Неизвестный - 3. In Pursuit Of Justice
“Still, I have plans for you.” She was tired, and her chest ached, and the lassitude that lingered after her release had nearly lulled her into sleep, but she needed Catherine to know how much she wanted her. She needed to show her, and there wasn’t much time.
“Hold that thought,” Catherine said warmly as she pushed herself upright and extended one hand to Rebecca. “Let’s have dinner first. We both need to eat.”
“All right. Food first, but don’t think I’m forgetting.”
“Oh, believe me, I won’t let you forget.”
As it turned out, time slipped away and it was close to midnight by the time Rebecca had stir fried the vegetables and noodles she’d picked up earlier in the evening, and even later by the time they’d finished eating and piled the dishes into the dishwasher.
“Come on,” Catherine announced, grasping Rebecca’s shirttail and tugging her away from the sink. “Bed. I’m fading and…”
“I need to go out later.”
Catherine stopped moving abruptly, letting the material fall from her fingers. “What?”
Rebecca turned and rested her hips against the counter. She didn’t want to see what was in Catherine’s eyes—she was afraid it would be that combination of hurt and resentment that had so often been in Jill’s—but she forced herself to meet the other woman’s gaze. There were questions in the depths of those green eyes, and confusion, but they hadn’t grown cold. Not yet. Drawing a deep breath, she steeled herself for the pain that was sure to come when Catherine turned from her in anger. “I’ve been away from the job a long time. I need to get a leg up on this new case, and there are some people I need to see.”
Catherine stared at her, struggling to absorb the words and place them into some context she could deal with. There wasn’t any. “Tonight? In the middle of the night—alone?”
It was Rebecca’s turn to be confused. “Catherine, I’m a cop.”
“Of course, I know that, Rebecca,” Catherine snapped, rubbing the bridge of her nose and pacing the length of the kitchen. “I thought this was desk duty. A paper chase.”
“It is—well, it is and it isn’t. It’s a real investigation, and a lot of it will be done through computer searches and whatever the hell else it is that those eggheads are going to do, but there’s real police work to be done, too.”
“What about Watts? I thought he was going to do the street work?” She forced herself to slow down. Screaming would not help, and the very fact that she wanted to scream was upsetting enough.
“He is,” Rebecca affirmed. She took a chance and walked the few feet to her, tentatively taking her hand. The slight contact eased some of the tension in her stomach, although Catherine’s response was guarded. “But he can’t talk to my contacts. It took me years to cultivate them, and they don’t talk to just anyone. I’ll just be talking. I swear.”
Catherine took a step away, but she kept her hand in the detective’s. “Why didn’t you tell me this earlier? When you got here—or on the phone when I called you from the car?”
The cop was silent.
“Rebecca?”
“I was…” she ran a hand through her hair, shrugged her tight shoulders. “I thought you’d be angry. I thought you wouldn’t want to see me.”
“Angry,” Catherine said softly. “Did you think that I might be worried? That I might be concerned that you’ve barely been out of bed a week and you’re already working fifteen hour days? God, Rebecca—”
She walked over and sat down at the small kitchen table, motioning to the adjoining chair with one hand. “Sit down. You look tired.”
Rebecca sat. “I meant to tell you, but when we got here—”
“I didn’t give you much chance to talk then, did I?” Catherine filled in, a faint smile relaxing her troubled expression.
“I wanted you, too. Badly.” Rebecca took her hand again, and this time Catherine’s fingers laced comfortingly between hers. “When you touch me, everything just…falls into place. Everything makes sense.”
“I know.” She brushed her fingers over the detective’s cheek. “For me, too. Our non-verbal skills are just fine. Outstanding, as a matter of fact. But we need to do a little better on the verbal parts.”
“I’m bad at it,” Rebecca said honestly. “Around my house, the job came first. My father never explained; my mother never complained. But I know there were a lot of nights he never came home. And then—well, then he never came home.”
Catherine’s heart thudded painfully, but she just nodded. Rebecca’s expression was distant, and she doubted that the detective really saw her.
“I grew up with silence. That’s the way most cops are.” The blue eyes she lifted to Catherine’s swirled with anguish. “I’ve never even said these things out loud before.”
