Неизвестный - 3. In Pursuit Of Justice

“Certainly,” Catherine replied, standing as well and gathering her things.

“Sloan, may I see you outside?” Clark murmured softly as he passed behind her.

“Sure.” Sloan responded, rising and following.

Jason and Mitchell left as well, leaving Catherine staring at Rebecca while Watts fidgeted in the doorway, looking as if he wasn’t certain whether to go or stay.

“What in God’s name are you doing here?” Catherine demanded.

“I knew the meeting wouldn’t be long. I wanted to make it.”

“How did you get discharged so quickly?”

Rebecca held Catherine’s gaze. “I was never admitted.”

“Jim would never have released you, not in the shape you were in last night. You signed out AMA, didn’t you?” she accused furiously. She wanted to touch her. It felt like days since she had. But she was so angry, the last thing she wanted was contact. Her mind was reeling from the barrage of dissident emotions.

“Not exactly against medical advice. We made a deal.” She said it reasonably, trying to sound confident, but Catherine’s fury was so potent it was like a blow. Her hands trembled and she stuffed them in her pockets.

“Doctors don’t make deals,” the psychiatrist snapped.

“All right,” Rebecca admitted. “But I agreed to go back for a chest x-ray this morning.”

“And if your lung drops right now?”

“He left a catheter in my chest. In an emergency, he said I’d be able to aspirate the air out. That I’d have plenty of time to get back to the emergency room.”

Catherine slammed both palms down on the tabletop and leaned forward, her eyes blazing. “What is the matter with you? Don’t you know you almost died last night? What could be so important about this meeting?”

“It’s not the meeting,” Rebecca said quietly, but the fear was thundering through her now. She had to stay calm. If she explained it clearly, Catherine would have to understand. “If I let them admit me, if I didn’t show up here—if I can’t work—they won’t just take me off the case. They’ll put me on medical disability. I won’t even have light-duty.”

“You shouldn’t have any kind of duty! You should be home or in the hospital.” Catherine whirled in Watts’ direction so quickly that he jumped. “Did you have a hand in this? After all the nights we sat by her bedside, waiting for her to live or die? After that, you could help her do this?” She ran a hand over her eyes and then slowly turned from one to the other. In a voice that was deadly calm, she said, “I do not understand what is important to you. All I know is that whatever it is, it’s more important to you than your life. And I can’t live with knowing that.”

For a moment, it seemed as if no one even breathed. Then, Catherine quietly lifted her briefcase and walked from the room.

Rebecca stood rigidly, the fingertips of her right hand pressed against the granite table top, white to the bone. She hadn’t realized that her eyes were closed until they snapped open at the sound of Watts’ voice. She blinked in the bright sunlight coming through the windows.

“Sarge?”

“I want to talk to Mitchell and you—alone. We need to assess where we are in this case. Five minutes, in our conference room.”

“She’s just steamed, Sarge. She’ll get over it.”

No, she won’t. Christ, what do I do now?

“You just gotta give her ti—”

“Let it go, Watts.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Goddamn it,” she shouted, her fist connecting with stone as she pounded her hand onto the table. “Go find Mitchell and shut the—”

She started to cough and he thought his heart would stop. “Oh, fuck. Are you—”

“I’m fine,” she snapped, waving a hand as she caught her breath. “Just do it.”

“Right. Just do me a fucking favor and go sit down until we get there.” He didn’t wait for an answer, but went to find the rookie. They couldn’t get back to the hospital soon enough to suit him.

Sloan looked up as Watts charged by and then caught sight of Frye still in the conference room. She walked back in, poured a cup of coffee, and leaned against the counter, observing the detective, who seemed a little unsteady on her feet.

“You all right?”

Rebecca stared at her. “Yeah.”

Sloan sipped her coffee. “We’re making progress.”

“Good,” the detective sighed, giving in and sitting down. She rubbed her eyes, then blew out a breath. Just work the case, Frye. That’s what you do. That’s what you know. “Because I’m not. We had a couple of names from the previous kiddie prostitution bust, but we haven’t been able to turn up anything. I’ve got a few feelers out, but so far, nada. There’s a rumor of somebody making movies, but so far that’s weak. If I get lucky, someone will point us toward that.”

“It’s early, on a case like this,” Sloan observed mildly, wondering how out of line it would be to ask Frye what the hell was going on. The cop didn’t exactly make it easy to get friendly, but she looked like she was hurting. And not just physically.

“Is Clark on to your FBI hack?” Rebecca asked suddenly.

“You’re sharp, Frye,” Sloan said with an appreciative laugh. “You were here, what? Five minutes? And you picked up on a certain tension between us?”

“I’ve met the type.” Rebecca shrugged and grinned weakly. “When someone says outside the way Clark said it, it usually implies they have a burr up their ass.”

“He suspects we might have used unorthodox methods to acquire some of our information, but he didn’t want specifics.”

“They never do,” Rebecca observed wearily. “Too accountable then.”

“Yeah. Mostly he wanted to be certain that I understood that I was on my own.”

“Why are you doing this, Sloan? You could be making a lot more money doing something with a lot less potential to fuck you over.”

