Неизвестный - 5. Justice Served

Rebecca was silent for a full minute. “She seemed pretty certain that something big wouldn’t get by her—or her people.”

“I think there’s a hell of a lot of stuff moving in and out of that port every day, and I don’t care how many computer jockeys they’ve got watching it—stuff has to disappear.”

“I agree. But why would Jimmy Hogan care?”

“Could be Zamora is moving stolen merchandise through there.

Maybe using the proceeds to underwrite his drug operation. Jimmy could’ve gotten wind of it, started poking around.” Watts drummed his heavy Þ ngers on the dash. “That tends to make people suspicious.”

Rebecca nodded, slowing for a light at the turn onto I-95. “So how does Jeff come into it?”

“Cruz and Hogan were tight, right? From the academy? And Jimmy passed Jeff intel before when he wasn’t going to act on it himself.”

Watts shifted and tried to stretch his legs in the narrow space beneath the Corvette’s dash. “Jimmy couldn’t afford to be involved in any kind of bust that involved Zamora, because it would blow his cover.”

“It still comes back to Jimmy, and what he knew.” Rebecca sighed.

“We need to get as close to Zamora’s organization as we can.”

“Well, we’ve got two ways in already.” Watt’s tone suggested that he wasn’t all that happy about the fact. “Our boy Mitch and his cute little squeeze.”

Mitchell and Sandy. Rebecca suppressed another sigh. A wet-behind-the-ears detective and a smart-mouthed streetwalker.

Wonderful.

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Justice Served

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Sandy emerged from the bedroom, sleepy-eyed and fuzzy-headed in pink satin bikinis and one of Mitchell’s T-shirts.

Shufß ing through the quiet loft toward the kitchen, she yawned and stretched, baring a long expanse of hip and belly. The quiet voice from across the room made her jump.

“Good morning,” Michael said.

“Jesus,” Sandy blurted, pivoting in Michael’s direction. The other woman sat on a tall stool at the angled draftsman’s table next to a computer console bearing two widescreen monitors. “Man. I didn’t think anyone was here.”

“I just came home an hour ago.” Michael smiled ruefully. “I knew that Sloan would be working late, so I stayed at Sarah’s last night. Jason brought me back early this morning. I’m sorry. Did I scare you?”

“Uh-uh,” Sandy replied, still breathless. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to bother you.” She started to backpedal toward the guest room, but Michael shook her head.

“You’re not bothering me. I was just thinking of taking a break.

Tea?”

Sandy made a face but managed to stiß e a groan. “Uh, I think it better be coffee this morning.”

“Late night?” Michael asked conversationally, her smile friendly.

“Yeah, sort of.” Sandy thought of Dell, and how upset she’d been after the visit from her sister, and of what she had seemed to need so desperately from Sandy. Sandy had made love to her for hours, Dell reaching for her again and again in the night, until they’d both collapsed from exhaustion. Dell had slept with her head nestled to Sandy’s breast, their arms and legs entwined. Sandy had never before experienced sex as healing, and knowing that she had given her lover something that no one else could made her feel powerful and nearly overcome with awe.

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“Working?”

Sandy jumped, the question resounding in the air. “No. Not last night.”

Michael slid from the stool and crossed the loft to Sandy’s side.

“How about that coffee? I think there are some scones left from yesterday. Interested?”

“Sure.” Sandy paused a beat, then asked hurriedly, “Do you and Sloan talk about…everything?”

Struck by the serious note in Sandy’s voice, Michael halted. “I think so. Sometimes, it takes one of us longer to say what we need to than it should, but eventually we get there. Why?”

“So, did Sloan tell you what I do?”

“Do? Oh! You mean for work?”

“Uh-huh.” Despite feeling very vulnerable, standing half naked in front of a woman so privileged and sophisticated that Sandy doubted she’d ever even seen the strip at night, Sandy kept her head up and her eyes on Michael’s.

“No, she hasn’t.” Michael’s voice held a note of curiosity.

“I’m a prostitute.”

“That’s something Sloan would consider yours to tell,” Michael said gently, her expression holding no trace of censure. She touched Sandy’s arm ß eetingly, then turned toward the kitchen. “Coffee?”

“Oh yeah. Bad.” Sandy padded after her, barefoot. Funny, how getting the truth out in the open made her feel better. It mattered what Michael thought—because she liked her, and she knew that Dell did too. But mostly it felt good not to hide.

Michael crossed to the counter along the wall and assembled the makings for French-press coffee. As she worked, she said, “Is it something you decide? Or just something that happens?”

Sandy settled on a stool at the breakfast bar opposite Michael and hooked her toes over one of the wooden rungs. “A little of both, I guess.

After a while, you run out of choices. Or at least…choices that won’t kill you pretty fast.”

“Is that how it was for you?” Michael poured boiling water into the coffeepot, set the kettle carefully back on the burner, and turned, her hips resting along the edge of the tiled counter.

If there had been the slightest hint of condescension or even pity in Michael’s tone, Sandy might not have answered. But what she heard,

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Justice Served

besides gentle interest, was a subtle sense of caring that what Sandy had to say mattered. Even Dell had not asked. Sandy smiled. “Dell and me…we’re pretty into each other, you know?”