“And that’s exactly why I love you,” Catherine whispered. “Because you’re saying them now.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
IN THE HOURS after midnight, the streets in Catherine’s sedate neighborhood were eerily quiet, but as Rebecca approached the Tenderloin in the heart of the downtown area, foot and vehicular activity picked up. Here on the neon-lit sidewalks and in innumerable rundown bars, strip joints, and cheap hotels, life teemed with restless energy. She pulled to the curb not far from an all night diner that was a local hangout for the area’s denizens—mostly prostitutes taking a break between johns, panhandlers who had been lucky enough to scrounge the price of a cup of coffee, and bar goers who hadn’t been lucky enough to find company for the late lonely hours. Stepping from the Vette into the night for the first time in nearly two months, Rebecca felt another piece of her life slip back into place. On these streets, she knew exactly who she was, and exactly what was expected of her. A strange comfort, but a familiar one. Her blood hummed with the faint stirring of anticipation that being out here, hunting, always produced. She wasn’t hunting a person, not tonight, but the information she gathered—the odd comment, the offhand observation, the bit of gossip bandied about—might someday lead her to her prey. She’d almost reached the brightly lit spot on the sidewalk in front of the diner when she caught sight of a familiar figure push through the revolving door on the way out. Quickly, she stepped into the darkened overhang of a boarded up video store and waited for the person to pass. She only had a fleeting glimpse of the leather jacketed, blue-jeaned form as the woman strode quickly by, but the sharp, clear features beneath midnight black hair were impossible to mistake. Dellon Mitchell was out very late in a very dicey part of town.
Rebecca decided to wait a few minutes before checking out the diner. The minute she walked in, she’d be obvious to everyone. Those who didn’t know her would still be able to tell she was a cop. Even in jeans and a tee-shirt, a light windbreaker covering her holster, her eyes screamed cop. Usually, she didn’t mind. Visibility could be a form of power, especially if it intimidated informants into to telling her what she needed to know quickly with a minimum of pressure. But she didn’t know who might be inside, and Mitchell’s presence here, for no reason that Rebecca could imagine, worried her. Maybe it was coincidence, but any cop could tell you that there was no such thing. Ignoring the smell of urine and rotting wood, she leaned against the moldy wall of the tiny dank alcove and watched the diner.
She didn’t have to wait long. Less than five minutes later, three young women came out and headed her way, walking close together as they laughed and talked. It didn’t require a detective’s skills to determine their occupation. Their too-short skirts and body-hugging, scooped neck tops, along with too much make-up and cheap accessories, spelled hooker. Rebecca fell into step next to a thin blond with spiked hair who might have been anywhere from twelve to twenty.
“Hiya, Sandy,” she said quietly.
“Christ!” the young woman exclaimed. Glancing quickly at her companions, who were staring at her curiously, she grabbed Rebecca’s arm and pulled her into the shadows under an awning. “Go ahead, you guys. I’ll catch up.” When they’d moved away, she hissed, “Goddamn it, Frye. When are you going to leave me alone?”
“I did. Two whole months.”
“Well, it seems like yesterday. What do you want?”
“Let’s go somewhere we can talk,” Rebecca offered. She knew that being seen with her could be a problem for the young prostitute, although she didn’t care if she ruined her business for the night. She did care if she put her in physical danger. Anyone in that part of town appearing too friendly with the police could make enemies quickly. “I want to catch up on old times. Have you eaten? I’ll buy you breakfast.”
“It’s four a.m.”
“Okay—dinner then.”
Sandy snorted in disgust. “Fine. Chen’s. Come on.”
They moved quickly through back streets that were so narrow they might have been alleys except for the historic townhouses lining them. The residents of Society Hill, as the area was called, issued constant complaints to City Hall regarding the Tenderloin and its undesirable activity. Unfortunately, the seedy par of town bordered some of the most expensive real estate in Center City. Every six months the police swept the area nightly for a week or two trying to reduce the nightlife, but it always returned.
Rebecca kept a careful eye out for anyone following them or lurking in the shadows as they hurriedly along. Ten minutes later they emerged on South Street, another pocket of late night activity, although here the crowd was younger and the excitement centered more on alcohol and drugs than sex. Chen’s House of Jade was a hole in the wall restaurant that looked like a Board of Health citation waiting to be served, but the food was good and the proprietor discreet.
Rebecca and Sandy took a booth in the back beneath flickering fluorescents, and a smiling waitress materialized with a pot of steaming tea and a bowl of crisp noodles before their butts had hit the cracked vinyl seats. She began to hand them menus, but Rebecca shook her head and Sandy said, “Moo shu pork with extra pancakes. And a Tsing Tao.”
