Неизвестный - 3. In Pursuit Of Justice

“Don’t make any decisions today, or even tomorrow. It’s already too late to break up. You love her, remember.”

“Yes, I do,” Catherine said, wondering if that would be enough.

Catherine contemplated canceling her last patient of the day. It was almost eight; she was tired. Beyond tired. Bone weary and just plain—sad.

“It’s going to be a tough session and you want to avoid it. Because she’s going to walk in here, all spit and polish, and very possibly pissed off. And she reminds you of Rebecca.” She rubbed her temples. “And you’ve started talking to yourself, which can’t be good.”

Joyce knocked on the door and stuck her head in. “You’ve got five minutes. Want anything?”

“Yes,” Catherine replied, “when she gets here, tell her I need to resche—”

“What?”

“Nothing. A coke if you’re getting one.”

“Will do.”

A few minutes later, the door opened again to admit Dellon Mitchell.

“Hi,” Catherine said as Mitchell settled into the chair. She wasn’t in uniform, but she wore her chinos and shirt as if it were one. Neat, tidy, precise.

“Hi.”

Catherine waited a beat, and when nothing else appeared to be forthcoming, she said, “Let’s talk about this morning.”

“All right,” Mitchell replied neutrally, but her eyes were wary.

“Sometimes it can be awkward or uncomfortable when you run into your therapist unexpectedly. Was it a problem—my being there?”

Mitchell regarded her steadily. “What we talk about in here—it’s confidential, right?”

“Usually, yes,” Catherine answered. Mitchell stiffened, and she added quickly, “Officer, you were referred for an official evaluation. I still have to do that. I don’t include information that isn’t relevant to my opinions, and I very rarely include specific details of what we’ve discussed.”

“But you wouldn’t…” She searched for words. “You’re going to be working with the people I work with. There are things…private things…I don’t want anyone to know.”

“They won’t learn them from me,” Catherine said quietly. “First of all, it’s my business to keep confidences. Secondly, I’ll be there for professional purposes, and on a fairly limited basis. There is absolutely no reason anyone should know that you and I have a professional relationship.”

“Fine.”

“Good.” The officer crossed one ankle over her knee, and sat back a little into her chair, a pose Catherine was coming to recognize as relaxed. For Mitchell. “Now, let’s talk about the incident in the alley.”

“I knew her.”

Catherine had many years of therapeutic experience, and she was glad of that now. Because she wanted to blurt out, What? Slowly, carefully, she asked, “The young woman who was being attacked?”

“Yes.”

“When did you realize that you knew her?”

“When he let her go. She fell…I saw her face in the light from the window.”

There was sweat on her forehead that Catherine was certain that she didn’t know was there. Her right hand trembled where it rested on the chair arm.

“What happened when you recognized her?”

She was quiet a long time. Then, her voice hoarse, she replied, “I hesitated. I thought maybe I had imagined it. That’s when he hit me, knocked me down.” She looked at Catherine, stricken. “There was so much blood on her face, I was frozen…I thought she…Jesus, there was so much blood.”

Catherine’s stomach lurched. So much blood. She took a long, slow breath. “How well do you know her?”

“She’s just someone I met…on the job.”

“More than a passing acquaintance?” Catherine probed softly. “A friend?”

Another pause. “Yes.”

“You told me you don’t remember hitting him with your gun.”

“I don’t.” For the first time, the young woman looked scared.

“What do you remember?”

Mitchell ran a hand through her hair. “I remember…I remember her face. I was so fucking angry. The bastard had his hands up her…and then I was on the ground…and she was screaming at him. Screaming not to hurt me…” She stopped and stared at Catherine. “Oh, fuck. I was on the ground, and he kicked me. My head…my side…it hurt. And I could hear her screaming at him…he hit her again, I think. I was afraid he’d kill her.”

“Do you remember striking him with your gun?”

“I don’t,” Mitchell shouted. She covered her face with both hands, shoulders heaving. “I don’t.”

“It’s okay,” Catherine said gently. “It’s okay.”

She finally looked up, her face streaked with tears. “It isn’t really, is it?”

“Oh, yes, it is,” Catherine replied firmly, sitting forward, hands clasped on the desk. “You were alone, in a dangerous situation. There was the threat of deadly injury to yourself or a civilian. Suddenly, unexpectedly, the situation is personalized—this is someone you know, care about. And you were both in peril. You had a gun, Officer Mitchell…and you were facing a bigger, stronger opponent who had already hurt you. You protected yourself, instinctively, but you didn’t shoot him.” Catherine paused, making certain that Mitchell was listening. “You didn’t shoot him. And you could have. You did well, Officer.”

Mitchell grinned weakly, brushing impatiently at the moisture on her cheeks. “Would you mind putting that in your report?”

“I most definitely will,” Catherine replied, smiling. “In my opinion you acted appropriately under the given circumstances.”

“There’s a problem.”

“What?”

“The part about me knowing her? It’s not in my report.”

“Why not?”

“Because that’s nobody’s business. It doesn’t have any bearing on the events. I reported it exactly as it occurred.”

Catherine considered the information. “I can’t see that it affects the legalities involved, but,” she continued as she saw Mitchell give a sigh of relief, “it is germane to the effect this has had on you.”

“I’m okay.”