Sloan walked to the sink and poured out the last of her coffee, surprised at the question. When she turned around, she said quietly, all hint of her usual cockiness gone. “Maybe I wanted them to see what they lost.”

Rebecca rose, more surprised at herself for asking than she was by Sloan’s answer. “That’s a fairly fucked up reason.”

“Yeah,” Sloan admitted, feeling an odd sense of relief.

“But I understand,” Rebecca added as she headed out the door. “Keep me up to speed, Sloan.”

“Right,” Sloan called after her. She hesitated for a second, then walked to the wall phone and dialed a number. After a second, she smiled and said, “Hey. Any chance you could meet me for lunch?…No special reason. I just love you.”

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

HAZEL HOLCOMB REACHED for the phone, pushing aside a pile of administrative bulletins as she did. “Yes?”

“Catherine Rawlings is on line two,” her secretary informed her.

“I’ll take it.” She pressed the other line and said, “Catherine? What can I do for you?”

“Can you see me this morning?”

“Just a minute,” Hazel replied, instantly alert to the flat tone of her friend’s voice. She rummaged under a stack of file folders and found her weekly schedule. “I have forty-five minutes open now. If it’s urgent, I could cancel a meeting later this morning.”

“No—I’ll come right over. I have clinic in an hour, too. That’s perfect. Thank you.”

Hazel buzzed her secretary and instructed, “Send Doctor Rawlings in when she arrives, and then hold my calls.”

Five minutes later, a knock on the door heralded Catherine’s arrival.

“I’m sorry to barge in like this,” Catherine began as she took one of the upholstered chairs in front of Hazel’s desk.

“It’s fine,” the Chief of Psychiatry assured her colleague as she moved around to join her in the other chair. “What’s happened?”

“Is it that obvious?” Catherine asked ruefully, folding her hands in her lap to hide the trembling. “God, I’m embarrassed.”

“Catherine, nothing is obvious unless one knows you. You wouldn’t have called if it weren’t important, and you wouldn’t have that very wounded expression in your eyes if it weren’t personal. So—something has happened.”

“I think Rebecca and I just—I don’t even know what to call it. Broke up?”

“Well,” Hazel said gently, a small smile on her face. “We can start with that. What prompted this—event?”

“I’m not sure,” Catherine admitted. “That’s why I’m here.”

“Ah, I see. Good point—spoken like a true psychiatrist. Let’s hear the details, then we’ll plumb for all the deeper, hidden meanings.”

Catherine managed a faint laugh. “Do you talk to all your patients like this? It’s very irreverent. Freud is cringing somewhere in another dimension.”

“You’re not a patient. You’re a friend,” Hazel replied softly, placing her hand briefly on Catherine’s arm. “So, tell me.”

Catherine closed her eyes for a few seconds, then opened them and said, “I got a call from a woman last night whom I’d never met, telling me that Rebecca had collapsed in her apartment and that she needed my help.”

Hazel listened, her expression intent, as Catherine described the previous night and morning’s events. When her friend fell silent, she remarked, “I’m afraid I have to ask—how do you feel right now?”

“Terribly angry at her, and just—empty.” Catherine met Hazel’s eyes, tears swimming behind her lashes. “It’s tearing me apart that she would risk her life like this, and that she doesn’t realize what that does to me.”

“Yes, I can see how much it hurts. I’m sorry.”

“I thought about calling her Captain, telling him what happened.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Because,” Catherine replied with a sigh, “it would be divulging patient confidences—”

“You’re not her doctor,” Hazel pointed out.

“No, but I have privileged knowledge that I wouldn’t otherwise have had.”

Hazel made a dismissive gesture. “A technicality at best.”

“All right,” Catherine conceded. “Because she’d never forgive me.”

“She’s hurt you.” Hazel’s tone suggested that turn-about was fair play.

“She’s hurt me because she’s stubborn and careless with herself, but this would be such a betrayal.”

“And what she’s done—isn’t that a betrayal? Of the connection between you? Of your love for one another?”

Catherine regarded her sharply. “It’s only a betrayal if you know what you’re doing—if it’s a conscious act. She didn’t intend to hurt me, she’s just doing what’s she’s always done.”

“But things are not the same any longer—for either of you,” Hazel pointed out reasonably.

“No,” Catherine said quietly. “Everything is different.” She looked at Hazel in frustration. “What a mess. I keep thinking that I should be better at this.”

Hazel laughed. “Why? Love is messy. Relationships are horrible, unpredictable things.” Suddenly serious, she asked, “What do you intend to do?”

“I don’t know. I can’t be with her like this; I can’t watch her kill herself.”

“You know, Catherine, I don’t know this detective of yours, although I’d certainly like to. She sounds fascinating, especially if you don’t happen to be in love with her. But I know that she almost died two months ago. That’s a terrifying occurrence. For someone like her, the best defense against that fear is to—”

“Deny it ever happened.” Catherine sighed. “Yes, I know. Like the business executive who has an MI, and insists on taking phone calls in the cardiac care unit. I know. It doesn’t help.” She rubbed her eyes, glanced at her watch. “I have to work, and so do you.”