Michael nodded, containing a smile. She was glad for the fact that the loft, despite its open design, had well-insulated, private sleeping quarters, because even with the distance between their bedrooms, now and then she heard an ecstatic cry or a desperate groan. “Every time I’ve seen you two together, I’ve had the sense that she was crazy about you.”

Sandy’s face lit up. “Yeah? You think?”

“Oh yeah,” Michael said with a grin.

“She’s never asked me why I do it.”

The seeming non sequitur did not disturb Michael. She reached for the strainer for the French press and pushed the coffee grounds to the bottom of the pot. As she poured steaming, rich coffee into two mugs, she said, “She’s probably waiting for you to tell her.”

“You asked.”

Michael crossed to the breakfast island and handed Sandy the coffee. Edging onto the adjacent stool, she blew on the steam wafting from her mug. “I’m not in love with you.”

Sandy sipped the coffee and considered Michael’s words. “That changes things, doesn’t it.”

“Being in love?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Oh, yes. It changes everything.”

“The only thing I had that was worth anything was my body.”

Sandy said it matter-of-factly, without rancor. “I could’ve traded it for drugs and a place to ß op—being stoned would’ve made some things a lot easier…well, at least, I wouldn’t have known if they were bad or not.” She laughed hollowly. “But I decided I’d rather have the money and maybe a life.”

“It looks like you made the right choice.” Michael leaned past Sandy for a basket of scones and drew it near. She indicated the pastries to Sandy. “Hungry?”

“Yeah.” Sandy helped herself. “Dell doesn’t like it.”

“I imagine,” Michael said quietly. “It must be very dangerous, isn’t it?”

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RADCLY fFE

Sandy shrugged. “Maybe, if you’re not careful. I’m careful.” She sighed. “But I haven’t really been working for a while.”

“You quit?”

“I don’t know about that,” Sandy said hastily. “I mean, I have to make money, so I’m not sure I quit quit. But…it really bothers her.

And…I know what happens sooner or later to everyone in the life.”

“Does she know?”

Sandy shook her head.

“How come you haven’t told her?”

“Because what if I go back?” Sandy broke off a piece of the scone and nibbled on it. “She’ll be…disappointed.”

Michael placed her coffee cup carefully on the breakfast bar. She leaned forward, curling her Þ ngers around Sandy’s forearm, stroking softly. “She loves you. She won’t stop.”

Eyes clouded by fears she couldn’t voice, Sandy Þ nally said hesitantly, “You know, tomorrow is the ceremony for her promotion thing. It’s kind of a big deal.”

“Mmm. I know. Are you going?”

Sandy shrugged. “She asked me to.”

“Well?”

Sandy squirmed and looked past Michael at nothing in particular.

“I dunno.”

“What’s stopping you?” Michael persisted, keeping her hand lightly on Sandy’s arm.

“I won’t Þ t in.” She blew out an irritated breath. “You think I can go there and everyone won’t know I’m a whore? Jesus, like that should matter to me.”

“That’s not who you are,” Michael said Þ rmly, never raising her voice. “You’re not deÞ ned by what you’ve had to do to survive. Nor by the mistakes that you may have made.”

Sandy narrowed her eyes at the note of Þ erce intensity in Michael’s cultured tones. She knew that appearances rarely told the whole story; some of the most violent johns were well-dressed, well-spoken men.

Michael seemed like the most together woman Sandy had ever met, but Sandy could still hear the pain in her voice. Something or someone had hurt her badly once.

“I don’t have anything to wear.”

Michael laughed. “Well, that’s something we can easily Þ x.”

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“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Michael stood and slipped her hand into Sandy’s, giving her a tug. When Sandy stepped to the ß oor, Michael wrapped an arm around her waist. “Let’s go shopping.”

v

“You don’t say anything unless I ask for your report,” Rebecca said with Þ nality.

Sloan snarled.

“Or you don’t sit in.”

“Okay, okay,” Sloan muttered. “Jesus.”

Watts, looking pleased, said nothing as the three of them walked through the detective squad room toward Captain Henry’s ofÞ ce.

Sloan eyed him dangerously. “You have something to say?”

His grin broadening, Watts held up his hands in surrender. “Not me.”

The fact that Rebecca pushed open the door to Henry’s ofÞ ce forestalled Sloan’s retort. Sloan looked past her to the men in the room and stiffened. Henry sat in his customary place behind his broad desk.

Avery Clark, clad in the federal agent’s requisite uniform of dark suit, pale blue shirt, and rep tie, leaned against the Þ le cabinets a few feet from Henry’s desk with his arms crossed over his chest. His gaze ß ickered over each of the new arrivals as they entered the room, his expression registering nothing.

“Have a seat,” Henry said, indicating the mismatched, armless chairs fronting his desk.

Rebecca and Watts complied, but Sloan moved to the wall opposite Clark and rested an elbow on top of a small watercooler. From there, she could look directly at Clark, which she did. She’d learned long ago never to give Þ eld advantage to an adversary, and she wasn’t at all convinced that Clark was on their team.

“You’ve had some developments in the case, Lieutenant?” Henry asked of Rebecca.

“In one aspect of the case, yes, sir. We believe we’ve identiÞ ed the source of the leak in the department. We also think the same individual was involved in the attempt on Sloan’s life.”