eschewing social niceties as well.

“Something break with Campbell?” Rebecca was beginning to feel that Margaret Campbell, the ADA who had Þ nanced her way through law school by stripping, was the Mob connection and leak in the law enforcement system. Because George Beecher appeared to be nothing more than a rich guy who spent his non–working hours chasing women.

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“No. She’s as boring as the sports teams in this town. She goes right home after work and stays there. Oh—once she went out to the drugstore, but she didn’t buy anything exciting. Cold medicine.”

“Okay, I got the picture. So why are you calling me?” Rebecca glanced at her watch. It was just before six and she knew that Catherine started her evening hours at seven. If they were going to have any chance to see one another, it needed to be soon.

“I found a couple of faxes Jimmy Hogan had stored in his locker.

Somebody had cleaned out his stuff and tossed everything that didn’t look ofÞ cial into a cardboard box. Including some paperwork.”

“Wait a minute. No one claimed Hogan’s personal items?”

“Nope.”

“And you were down in storage going through them?”

“Yeah.”

“Good thinking, Watts,” Rebecca muttered.

“What was that?” he asked, his tone suggesting he’d heard clearly.

“Nothing. Go ahead.”

“Like I said…”

Rebecca heard the click of metal on metal, then his long intake of breath as he drew on his cigarette.

“…there were some unÞ led papers, and three of them were faxes from Port Authority. Shipping schedules for the two months right before he was killed.”

“Shipping schedules.” Rebecca rubbed the bridge of her nose, digesting this new piece of information. “What do you think? Stolen cars? Drugs?”

“Can’t tell. We’ll have to try to Þ gure out which ships he was checking on. Maybe get a look at their bills of lading.”

“Christ. That’s a million hours of paperwork.”

“Maybe not.”

Rebecca waited, and when he said nothing, Þ nally complained,

“Come on, Watts. I’ve got better things to do tonight than reading your twisted mind.”

Watts laughed. “All three faxes came from the same person. A supervisor at Port Authority. Maybe…uh, here it is… C. Reiser has some idea what Jimmy was after.”

“First thing in the morning, let’s go Þ nd out.”

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“Any chance we can get together at Sloan’s Þ rst? Her coffee beats the hell out of that crap at the station house.”

“Seven thirty. Tell the others.”

“You got it, Loo.”

“And Watts—nice work.”

“What was that?”

Rebecca hung up.

v

Mitchell hummed to herself as she waited for the elevator in the ground-ß oor garage of Sloan’s building. Sandy should be home by now, and maybe no one else would be. Jason, she knew, would be deep in the data traces on the third ß oor, Sloan was most likely still at Police Plaza, and Michael had gone with Sarah for a late-afternoon doctor’s appointment. Which meant that she and Sandy would be alone. Not that being alone was a prerequisite for making love, but it sure made things more fun when you didn’t have to worry about making noise.

And somehow, Sandy always got her to make noise.

Grinning at the memories and the images of things to come, she used her key to program the double-wide converted industrial elevator to the private fourth-ß oor residence. When the doors slid silently open directly into the living room, she stepped out, calling, “Honey? Hey, San? Your baby’s home and ready to rumble.”

“Dell,” Sandy said quietly from the direction of the kitchen.