Неизвестный - 5. Justice Served
“They may not know just how close I’ve gotten, but they have to know it’s only a matter of time. It’s impossible even for the best cracker to hide their tracks from someone just as good.” Her smile was vulpine.
“Or better.”
“There’s one more thing,” Jason said. “I just got a hit on the deep-level Þ nancial search we ran on Beecher’s accounts. Until eighteen months ago, he made sizable cash withdrawals from his personal account on a regular basis, extending back over a period of three years.
Then they stopped.”
“What’s your take on that?” Rebecca asked, leaning forward with interest.
“I’d say he was being blackmailed.”
“And then,” Rebecca thought out loud, “someone thought he would be more useful as a source of information. Once they started using him to inÞ ltrate the department, they stopped blackmailing him.
Probably an incentive for him to cooperate. Any idea what they had on him?”
Jason shook his head. “Not yet, but I’m willing to bet it has something to do with his taste in young girls. Remember, he had a previous sexual assault charge that was dismissed.”
“So someone knew about his…proclivities…and used it as leverage—Þ rst to blackmail him and then to set him up as their inside man.”
“That’s the way I see it,” Jason said.
“When he became a liability, they cut their losses,” Watts noted.
Rebecca turned to another page in her notebook. “I’m going to hand off Beecher’s case to the homicide team that caught it. They can follow up on the routine leads and forensics. I’m having his personal and work computers brought here.” She looked at Sloan. “That’s yours.”
Her eyes glinted. “Got it.”
“Watts,” Rebecca said, moving on. “Anything from Port Authority?”
“You mean other than a big, fat headache?”
Rebecca suppressed a smile.
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Watts gave an eloquent grimace. “You know how many pieces of paper it takes to move a crate of overpriced Þ sh eggs from some Commie factory on the Caspian Sea to America?”
“Are you telling me that Jimmy Hogan had developed an interest in caviar?”
“I don’t know what the hell he was interested in,” Watts said grumpily. “The only thing I know right now is that all three ships he asked about originated from the same port in Russia.”
“Whoa,” Mitchell said, unable to restrain her excitement. “That has to be something, right?”
“Damned if I know, kid. Carla…uh, Captain Reiser…says that 30 percent of the ships coming into this port start out somewhere over there. The big question is why those three ships.”
“You need to track down everything about them,” Rebecca said, making another notation in her pad. “Check the shipping companies, the cargo manifests, the origination and Þ nal destination points, the crew—anything that they might have in common. Jimmy picked up on something. We have to know what it was.”
“Reiser is already on it. I’ll have more information for you to feed into your computers in a day or so.”
“Good,” Rebecca said. “You run with that for now.”
“No problem.” Watts’s tone suggested that he did not mind the assignment.
“Mitchell, what’s your duty status?”
“Dr. Torveau cleared me today,” Mitchell said, unconsciously sitting up straighter in her seat. “All I need is my psych clearance.”
“I don’t know, kid,” Watts muttered. “You could wait a long time for that.”
Mitchell grinned.
“Get it. I want Mitch and Jasmine back in the clubs. With Beecher dead and nothing solid from Port Authority, the only place to shake out a new lead is there.” Rebecca folded her notebook and slid it into the inside pocket of her blazer. “My street sources are coming up empty.
The bust at the video studio has sent people underground, and with the hit on Beecher, it’s not safe for my CIs to do much digging. I don’t want them calling attention to themselves.”
No one at the table looked at Mitchell; everyone knew that Sandy
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was one of Rebecca’s CIs. Mitchell pressed her palms hard into her thighs to prevent herself from curling her Þ ngers into Þ sts.
“Saturday night is always a big night at Ziggie’s,” Jason said into the void. “Mitch and Jasmine and the Kings could hit it tomorrow night.
There ought to be enough after-hours activity that no one would notice us asking a few questions.”
“Do it. It’s time to make something happen.”
v
“Just think about it,” Mitchell heard Michael say as she stepped off the elevator.
“Yeah, okay,” Sandy replied hesitantly.
“I mean it. You’d do Þ ne.” Michael turned to the sound of Mitchell approaching. “Hi, Dell. Is the meeting over?”
Mitchell nodded, looking curiously from Sandy to Michael.
Sandy appeared uncomfortable, a distinctly unusual condition for her.
Mitchell had seen her angry, stubborn, even hurt. But almost never uneasy. “What’s up?”
Sandy popped up and hurried down the hall in the direction of the guest room. “Nothing.”
“Something’s going on,” Mitchell insisted as she hustled to catch up.
