Неизвестный - 5. Justice Served

From where she stood, Rebecca could see only part of the body.

A pale, open-Þ ngered hand extended from the sleeve of a bright red vinyl jacket. A shoe, its strap torn loose from the cheap plastic sole, lay abandoned close by. Part of a leg in shiny black satin. A thick spreading puddle that could only be blood. She’d seen it before. Hundreds of times. Smelled the scent of death, felt the hopelessness and despair.

This time, rage rode hard through her. Even as her fury mounted, her mind grew ever clearer, her heart colder.

“I want someone knocking on every door on both sides of this street for three blocks in every direction. Someone heard the shot—I want their name. No one interviews them but me. No one comes down this alley until the crime scene techs have cleared it. I want Flanagan.

No one else.” She angled her body between the victim and Mitchell. “I want you out of here. Go to Sloan’s. Wait for me there.”

“I want to see her.” Mitchell’s eyes were bleak, barren wounded things. “I didn’t…earlier. I saw the jacket. The blood. I can’t leave her here.”

“No. You go now. Do you understand?”

“Please. Please, Lieutenant.”

Rebecca hesitated, considered what she would need to do if it were…the pain struck so swiftly she gasped. Jesus. She gripped Mitchell’s arm and stepped close enough to her so that no one from the street could see them. This was Mitchell’s private hell, and there would be no witnesses.

“Come on.”

Together, they moved within three feet of the body and squatted down. With practiced, cool efÞ ciency, Rebecca surveyed the scene. The victim lay on her stomach, face turned away. She’d almost certainly been running and he’d caught her from behind, spun her around, and put the gun in her face. The exit wound told Rebecca that. There was so much blood even her hair color was obscured. A purse lay not far away, partially open, the clasp probably having been sprung from the force of the fall. Rebecca considered going through it, and then decided that Flanagan would shred her skin from her bones if she did. Beside her, Mitchell moaned.

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“All right,” Rebecca said sharply, starting to rise. “That’s it. You’re out of here.”

“No. No no no,” Mitchell intoned.

“Detective, I said—”

“There’s a tattoo on her ankle.”

“What?” Rebecca looked back down at the body, at the small rose tattoo just behind her ankle bone.

Mitchell stood swiftly, every drop of color bleached from her skin.

“That’s not Sandy.”

Without another word, Mitchell pivoted sharply, marched directly to the end of the alley, and ducked under the crime scene tape. She made it another ten feet down the street before she leaned against a lamp post and vomited into the street. A dozen cops saw her. No one laughed.

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CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Here you go, kid. Drink some of this.”

Mitchell leaned against the lamppost, eyes still closed, laboring to get her system under control. She still felt dizzy, her stomach rolled dangerously, and her heart skittered crazily in her chest.

She inclined her head in Watts’s direction but did not yet open her eyes.

“In a minute.”

“Sure. Sure. Just take your time.”

“What are you doing here?” Mitchell Þ nally rasped, taking the can of soda he offered. “Thanks.”

“The Loo called and said we had a situation. I pulled up just as you were…uh…well.”

“Yeah. Nice show for all the uniforms,” Mitchell said bitterly.

“Fuck them,” Watts said emphatically. “And you owe me two bucks. I used my last quarter in the machine over there getting that soda for you.”

“I’ll buy you a six-pack.”

“Fair enough.” Watts hunched his shoulders in his shapeless sports coat. “Fucking freezing out here. So…I guess the scene’s pretty rough, huh?”

Mitchell took a mouthful of the tasteless but heavily carbonated liquid, rinsed her mouth, and spit it out into the gutter. Then she drained the rest of the can in one long swallow. “Yeah. You could say that.”

“What’s the story?”

“Looks like someone got Trudy.”

“Fuck.” Watts stiffened as if someone had poked him with a sharp stick. “Where’s Sandy?”

“I don’t know,” Mitchell said hoarsely. “At Þ rst I thought it was her…down there.”

Watts extended a hand and touched her arm tentatively. “You’ve

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got nothing to be ashamed of, kid. Everyone loses their lunch sooner or later.”

Mitchell gave him a grateful smile. “Well, I’m glad I’m running true to form.” She shoved her hands into the pockets of her leather jacket and looked past him toward the crime scene van that had just pulled up. “Flanagan’s here.”

“Well, I better give the Loo a hand. Why don’t you take a brea—”

“No, I’m Þ ne.” To prove it, Mitchell took a tentative step, glad to discover that her still-shaking legs were functional. “There’s a lot of work still to do, and—”

A commotion at the end of the block caught her attention, and she heard, “Let me through! I need to get through.”

Then a deep male voice gave a shout of surprise, a splash of pale pink amidst the dark blue uniforms ß ashed into view, and Mitchell took off running.

“Lemme go!” Sandy yanked her arm from the viselike grip of the ofÞ cer who tried to restrain her and rocketed down the sidewalk.

“Sandy!” Mitchell caught her around the waist and engulfed her in a near-suffocating embrace. “Jesus. Sandy. Sandy. God.”

“Whoa, rookie.” Sandy tried to squirm free, but failed. Then something about the vehemence of Mitchell’s reaction penetrated her haze of anger and fear, and she stopped struggling. Instead, she slipped a hand around the back of Mitchell’s neck and caressed her. “Take it easy, baby. What’s the matter? Dell? You’re shaking all over.”

Mitchell buried her face in Sandy’s neck, afraid for anyone to see her face.

