Неизвестный - 3. In Pursuit Of Justice
“She’s right,” Sloan said from a foot away, having approached without their notice. “I was about to suggest the same thing, but I didn’t want to do it in there.”
Rebecca whirled to face Sloan, her blue eyes sharp as lasers, an acid retort on her lips. Fortunately, she managed to contain her temper, because the professional part of her knew that what Sloan and Catherine said made sense, and had she been thinking more like a cop and less like a lover, she would have suggested the same thing herself. “You’re right,” Rebecca admitted with a sigh.
Sloan, in black jeans and T-shirt, looked worn beyond exhaustion. Her normally vibrant eyes were dull with pain. Directing her next words to Catherine with just a hint of her old charm, she asked, “I assume that you can be trusted to stay in the vehicle if things get crazy?”
“Word of honor,” Catherine agreed, her eyes on Rebecca.
Rebecca rubbed the bridge of her nose with one hand, rapidly making mental readjustments. “Okay, Catherine, you’ll ride with us. I’ll advise Clark and meet you two downstairs.” She turned and walked away, leaving Catherine and Sloan alone.
“How are you doing?” Catherine asked gently.
“Okay,” Sloan lied.
“Michael?”
Sloan shook her head. “She hasn’t regained consciousness yet.” Her eyes searched Catherine’s face. “Are you sure she woke up earlier when…”
Catherine placed her hand on Sloan’s arm and squeezed gently. “I’m absolutely positive, Sloan. She’s just healing, and when her body has restored itself enough, she’ll wake up. It’s going to be all right.”
“Thanks.” Sloan sighed, accepting Catherine’s comfort gratefully.
“You don’t need to thank me. Just take care of yourself. Michael will need you strong when she wakes up.”
Sloan nodded again, then squared her shoulders, her eyes clearing and determination hardening in her face. “We have a long way to go before we get to the people behind this. Tonight’s just the opening move.”
“Well, then,” Catherine replied as they moved down the hall toward the elevators, “let’s be sure to win this round.”
CHAPTER THIRTY THREE
REBECCA, SLOAN, AND Catherine sat in a nondescript beige Ford sedan half a block down and diagonal to the Upstairs Connection. Rebecca continuously scanned the street, watching for anyone who appeared to be watching for them. They had arrived an hour before Jason’s appointed rendezvous time. At 1845 they had seen him come down the street from the direction of the 15th and Market Street Subway Surface Car stop which he had taken to get there. At 1850 hours he had gone through the street level door that led to the second floor cybercafe and disappeared from their view.
Sloan worked silently, monitoring the connection she had established to the Internet using a sniffer software program that allowed her to hack into a local wireless network. She was completely unaware of anyone else’s presence in the vehicle. Right now, Jason’s safety and apprehending the suspect were her primary objective. As long as she focused on the screen, and the multiple programs she had running, she didn’t think about Michael for at least a few minutes at a time. While she worked, she could almost ignore the constant ache in her chest.
In the back seat, Catherine waited patiently, having learned the ability to separate herself from the anxiety and distractions of others during her hours of therapy sessions. She had also learned to dissociate herself from her own internal issues and concerns. Doing that in the presence of her lover, whose health and wellbeing were of paramount concern to her, was more difficult than she had anticipated, however. She found if she concentrated on trying to understand just what Sloan was doing, it helped. Thus far, from what she could glean from the occasional update that Sloan provided Rebecca, she knew that Sloan was now monitoring the chat room where Jason was to meet LongJohn.
“Anything?” Rebecca asked calmly. She sat behind the wheel of the sedan, as relaxed as she usually got during a stakeout. The long hours of waiting could lull an unsuspecting, inexperienced officer into a state of lassitude which could result in dulled reflexes and impaired powers of perception. That meant you could be taken by surprise, and that could get you killed. She had learned long ago to maintain her level of alertness despite the boredom of inactivity. She constantly surveyed her surroundings, looking for anything out of the ordinary. It wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility that LongJohn might have brought along an accomplice who would be watching for them just as they were watching for LongJohn and Jason. She needed to be certain that they were not followed when they followed their quarry.
Sloan shrugged and muttered, “I’m in the chat room. Jason just logged on. No contact yet from LongJohn.”
“Is it possible that he won’t actually come to this location?” Catherine asked. “Physically, I mean?”
