Неизвестный - 3. In Pursuit Of Justice
The scar on her chest picked that moment to start itching. When it did that, she wanted to tear through the hard red flesh until it bled. Calmly, she said, “Yes, sir.”
“No one cares about that, now. You’re a hero.” He settled a hip against the counter and sipped the coffee. His wife bought the blend for him. He was grateful she’d consented to marry him for more reasons than he could count, and every time he poured a cup, he remembered it. Smart woman. “You’ll have to ride a desk until I have every piece of paper authorizing your return signed and in my hands.”
“I’m going to the range this morning. There’s nothing wrong with my shooting arm. I’ll qualify and get my weapon back, so I should be okay for street duty after that.”
“Nice try, Frye. Not until the shrink signs off, and you know how slow they are.” He held up a hand when he saw the fire jump in her eyes. “But, we can work around it.” He walked back behind his desk, took a thick blue folder off a pile by his right hand, and opened it in front of him. “This just came in. The brass want us to be part of a task force the feds are setting up—“
“Uh-uh. No way. Not a combined jurisdictional deal. That’s a dead-end job. Making nice with assho—“
“Sergeant.”
She clamped her jaws closed so hard she was certain Henry could hear them snap. She’d expected some kind of repercussions after what had happened with Blake. The press might have made her out to be a hero, but that didn’t make it true. Henry had every right to be pissed off about the way she’d skirted the chain of command, but she didn’t figure he’d bury her in some back room pushing paper with the feds. “Captain, please…”
“Hear me out, Frye.” His tone was surprisingly conciliatory. Continuing to scan the memo, he read, “Justice, Customs and the Philadelphia PD are to set up a multi-level task force aimed at identifying and apprehending those individuals and organizations responsible for the production and distribution of child pornography, including the procurement of subjects.”
Rebecca blinked. “What does that mean? Some kind of sting operation?”
“I’m not entirely sure,” Henry admitted. “The thing is in the formative stages from what I can see. But it’s been blue-lined—top priority. Since Special Crimes has the best working knowledge of the street side of things—child prostitution, kiddie porn, the whole ugly mess—we’ve been fingered to provide the local manpower.”
“For how long?” Rebecca asked suspiciously. It might be an entrée back to the streets, at least she could parlay it into one, but she didn’t want to be stuck in bureaucratic limbo indefinitely. There might be another important perk involved, too. If she worked the kiddie porn angle, she’d eventually get up close and personal with the mob guys running the street side of all of it, and one of them, she was certain, had contracted to kill two cops. Bad mistake. “Weeks, months?”
“Don’t know.” He shrugged. “I can’t imagine it will move all that quickly, but who knows. For the time being, it’s the closest thing to street duty you’re going to see.”
He closed the folder and fixed her with a steady stare. “You’ve got a few choices, Sergeant. The Commissioner would love to promote you—they like good press. Accept the Lieutenant’s bars, make the department look good, and you could probably transfer to some nice administrative position.”
“Behind a desk.”
“Yes.”
“Or?” Rebecca queried, although she already knew the answer.
“Go through channels and get your psych clearance, take this assignment, and when I think you’re ready, we’ll move you back to catching active cases.”
There wasn’t much to think about. She stood, her expression nearly blank. “Who do I liaise with?”
He opened the folder, jotted down a name and number, and handed it to her. “Avery Clark, US Department of Justice. That’s the local number. You can have one of our people for legwork and we’ll pull a uniform to handle the paperwork from our end. Organized Crime has at least one detective undercover working the prostitution angle. You’ll have to figure out how to make contact there. I don’t have to tell you that whenever we’ve got people in that position, any move that might expose them can be risky.”
She thought about Jimmy Hogan and Jeff Cruz. Two dead cops, one of them a partner she had lost. “No, sir. You don’t.”
“And this is an administrative position, Frye. You need street Intel, you get someone else to get it. Am I clear?”
“Perfectly, Captain.”
CHAPTER SIX
AT 7:35 AM CATHERINE opened the door that separated her office from the patient waiting area. Joyce had not arrived yet, but her first patient had. This morning, she was in uniform. Creased navy blue trousers, pale blue shirt with placket pockets over each breast, a narrow black tie, small bits of silver on collar and cuffs shined to a high polish. She was standing, her hat beneath her arm, her blue eyes nearly gray. Thunderclouds, hiding a storm of feelings.