Shocked, Sandy rocked back. In a low, gentle voice, she asked,

“Baby, what? Why are you crying?”

“She’s wearing your jacket.” With one arm around Sandy’s shoulder, Mitchell turned her back to the group of curious cops and swiped her sleeve across her face. “Come on,” she said, walking Sandy further down the sidewalk out of earshot. “Are you hurt? Did he touch you?”

“Who? No. Trudy never came back, and I…What about my jacket?” Sandy’s eyes widened. “Trudy has my jacket. I went straight to the diner from Chen’s, but she said she had something to do Þ rst. It

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was so cold, and she didn’t have a coat. I waited an extra hour, but she never came.”

“You split up?”

Sandy nodded. “Trudy was supposed to meet someone. Some private deal, she said, but she wanted to talk after that. I said I’d wait for her at the diner.” Sandy searched Mitchell’s face, her own a mask of apprehension. “What about my jacket, Dell?”

Mitchell stroked Sandy’s cheek with her free hand, still holding her too tightly, still unable to believe she was real. “Trudy’s dead, honey.”

Sandy sucked in air as if she’d been punched in the stomach and clutched Mitchell’s hand. “How?”

“Shot. Did you see someone following you last night?”

“No, but Trudy got hinky in the restaurant and wanted to leave right away. I knew something was wrong, but she wouldn’t tell me what.” Sandy stared at the yellow crime scene tape at the mouth of the alley. “Is that where she is?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, baby.” Sandy turned into Mitchell and clutched the front of her jacket with both hands. “You thought it was me. Oh, I’m sorry, baby. I’m sorry.”

Mitchell shook her head and kissed Sandy’s forehead. “It’s okay.

You’re all right.” Taking several deep breaths, Mitchell forced what she hoped was a reassuring smile. “I gotta go back to work, honey. But I think the lieutenant will need to talk to you as soon as possible.”

“Okay. Sure.” Stunned, Sandy still clung to Mitchell.

“Here,” Mitchell said, slipping out of her jacket and carefully placing it around Sandy’s shoulders. “It’s freezing out here and you’re…well, you’re not wearing enough.”

Reß exively, Sandy slid her arms into the sleeves and then pulled the too-large garment closed with both hands. “Where should I go?”

“Take a cab to Sloan’s,” Mitchell said immediately, pulling her wallet from her back pocket and extracting some bills. “Stay with Michael until I come for you, okay?”

Fisting the cash, Sandy nodded, glancing toward the alley. “Are you sure it’s her?”

Tenderly, Mitchell kissed Sandy’s forehead again. “Yes. I’m sorry, honey.”

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“Be careful, rookie. You be real careful.” Sandy placed her open palm against Mitchell’s chest and fanned her Þ ngers back and forth slowly. “I love you.”

Mitchell covered Sandy’s small hand with hers and squeezed gently. “I love you too.”

v

Catherine arrived twenty minutes after Sandy. When she stepped off the elevator into the loft living room, Michael was waiting. Catherine leaned forward and kissed Michael’s cheek. “Hello. How are you?”

Michael smiled. “Much better. Thank you.” She extended a hand to take Catherine’s coat. “Sandy’s in the kitchen.”

“Is there anything I can do for you?”

“No,” Michael said with a careful shake of her head. “I’m Þ ne.

Sloan is downstairs with Jason already, waiting for Rebecca and the others to return. Thanks for coming. I thought…” She stopped, smiling faintly. “Is it all right that I called?”

“Perfectly,” Catherine said reassuringly, slipping her arm through Michael’s. “There’s been altogether too much violence for everyone lately. Let’s go talk.”

Sandy sat at the breakfast bar, her hands laced around a white porcelain mug from which steam tendriled into the air. She glanced up at the sound of Catherine and Michael’s approach, but said nothing.

“Hello,” Catherine murmured as she passed behind Sandy to take the stool on her far side. “Michael told me what happened. I’m so very sorry.”

“I think it might be my fault,” Sandy said in a voice so low Catherine almost couldn’t hear.

“Why do you think that?” Catherine nodded her thanks to Michael, who set a matching mug in front of her. The smell of jasmine and oranges drifted to her on a plume of steam.

“Someone probably got suspicious after the bust last week, and Trudy is the one who brought me there. Whenever the cops show up, they always blame us.”

Catherine thought of the fact that both her lover and Sandy’s were cops. At the moment, however, Sandy was viewing everyone in law enforcement as being on the opposite side of whatever divide

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had existed in her life, and her allegiance to the other young women who shared her desperate struggle was clear. “Do you think there’s a possibility that Trudy’s death could be unrelated to what happened at the Þ lm studio?”

Sandy shrugged and pushed her mug back and forth in a slow semicircle on the gleaming granite countertop. “I suppose. There are always plenty of people who might want to make a point by coming down on one of us. Pimps, dealers, johns. You name it.” She made a deprecating sound. “And nothing makes a statement quite like a body.”

“What about Trudy?” Catherine might not have questioned Sandy, except for the fact that the girl appeared to be ready to shoulder so much of the blame for Trudy’s death. Even without knowing all the circumstances, Catherine doubted it could be as simple as that. And she cared for both Sandy and Mitchell too much to let Sandy accept the burden of guilt all by herself. She tried not to think about the fact that her own lover was very likely going through the same agony of self-recrimination at that moment. “Was she in trouble with anyone that you know of?”