“Possible,” Rebecca answered. “He may just have wanted Jason on an unfamiliar machine where he couldn’t use exactly the kind of programs that Sloan’s using now to trace him. I’m still betting that he’ll show here though. He’s going to want to get a look at Jason.”
“I agree,” Sloan offered. “Otherwise, I think he would have simply given Jason instructions for the meeting privately, in any of a million rooms they could have gone to. If he’s gotten this far, he trusts that Jason is who he says he is.”
“Either way, if we follow Jason when he leaves here,” Rebecca added, “we’ll get to LongJo-”
“LongJohnXXX just logged on,” Sloan advised, her voice sharp and her attention riveted to her laptop.
“Read out the conversation,” Rebecca ordered.
LongJohnXXX: You there, Big Ten?
BigMac10: You know it. Primed and ready.
LongJohnXXX: What are you wearing?
BigMac10: LOL. Changing horses on me now?
LongJohnXXX: No way, buddy. You know me — young and pretty and female. But hey, to each his own.
BigMac10: Olive green Dockers and a tan shirt. Pass inspection?
LongJohnXXX: Can’t be too careful
BigMac10: You know it. What next?
LongJohnXXX: You about ready to take care of business?
BigMac10: Can’t be too soon. I’m hurtin for something to ease my strain
LongJohnXXX: Give me 15, then wait outside. Your chariot approaches.
BigMac10: The service is appreciated. I’ll be there.
Rebecca keyed her mike to the frequency Clark and his people were using as well as the radio in Watt’s and Mitchell’s unmarked. “Anticipated contact, fifteen minutes. No make or model on subject vehicle.”
A chorus of Rogers floated through the air and then silence.
“Everything seems aboveboard,” Sloan said. Glancing over her shoulder, she looked to Catherine. “Impressions?”
“He wants to be sure that Jason understands he is heterosexual. He seems business-like and professional, but not particularly suspicious. I agree that he wanted to see Jason. Now he has, and apparently he feels comfortable proceeding. I don’t see anything amiss at this point.”
Rebecca set her watch to fourteen minutes and continued her silent vigil.
Jason logged off and checked his watch. He and Sloan had previously discussed communicating via aliases online after LongJohn had contacted him, but had decided against it. There was no telling if LongJohn had associates who might be monitoring the chat room after LongJohn logged off. It was possible that LongJohn was still on-line himself under yet a different alias, checking to see if there was any unusual activity after their conversation. It seemed safer at this point to follow instructions until they were closer to LongJohn in the flesh.
He looked around the room, which was one large space with a dozen small tables equipped with Internet terminals. At the far end of the room was a small bar where you could get coffee and a limited selection of junk food. Almost every table was occupied, and no one looked particularly suspicious. Of course, what did your typical pedophile look like? At any rate, no one seemed to be paying special attention to him.
He wasn’t particularly nervous. Playing roles for him was something that came naturally. The threat of physical danger didn’t particularly worry him either. He wasn’t a kickboxer like Sloan or a Kung Fu master like his lover, but he could handle himself in an altercation if he needed to. If things played out the way he and Sloan had theorized, when the time for the bust came, he doubted that LongJohn was going to pose much of a threat.
He glanced at his watch and smiled to himself. Five minutes till showtime.
“Smoke?”
“No thanks.”
“You mind?”
Mitchell stared at the detective in surprise. “It’s your car, Detective.”
“Yeah, but the Sarge always busts my balls about it.”
“Well, I guess she can.”
“Yeah.” He fumbled through the pocket of his jacket until he found the crumpled pack of Camels and fingered one free. Cracking the window a couple of inches, he made an attempt to direct the smoke in that direction. “You ever been on a No Knock bust before?”
“No, sir.”
“I’ll go through the door first, and I want to feel your balls—uh, your—whatever, right up against my back the whole way. You stick to me like we’re two dogs who just finished screwing.”
“I can handle that,” Mitchell said expressionlessly. She wondered if Watts had any idea what cadet training was like at West Point. She could crawl through ditches under live fire without flinching. Had done it, leading a platoon of cadets.
“Good. I don’t want you getting separated and ending up shooting me.”
“You don’t have to worry about that, Detective.”
He glanced at her, assessing her tone and expression. She looked perfectly steady and certain. “You scared, kid?”
“No, sir.”
“Good.” He settled his butt a little more comfortably on the seat and continued to smoke in silence. Until he had gotten hooked up with Rebecca Frye, he’d never worked with a woman before. Not one on one. Now he couldn’t get away from them. It sure was a different world.