“I think we should go home,” Sandy said, walking directly to the closet and lifting out her suitcase.
“Me too.” Mitchell sat on the side of the bed, her arms out to either side, watching Sandy pack. “I’m pretty much healed, and it’s time for me to get back to work.”
“Don’t you have to see Cath—Dr. Rawlings too?”
“Yep—Þ rst thing tomorrow.”
“Huh.” Sandy folded one of Mitchell’s white T-shirts and laid it next to a camisole in her suitcase.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Then how come you won’t look at me?” Mitchell frowned. “Did Michael say something to upset you?”
“No,” Sandy snapped.
“Well, it’s something,” Mitchell persisted.
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Sandy slammed the dresser drawer hard enough to knock over several bottles of perfume that stood on its top. She whirled in Mitchell’s direction, her eyes glinting with irritation. “If I wanted you to know something, I’d tell you. So stop with the questions.”
Mitchell blinked at the unanticipated assault. Then, in an extraordinarily quiet voice, she said, “I want to know what Michael said that bothered you. If you don’t tell me, I’m going to go ask her.”
“You can be a real pain in the ass, Dell. Once in a while you should just mind your own business.” Despite her words, Sandy’s voice had lost most of its edge.
“You are my business.”
Sandy sighed and joined Mitchell on the bed, her thigh their only point of contact where it lightly touched Mitchell’s. Staring straight ahead, she said in a subdued tone, “She offered me a job.”
“Yeah?” Mitchell said, carefully hiding her surge of excitement.
“How did that happen?”
“She had to drop some papers off at her ofÞ ce the other day when we went shopping for my new outÞ t. While we were there, she showed me around. Innova takes up the whole twentieth ß oor, and you can see everything—all the way to New Jersey—from up there.”
“Cool.”
“Yeah,” Sandy said quietly. “You can tell everyone thought Michael was like…a queen or something. And she was nice to everybody.”
“She’s like that,” Mitchell observed, her hand creeping across the space between them to grasp Sandy’s. “She pays attention to everyone.”
Sandy nodded silently.
“So?” Mitchell asked Þ nally. “What about the job?”
“The guy who runs the supply room—you know, orders all the stuff that everyone needs, like paper and Þ les and even cell phones—is leaving soon. Moving out of state. They want to train a replacement before he goes.”
“So that’s the job?”
“Yeah.”
“What do you think?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never done anything like that before.” Sandy unconsciously squeezed Mitchell’s hand. “What if I messed it all up?”
“Like how?”
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“I don’t know—ordered the wrong stuff. Or forgot to order something.”
“Well, I suppose you’d just return the wrong stuff and order the right stuff.” Mitchell shrugged. “I bet that happens a lot.”
“There’s computers.”
Sandy said the word as if it were a life-threatening disease.
Mitchell couldn’t help herself. She laughed.
“Shut up,” Sandy snapped, slapping Mitchell’s arm and trying desperately not to smile.
“Honey, look at what I do every day. You don’t think maybe I could teach you what you needed to know?”
“I’ve never had a job. I don’t how how to do it.”
“Well,” Mitchell said softly and kissed Sandy gently on the cheek.
“We’ll just have to teach you. There’s nothing you can’t do, San. I promise.”
“I don’t want to disappoint you.”
Mitchell gaped. “You’re kidding, right?” She tugged Sandy upright and framed her face with both hands. Leaning close, she said very distinctly, “I love you. If you want to try this job, then you should.
You’ll be great. If you don’t want it, then forget it.”
“But you’d like it if I did, wouldn’t you?”
“It’s too dangerous out there, doing what you’re doing for Frye.
I want you to stop. Job or not, I want you to stop.” Mitchell kissed Sandy’s forehead, then her mouth. “If you had another job, you’d feel better about quitting this one.”
“I have some things to Þ nish for Frye, Dell.” Sandy drew away, anticipating Mitchell’s protests.
“Look,” Mitchell said, trying hard to contain both her temper and her fear. “Frye said just this afternoon that the heat is on around this whole Internet porn thing, and that it’s too dangerous for the CIs. She’s going to pull you anyway.”
“Well, she hasn’t yet.” Sandy stood, thinking about her upcoming meeting with Trudy. She had to at least see her, warn her to keep her head down. She resumed packing, pretending not to hear Mitchell’s teeth grinding.
“Honey,” Mitchell said, “you have to trust me on this one. It’s not safe ou—”
“You have to trust me.” Sandy scooped up a pile of panties and
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dumped them into her suitcase. She closed the hasp and straightened.
