Неизвестный - 4. Justice In The Shadows

He nodded. “Plenty of time.”

“Good.” Rebecca squared her shoulders. “Then I think I’d better pay a visit to Dr. Rawlings.”

Ordinarily, any reason to see Catherine was welcome. However, Rebecca had a feeling that this particular visit was going to be much more business than pleasure.

CHAPTER NINE

Mitchell stood in front of a dingy, gray-shingled rowhouse that looked no different than any of the other rundown buildings on the street. It was ten-thirty in the morning, and she had a feeling that no one was going to answer the doorbell in the upstairs rear apartment. Once on the third floor, she walked directly to the one with a painted-over metal numeral three just above eye height and knocked.

“Go away,” a grumpy sounding voice called from within.

Another minute passed and then the door was opened as far as a security chain would allow, and a flashing blue-eyed peered out.

“Hiya, Sandy.”

The door closed in Mitchell’s face, the chain rattled, and the door sprang open again.

Sandy, eyes a bit bleary, looked up and snarled, “Its ten o’clock in the morning, and I’ve only been asleep for two hours. Go away.” She wore only a tiny white tank top that barely reached below the swell of her breasts and a pair of pale pink bikini underwear.

Mitchell tried not to look at the barely covered body, but just the quick glimpse she got before she forced her eyes back to Sandy’s face was enough to make her stomach tighten. “Can I talk to you?”

“Yeah,” Sandy said with a shrug, turning and crossing the room to the sofa which had been opened into a small daybed. The pale blue cotton sheets which covered it were pulled back, and a single pillow rested in the center.

Mitchell stared at the bed. Then she quickly averted her eyes and looked around the room. “Nice place.”

“Thanks.” Sandy perched on the edge of the bed, elbows on knees, her chin resting in the palm of one hand. “I’m really glad you like my decorating. Now, do you want to tell me why you woke me up?”

“Do you think you could…uh…put some clothes on?”

“I’ve got clothes on, Dell.” Sandy saw Dell’s eyes flicker down her body, then rapidly fix on some point on the floor between them. She liked the way Dell looked at her. A lot. She grabbed for her jeans and pulled them on.

Mitchell put her hands in her pockets and leaned against the corner of a dresser that stood against one wall. Now that she was there, inside Sandy’s surprisingly warm and cozy apartment, she didn’t know what to say.

“What?” Sandy’s voice was gentle.

Softly, Mitchell said, “I didn’t know you were working for Detective Sgt. Frye.”

“I wasn’t…not before yesterday. Why do you care?” Sandy’s question held no trace of belligerence, only curiosity. She wondered if Dell had any idea how much she wanted to know what put that look of fierce concentration in Dell’s eyes whenever they roamed over her face.

“It’s kind of a dangerous job.”

Sandy leaned back, her legs slightly spread, a challenging expression on her face. “So’s being a cop. You could get hurt, too.”

“There’s a difference and you know it.” Mitchell tried and failed to keep the aggravation form her voice. At least I have a gun. And back-up. Sometimes, anyhow. Without thinking, Mitchell put her fingers around Sandy’s forearm. “You’re totally unprotected.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“Oh, yeah. You’ve done a great job with that so far.”

Sandy jerked her hand away and barely stopped herself from flinging it across Dell’s face. “Get out.”

“Sandy…” Mitchell’s face was white and her eyes huge, the deep blue shadowed with pain. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that the way you think.”

“I know what you mean…that I’m just a who—”

“No.” Mitchell raised her hand slowly. “No.” She brushed a fingertip over the scar on Sandy’s forehead. “This is what I mean. How many more times can you take a beating like this?”

Sandy wanted to pull away, to spew angry words, but she couldn’t. Dell’s touch was so gentle, her expression so tender, her body so near. Dell was trembling. They both were.

“Dell…” Sandy murmured. Heat surged between her thighs, and she gasped as she felt herself grow wet. She stumbled back a step, breaking their tenuous contact.

Mitchell, her hand outstretched, wanted so badly to follow. There was something in Sandy’s voice, a hushed yearning, that made Mitchell’s stomach tighten and her head roar. “Hey…”

Sandy took another step back. “You should go, Dell.”

“Can I come back?” Mitchell didn’t even know why she was asking, but she had to.

Sandy was watching Dell’s mouth, and it was hard to concentrate. Dell had a beautiful mouth. Then Frye’s voice cut through the haze. “A police officer can be suspended, even fired, for fraternizing with a prostitute.”

“Look,” Sandy said as forcefully as she could, searching frantically for the right words to make her go. “Look, I’m Frye’s now, okay? I don’t want anything to mess that up.”

Mitchell straightened as if struck, then reached behind her for the doorknob. “Just watch your back, okay?”

Then she was gone, leaving only the echo of her footsteps in the hall. Sandy listened until she couldn’t hear her at all.

“You be careful, too, rookie,” she whispered. Her fingers rested lightly on the scarred wooden door in a final caress.

At eleven twenty-four, the side door to Catherine’s private office closed behind her last client of the morning. Trying to gather herself for the afternoon ahead, she might actually have fallen asleep if the intercom line on her phone had not rung.

“Detective Frye is here, Doctor. Your next appointment is scheduled at one, so you have a bit of time.”

Suddenly invigorated, Catherine smiled. “Tell her to come in, please.”

When Rebecca came through the door a moment later with a brown paper bag in one hand, Catherine was waiting just inside. She placed a hand on Rebecca’s shoulder and leaned close to give her a kiss on the mouth. “What a nice surprise.”