“Yes, in all probability you are,” Catherine answered wearily, suddenly aware of her own fatigue. “I’ll take care of the report to your precinct, Officer.”

Mitchell was quiet for a long moment. “Would you mind—uh, holding off for a little while. You said it might take five or six visits, right?”

“Do you mind telling me what brought about this sudden change of heart?”

“I don’t want to get pulled off the task force.”

The task force. And here I thought it was my stellar therapy techniques . “I think the situation reasonably warrants another visit or two. But then I’ll have to file the report.”

“Fair enough. Thank you.” Mitchell stood, a smile to match the one she’d had when Sloan included her in the plans that morning. “Thanks a lot.”

As the door shut behind the young officer, Catherine leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes.

Rebecca rolled over and opened her eyes. She lifted her wrist and squinted at the dim dial of her watch. Nine p.m. She’d been asleep for eleven hours. She was wearing loose cotton workout shorts and nothing else. Her body was covered with a thin film of sweat, and when she brushed her palm over her chest and down her abdomen, her hand came away wet.

Nine p.m. Plenty of time to get some work done. She got up from the bed, stiff muscles protesting, and made her way into the bathroom to shower.

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

CATHERINE ANSWERED THE door and stared wordlessly at the woman on her porch. Finally she said, “Hi.”

“Hi.” Rebecca lifted the pizza box with two video tapes resting on its top. “Dinner and a movie?”

“We have a lot to talk about, you know,” Catherine answered, leaning with a shoulder against the partially open door. Behind her the soft strains of jazz played in the dimly lit living room.

“I know. Would you rather I…” she stopped, looked uncertain. “What do you want me to do?”

“Are you working tonight? Is this just a drive-by visit?”

Rebecca winced. “No. I was going to. I intended to, when I got up. But…no.”

“I’m too tired for this, Rebecca. I really am,” Catherine said with a sigh.

The look in her eyes, the sound of her voice. Sadness, disappointment, loss. It was a knife in Rebecca’s heart. She lifted a hand toward her lover’s face, then stopped herself. “Okay. I’ll call you. Can I call you?”

“No,” Catherine said with a shake of her head, and Rebecca’s world tilted, then began to crumble.

“Please. Catheri—”

“I really can’t talk now.” She reached out, took Rebecca’s hand, pulled her gently forward. “Just come inside for tonight. Just…be here.”

“Hey,” a quiet, husky voice said from the shadows.

Sandy jumped at the sound, then peered into the dim overhang of a video store closed for the night. “Jesus, Dell. Will you not do that? Some night I’m going to shoot you.”

Mitchell laughed. “You don’t have a gun.”

“I’ll get one if you keep this up.”

“Can we talk?” She stepped onto the sidewalk beside the young blond, wiping the light rain that had been falling since midnight from her eyes.

“Yeah, okay. Let’s go to the diner.”

“How about Chen’s? It’s quieter.”

Sandy regarded her curiously. “Sure.”

Ten minutes later they were seated at a back booth, the only customers in the place. Sandy ordered her usual and Mitchell opted for steamed dumplings and a beer.

“So,” Sandy asked, regarding the dark-haired young woman in the black jeans and T-shirt. “What’s up? Gonna bag out on the Quivers this weekend?”

“No,” Mitchell said hastily, looking surprised. “Hey, I said I wanted to go.”

Sandy hadn’t really expected the rookie to go through with it after Sandy’d teasingly dared her to join her at a club to hear a band down from New York City. She didn’t even know why she’d asked the cop to come with her. They’d just been talking on the corner one night, only passing time, the way they had now and then since they’d met. Since that night Anne Marie’d died.

“You don’t have to take me home. I know where I live.”

“Sorry, ma’am. The detective in charge requested I see you home.”

” Ma’am?” Sandy stopped dead on the sidewalk, impatiently brushing the last tears from her face. “You’re kidding, right?”

Mitchell regarded her steadily. “My patrol car is right this way. If you’d follow me, please.”

“Look, rookie—give it a rest. The night is young and I’ve got a living to earn. So, beat it.”

“I really think you should go home. You look—upset.”

Sandy snorted. “You mean I look like hell? The johns don’t care how you look in the dark.” She turned and walked away.

“It’s probably best if we don’t discuss that,” Mitchell remarked, falling into step beside her.

“What?” Sandy snapped.

“Your line of work.”

“Why, you don’t approve?”

“It’s…unlawful.”

“Now there’s a news flash.” Sandy stopped once more, turning so quickly her breasts grazed the young cop’s arm again. “I don’t happen to be so crazy about your job either, you know.”

“So we won’t talk shop,” Mitchell said quietly as they began to walk on beneath flickering streetlamps, stepping through pools of red and yellow, reflections from blinking neon signs. “You knew her, the dead woman?”

“Yeah, I knew her,” Sandy said softly.

“I’m sorry.”

Sandy hadn’t said anything more, but she’d let the rookie walk her home. And after that, when she’d see the young cop walking her beat, she’d acknowledge her with a tilt of her chin as they passed. And then after a week or two, a word of hello, until, unexpectedly one night, Sandy’d been eating alone in Chen’s and Mitchell, off duty and in street clothes, had slipped into the seat across from her, and they’d talked. And now, it happened a lot—Dell would show up and they’d have breakfast, and talk about anything—except the life.