“I have a meeting tonight. It’s important. I’m going.”
“Then I’m coming with you.”
“No,” Sandy barked. “Jesus, Dell. I might as well put a big sign on my head that says police informer. Get a grip.”
“I can’t,” Mitchell whispered. “I’ll go crazy if something happens to you.”
Sandy’s features softened and she strode quickly to Mitchell, driving her Þ ngers into Mitchell’s hair, tilting her head back before kissing her soundly on the mouth. “Nothing’s going to happen. It’s just another night—business as usual.” She stroked Mitchell’s cheek.
“Except I’m not doing any business anymore. And that’s because of you.”
Mitchell frowned, then her eyes darkened with understanding.
“Nothing?”
Sandy shook her head.
“For how long?”
Sandy lifted a shoulder.
“Honey?”
“A while.” Sandy didn’t protest when Mitchell pulled her down into her lap. Rather, she threaded her arms around Mitchell’s neck and rested her head against the curve of Mitchell’s shoulder. “I got so I didn’t want anyone near me except you.”
“Oh man,” Mitchell moaned, burying her face in Sandy’s hair, her hand sliding under Sandy’s top. “I gotta have you all the time.”
“You already do,” Sandy said with a shaky laugh.
Mitchell shook her head, the Þ ngers of one hand splayed beneath the soft curve of Sandy’s breast. “I don’t mean that way. Well, I do, but I mean the other way too.”
Sandy leaned back to look into Mitchell’s face. “What are you talking about, rookie? You’re sounding a little crazy.”
“I am crazy. Totally.” Mitchell’s thumb brushed Sandy’s nipple, and she smiled at the instant response. “I want to be with you all the time. I want us to live together.”
Caught off guard, Sandy laughed harshly. “There’s no fucking way I’m living in that fancy place you’ve got. I probably wouldn’t even pass the security check.”
“Fuck their security checks,” Mitchell spat. “If that’s where we
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wanted to live, that’s where we’d live. But I don’t want to live there either.”
“You don’t?” Sandy couldn’t hide her curiosity. “Where then?”
“I was thinking maybe we can get a place around here somewhere or Queen Village. There’s a lot going on down here—you know, with Jasmine and the Kings performing and everything.” She traced a Þ ngertip over Sandy’s lips. “We can look for a place as soon as this case wraps up.”
“I didn’t say yes.” Sandy licked the end of Mitchell’s Þ nger with the tip of her tongue, then nipped at it with her teeth.
“Yeah, I know.” Mitchell eased her Þ nger between Sandy’s lips and into her mouth, closing her eyes partway as Sandy sucked on it.
“But you will.”
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CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Saturday
The sensation began in the pit of her stomach—an ever-increasing pressure like the tight coiling of the spring mechanism in an old-fashioned clock. The muscles on the insides of her thighs quivered, her calves contracted, and her heels dug into the mattress as her hips lifted. She had stopped breathing, the moan dying in her throat. Searching desperately behind her with one arm, she found the smooth, curved edge of the headboard and clamped her Þ ngers around it. She cupped the back of Rebecca’s head in her palm and thrust her clitoris hard against Rebecca’s mouth. In her mind, she was screaming, but only the barest groan escaped. Flames licked her skin and she ß ushed hot; an agony of raw nerves and raging blood beat between her thighs; hot lightning scorched the length of her spine. She summoned all her strength but managed only a whisper.
“I’m coming.”
For a few seconds, minutes, hours, eternity, there was no thought, no awareness beyond the torrent of pleasure ß ooding the plains of her body, rolling through the Þ elds of her mind, laying waste to reason, replenishing her spirit like a deluge in the desert. And then, mercifully, peace followed the cataclysm, and the tension left her body. Catherine drew in her Þ rst full breath in what felt like eons and expelled it on a long sigh.
“Oh my God. My ears are still ringing.”
Rebecca grunted and rolled away, fumbling with one hand on the nightstand. She was still struggling to recover from her own orgasm, induced by a few swift tugs on her tumescent ß esh when she felt Catherine approaching climax. “Fucking phone.”
“Oh no,” Catherine protested, running her hand down the center of Rebecca’s bare back.
“Yeah. Frye.”
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Catherine knew the instant her lover slipped away and the detective took her place. Rebecca swung her legs to the side of the bed and sat up in one ß uid motion. The muscles beneath Catherine’s Þ ngers tightened, as if preparing to surge into motion. The very air around Rebecca’s body crackled with tension.