Precisely 14 minutes later, Jason McBride exited through the doors of the Upstairs Connection and walked to the intersection of 17th and Market. A blue Mercedes SUV driving south on 17th pulled up next to him and the driver’s window descended electrically. Rebecca saw Jason lean down, nod once, and walked around the front of the vehicle to slide into the front seat through the passenger door. She keyed her mike and started her engine. “We have contact.” She gave a verbal description of the vehicle, knowing that Mitchell and Watts would run it through VI, Vehicle Identification, as they drove. She pulled into traffic allowing several cars and a minivan to move between her and the SUV. They drove just below the speed limit through the city to the on-ramp to Interstate 95. A minute or two later, Mitchell’s voice came over the radio.
“No identification on the vehicle,” Mitchell reported. “The plates are not registered.”
“Forged, probably,” Rebecca muttered. “Roger that.”
After another minute, she dropped back and the black Buick driven by Watts pulled out from several cars behind her and passed to take over the lead position. They would alternate like this as long as needed until Jason’s vehicle stopped. Somewhere behind them, Clark followed as well. If the SUV began to take evasive maneuvers, suggesting that the tail had been spotted, the third car would split off to triangulate an interception point. For now, whoever was driving the dark Mercedes ahead of them did not appear to be aware of their presence.
“Do you think that’s LongJohn driving?” Sloan asked at one point.
“Most likely,” Rebecca said, eyes fixed on the traffic ahead of her. “I can’t see him inviting someone else to the party at this point. Any potential customer might get spooked meeting someone they hadn’t anticipated. These guys are pretty suspicious as a group.”
“I wonder what the hell they’re talking about?” Sloan mused.
Rebecca shook her head. “I’ve got a feeling it’s not the weather or sports.”
“Well, whatever it is,” Catherine interjected, “Jason is fast on his feet, and he and LongJohn have a relationship. That’s why no one other than Jason could have done this at this point. He’ll be okay.”
He better be , Sloan thought. Because I can’t take one more person I care about getting hurt.
Twenty minutes later they had circled nearly the entire city on expressways and arterials. They were approaching an area less than a mile north of Sloan’s loft which still retained the flavor of a working-class neighborhood. The neighborhood, called Fishtown, consisted of row houses and singles interspersed along narrow streets where a few trees still managed to grow.
“Here we go,” Rebecca said as the Mercedes signaled and pulled right towards an exit ramp. Once again, she opened the frequencies to the other members of the team. “Subject vehicle has turned right into a driveway on the corner of Girard and 4th. Single, two-story, white frame house—no number visible. Detached garage, front and rear entries likely. I am preceding around the block and will approach from the north.”
She deployed the other two vehicles where the officers and federal agents could easily approach the house from opposite directions. She and Sloan needed to be as close as possible so that Sloan could hack in and monitor the live download. Two minutes later, they were parked between several vehicles on the adjoining street where they had a clear sightline to the house. Lights were visible in a rear room on the first floor.
“We might be lucky,” Rebecca said. “The doors should be fairly easy to breach, and if they’re in that room, we should be inside and have containment in less than 10 seconds.”
Sloan didn’t reply, feverishly running through programs attempting to establish a strong enough signal to trace the activity from LongJohn’s computer. Finally, after what seemed like an interminable wait, an image flickered and then stabilized on her screen.
Three pairs of eyes focused on the 15 inch color monitor. For a moment, the images were indistinct, and then the focus cleared and they were able to see two young girls walking naked into a room furnished with a large bed and not much else.
“Got you, you son of a bitch,” Sloan whispered.
CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR
“SHOULD WE GO in?” Rebecca asked Sloan, an edge in her voice. She hated having a man out of sight and hearing, particularly inside a building with a perp of unknown violence potential. Especially while she sat in a car hatching the radio.
From the backseat, Catherine placed a hand lightly on her shoulder and urged, “Wait a few minutes if you can.” She had been sitting quietly, watching the figures on Sloan’s screen. A man had entered the room, joining the two young girls. He wore a nondescript uniform, apparently supposed to represent a delivery person of some kind. The two naked girls feigned surprise and awkward shyness, all of it clearly staged but not nearly as artificial as she might have expected. There was a sense of cinema verité that was all too professional and deeply disturbing given the subject matter. “I’d give—this—a while to run, because I think LongJohn is more likely to be preoccupied the longer this goes on.”