“Come in, please, Officer.”
“Thanks for seeing me so early.”
“That’s all right. It works out better this way for my schedule, too.” Catherine gestured to the leather chairs in front of her desk as she walked behind it. “I take it you’re on your way to work?”
“If you can call it that,” the young woman said with a grimace as she sat down and planted her feet squarely on the floor in front of her, her back not even touching the chair. “I’m supposed to find out from the duty Sergeant this morning exactly what my assignment is going to be while we get this all sorted out.”
“Desk duty, you said?”
A scowl and a curt nod was all she got in response.
“What’s your regular assignment?”
“Most of the time I’m walking a beat. Sometimes I patrol in a cruiser.”
“Alone?”
The young cop hesitated briefly. “I’m usually by myself, yes.”
“Is that normal? Don’t officers usually have a—partner?” Catherine couldn’t help but notice her patient’s reluctance to confide specific details about her job. That was obviously going to pose a problem, since it was a job-related issue that had brought the officer to her. Nevertheless, she was content to let the young woman tell her story at her own pace. She was just as interested in what she wasn’t saying.
“Some cops work in pairs. It depends on how the assignments shake out.”
“I see,” although she didn’t really. She knew that Rebecca usually worked with a partner, but perhaps it was different for uniform officers. It was a point she would have to come back to in the future. “I still don’t have your paperwork, so I need you to tell me the details of why you’re here—in your own words. Assume I know nothing.” She smiled. “In this case, it’s true.”
“I’ve been taken off street duty because a complaint of excessive force was lodged against me.”
The delivery was flat and unemotional. Catherine’s tone remained conversational. “Is that the same thing as being suspended?”
“Not exactly—I still get paid, and it doesn’t go down in my file as a disciplinary action—yet. But, for all intents and purposes…”
“Yes?”
“It’s still a black mark. It’s going to hurt me. I wanted to make detective, but now…”
Her voice was bitter, and it wasn’t difficult for Catherine to imagine how devastating something like this could be for someone who was so obviously committed to her job. “What happened?”
“In the process of apprehending a suspect, I used bodily force to subdue him. His attorney is claiming police brutality.”
“Is this the same altercation which led to those contusions on your face and neck?” Catherine asked quietly. She rarely took notes during a session. In this instance, she wouldn’t need to because the look in the young woman’s eyes was unforgettable. Although the information was delivered in a detached, clinical tone and cloaked in the dry vocabulary so typical of police jargon, the officer’s eyes betrayed her. Whatever had happened had left its mark on her, and it was something far more indelible than the bruises that still marred her fresh clear features. “Did he do that?”
“He got—physical. Yes.”
“And you protected yourself?”
“I hit him with the butt of my revolver. Twice.”
“Can you tell me all of it, from the very beginning, just as it happened?” This was the moment. The trust would come now, or never. Some leap of faith, some need to believe that someone was listening—if they were to have any connection that would make a difference, it would begin here.
“It will be in the report.”
“I know. But will you tell me?”
“It was five nights ago. Just after midnight. I was working the night shift like usual, in the tenderloin—that’s my regular sector.” She stopped without realizing it, thinking back to that night. It had been raining and it was a cold miserable rain. She was wearing a slicker and her cap was covered with a protective plastic case. Her hands were cold. She wasn’t wearing gloves. Every minute seemed like an hour. She been over it so many times in her mind…what she should’ve done, what she did, what she wanted to do.
“Officer?” Catherine’s voice was calm and gentle. The woman seated across from her gave a small start of surprise and then smiled in embarrassment.
“Sorry.”
“No. That’s all right.”
“I had just come out of the diner. I’d stopped for coffee. It was so damn cold. I heard noises coming from an alley, one of the blind ones with nothing but dumpsters and derelicts in them. The streetlights were all broken and it was dark. I couldn’t see a damn thing. I started down it as quietly as I could. I didn’t want to turn on my mag light, because I was afraid that would make me a target. I wasn’t even certain that I’d heard anything at all. I remember thinking it was probably going to be a big rat. I’d almost convinced myself that it was my imagination when I heard someone scream—or what I thought was a scream. It was just a short sharp sound and then it was quiet again.”
She looked at Catherine, and her eyes were bleak. “The facts are in the report.”