Then they were alone, staring at each other across the stained Formica surface. Automatically, Rebecca took inventory, her eyes flickering over the blond’s face and then down to her bare arms. The pretty young woman’s eyes were clear and her arms bore no track marks. The detective was glad. She liked the spunky kid.
“What happened to your head?” Rebecca asked.
Sandy shrugged and lightly traced the fresh red scar on her forehead. The suture marks still showed along the edges of the cut. “I fell.”
“Did someone help you fall?” Rebecca asked casually, plucking a twisted, crispy fried noodle from the bowl. There were a dozen reasons why a woman in Sandy’s position could end up dead—turf issues from veteran prostitutes who didn’t want her moving in on their corners; angry pimps who didn’t think the nightly returns were high enough; a trick gone bad. But Sandy was Rebecca’s informant, and the cop protected her own. It was one reason why Sandy helped her, although unwillingly sometimes, with street Intel.
“I already said. Accident.” She studied the cop, noting the shadows under her eyes. Her normal leanness bordered on gaunt. “I didn’t think you’d be back.”
Rebecca was silent.
“I heard—well, everyone heard, about what happened to you the day after Anna Marie got—killed.” The last time Sandy and the tall cop had seen one another, Sandy’d been crying on Frye’s shoulder and her best friend had been lying upstairs in a rat-hole hotel dead. She could still feel the safe, solid feel of the cop’s arms around her. Shaking her head to dispel the memory, she added, “I’m glad you blew that fucker away.”
“So am I.”
Sandy looked at her in surprise, her skin prickling at the cold hard flatness of the cop’s voice. She was starting to wonder if she hadn’t been wrong about a lot of things about cops. Frye wasn’t like those prick bastards who hassled her and her friends for sex in exchange for not running them in on prostitution charges that they all knew wouldn’t stick past night court. Frye was different; she cared, just like— The waitress interrupted her musings as she deposited an enormous platter of steaming moo shu on the table between them along with pancakes and sauce.
“More beer?” the waitress asked Sandy, who shook her head no. Looking at Rebecca, she asked, “How about you?” The word detective hung in the air.
“No—I’m good.”
As Rebecca watched her companion pile food on her plate, she remarked, “I’m looking for somebody selling young stuff.”
“Everybody sells young stuff. That’s what sells. Or haven’t you noticed?”
“I’m talking about the real thing, not the eighteen year olds pretending to be thirteen.”
“Don’t know anything about it.” Sandy rolled another pancake and sipped her beer, keeping her eyes on her plate.
“This is probably a big, well-run operation, not some pimp selling chickens out of an apartment in the slums,” Rebecca continued unperturbed. “Maybe a well-organized operation.”
Sandy raised her gaze to Rebecca’s. Their blue eyes met, but try as she might, she knew that she couldn’t match the hard stillness of the cop’s cold stare. Sandy blinked, then said softly, “Are you fucking nuts? I don’t know anything about that, and I don’t want to know anything about it. If this is organized , then asking about it gets you dead. Look at what happened to your cop friends last spring.”
Rebecca’s expression became granite. “What did you hear?”
“Just that they were poking around where they shouldn’t have been poking—in somebody important’s business. And that somebody shut them up.”
“You get this important person’s name?”
Sandy shook her head. “Uh uh.”
“Who did you hear this from?”
“Can’t recall.”
“Try.”
“Are you looking to get offed, too?” Sandy hissed, leaning forward across the small tabletop. “What is it with you?”
For some reason, Rebecca answered. “One of them was my partner.”
“Well, now he’s dead. End of story.”
“No,” Rebecca said quietly as she pulled her wallet from her back pocket. “Not yet.” She laid four twenties on the table. “Ask around. Be careful, though.”
“Yeah, right. Thanks.” Her tone was not grateful. “Listen,” she said quickly as Rebecca slid across the seat and stood up.
“What?”
“A friend of mine is in a jam. An undercover guy busted her tonight—not before she finished the hand job I might add, although of course he denies that—and I know she doesn’t have the bail. She’s been picked up before. She could go away for this.”
“What’s her name?” Rebecca asked, glancing at her watch. “If the paperwork’s not processed yet, I’ll see what I can do.”
“Rita. Rita Balducci.”
“I’ll see you soon.”
“Can’t wait,” Sandy grumbled, watching the cop walk quickly through the narrow aisle between the rickety tables and out into the night. Some part of her felt better knowing Frye was back on the streets.