“Yes, I know.” Catherine leaned forward, her hands in front of her on the desk, her fingers loosely clasped, never taking her eyes off the young woman’s face. “It sounds very frightening.”
“I didn’t feel it then.”
“And now?”
“I remember.”
Catherine shivered, although she knew it didn’t show. It was a finger of ice trailing down her spine. She acknowledged it; then ignored it. This wasn’t about her, and in this room for these fifty minutes, her feelings didn’t matter. But unlike the young officer who struggled so valiantly to separate her feelings from her experience, Catherine’s work required that she let the emotion in, even if it stirred her own pain. She knew what it was to remember fear. It was a subtle enemy; it returned in the dark of night or when one was weary, to remind one of one’s weakness and vulnerability. Focusing, listening to the words beneath the silence, she asked, “But you kept going? You walked down the alley?”
“Yes.” Her voice was stronger now. “I could hear sounds of a struggle more clearly by then. I radioed for backup, and I drew my weapon. I was in the narrow space between two apartment buildings, and there was light from one of the windows high up. The fourth floor I think. Enough so I could see a little. I could make out a man and a smaller figure, a woman, I thought. He was holding her against the side of the buildings, and she was fighting him.”
“A robbery?”
“I didn’t know. It could have been anything—a domestic dispute, a robbery, a rape.”
It was hard to imagine anyone, man or woman, facing such uncertainty and danger on a daily basis. No amount of training or experience could possibly prepare one for that. What did it take, and what did it cost, to face that everyday? “You were still alone?”
Again, the hesitation, and this time she averted her gaze. “Yes. I hadn’t heard any response to my call for backup, so I assumed that no one was coming.”
“Is that usual?”
Her hands were fisted tightly around the ends of the leather chair arms. Her pupils were dilated, but she maintained her rigid posture. “It can happen. On a busy night, there might not be anyone in the immediate vicinity. Depending on the nature of the call, something like that might be low down on the list of priorities.”
Might be ? Catherine knew there had to be more to it, but this was not the time to explore that. Right now, this was about one young woman alone in the dark. “I see. So you confronted him by yourself?”
“Yes. By myself.”
“You back in the saddle?” Watts asked, looking over Rebecca’s shoulder as she poured a cup of coffee at the long narrow table in the rear of the squad room. “Sarge?”
“What are you doing, Watts?”
“What. You mean now?”
“Yeah.”
“Shuffling folders. Why?”
She sipped the coffee. Terrible. Bitter, thick, and suspiciously filmy. She sighed contentedly as another piece of her life slipped back into place. “Let’s go to the range.”
“And shoot?” His surprise showed in the sudden rise of his voice.
“Yes, Watts. To shoot. Jesus.”
As usual, she didn’t wait, and he found himself hurrying to keep up. Just like old times.
“What did the Cap say?” he ventured to ask as he lowered his butt into the contoured front seat of the Vette. Man, he’d missed that car. She was silent for so long, he risked a sidelong glance in her direction. “What did—”
“I heard you.” She spun the wheel, pressed hard on the peddle, and rocketed onto the on-ramp of the expressway that ran through the center of the city. The firing range was at the police training academy, which was now housed at One Police Plaza, a newly built complex of administrative offices and classrooms. Although it was inconvenient for working cops to drive there for their semi-annual qualification exercises, no one complained. It was worth the twenty minutes to have the brass tucked away in some out of the way place where they couldn’t interfere too much with the real work of policing. “He assigned me to a task force the feds are setting up to chase down kiddie porn peddlers and chicken hawks.”
“Huh.” Watts shifted in his seat and tried to find someplace to stick his knees. He didn’t see how the Sarge managed to fit behind the wheel, her being so tall. “What’s that mean?”
“Nothing good.”
“What about me?”
Slowly, she turned her head and looked at him.
He stared back. “Us being partners and all.”
“We’re not…” She stopped herself, remembering that something in the man, something that rarely showed but that she sensed nonetheless, had made her trust Catherine’s life to him. He would never be Jeff, and it would never be the same. But then, what was? “I’m supposed to be the desk jockey. I’ll need legs.”
“Yeah sure. I can think of worse things than driving around talking to whores and pimps and perverts.” He fumbled in the inside pocket of his shapeless sport jacket for his cigarettes, then caught himself. She wouldn’t let him smoke in her ride. Shit.