“I took a chance that I might catch you between sessions. I brought lunch.”

“I knew there was a reason that I loved you.” Catherine reached for Rebecca’s hand and led her to the sofa in front of a low coffee table. “Indian?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Wonderful. I’m famished.” Catherine extracted the various containers along with the plastic forks and paper napkins from the bag and spread them out on the table. “Is there another reason besides rescuing me from starvation that you’re here?”

Rebecca hesitated. There were very few things in her life that made her uncomfortable. Being at odds with Catherine was one of them. When they fought, even when they merely couldn’t see eye to eye over some issue, it left her feeling disjointed and strangely hollow inside. “I had a briefing with Sloan and the others this morning. We’ve been formulating a plan of action.”

“Problems?” Catherine continued to eat slowly, suspecting that Rebecca would not have come by in the middle of the day had there not been.

“We’re working on a couple of angles, but one of the critical things that we have to do is find the source of the information leak that led to the attack on Sloan.”

“And you suspect someone within your department.” Catherine could only imagine how difficult it was for Rebecca to investigate her own people.

Rebecca nodded. “How well do know Rand Whitaker?”

“Only casually. We see each other at local psychiatric meetings and now and then at seminars at the University.” Catherine sat back, her hand resting gently on Rebecca’s thigh. “You suspect him? How would he have gotten the information? Surely you didn’t tell him anything?”

“No, but he works in the department. And I was seeing him in an official capacity. It’s possible he could’ve gotten access to almost anything I was involved with.” Rebecca ran a hand through her hair, frustrated once more by her inability to find a solid lead.

“I suppose anything is possible,” Catherine mused, “but I don’t know him well enough to speculate.”

“I didn’t really think that you would, but I had to check.” Rebecca turned until she was facing Catherine fully, their knees slightly touching. She wanted to take Catherine’s hand, but that didn’t feel right considering what she was about to say. “Something else came up this morning as well.”

Oh?” Catherine waited, watching Rebecca’s eyes. Now we’ll get to the reason why you’re here.

“Dellon Mitchell said that she’s been seeing you.”

Catherine remained silent.

Rebecca forged ahead. “Is there anything about the investigation that she might have told you that is accessible to anyone outside this office?”

“It would be better if we discussed this after Officer Mitchell gave me a call,” Catherine said gently. “I don’t feel comfortable discussing this with you until then.”

“Catherine,” Rebecca said, trying to keep exasperation from her voice. “Mitchell already told us she was seeing you for counseling. She knew that I would talk to you when she said it.”

“There are moments when you are quite incapable of appreciating anyone else’s work other than your own.” Catherine stood abruptly and paced back and forth between her desk and the seating area, frown lines furrowed between her brows. Just as precipitously, she stopped and faced Rebecca. “Do you realize how frustrating that is?”

“Yes.” Completely unexpectedly, Rebecca felt a wave of nausea. She forced herself not to change expression but she failed.

“Rebecca,” Catherine said softly, seeing the discomfort in her lover’s eyes. “I love you. That doesn’t stop just because you aggravate me.”

“I’m glad.” In a low voice Rebecca muttered, “I think it was right about at this point that I fell in love with you the first time around.”

Taken completely off guard, Catherine’s heart lifted. “Why Detective Frye, could it be that you’re mellowing?”

Ice blue eyes suddenly bored into Catherine’s, only to soften instantly. “Sensitivity training.”

Catherine laughed out loud and moved closer to the sofa. Rebecca automatically threaded her arm around Catherine’s waist, and the psychiatrist rested her head on the detective’s shoulder. “If it’s all right with Officer Mitchell, I’ll check my notes and let you know if there’s anything in my records remotely connected to what you’ve been doing.”

“Thanks.” Rebecca looked at the remarkable woman who had changed her life. “I love you, you know.”

“Yes. I know.” Catherine smiled. “Just be careful, Detective.”

CHAPTER TEN

“How’s it going?” Dee Flanagan asked.

Sloan pushed back the small stool on which she had been perched since midmorning and eyed the CSI chief. “Your computer is a dinosaur. I’m surprised it still runs.”

“Police issue. You should see what the patrol cars look like.” Dee moved through the small space that was covered on every surface with stacks of journals, boxes off crime-scene mockups, files, and reference books. “Did you find anything?”

“Not yet.”

Dee sat behind her desk and sipped from the mug of coffee she had carried in with her. “Whoever took the files did it months ago. Do you really think you can find anything now?”

“If you had a body that had been buried for twenty years, would there be anything still there that would help you find the killer?”

“There’s always something there. The flesh decays, but even as it does, it changes the nature of whatever surrounds it—chemically, physically, biologically. The bones tell their own tale. Age of the victim, gender, sometimes even the manner of death. The answer is always there; you just need to know how to read the story.”

Sloan nodded. “That’s what it’s like with a computer, too. Even the best hacker leaves a trail. Just by trying to erase the evidence of their presence, they change other things, always leaving some sign of having been there.”

Dee leaned forward over the desk, her intelligent eyes alight with excitement. “So—what does he leave behind?”

“Could be any number of things, depending on how your system is set up and how he accessed your hard drive. One of the first places to look is the log files, which is sort of a diary of events. Information is constantly stored automatically by the operating system without you ever being aware of it. There are also telephone logs which will tell us when attempts were made to dial into the computer from remote access, and usually, with a little creative backtracking, I can get those phone numbers. Once I secure your system, the next thing I’ll do is to analyze the log files around the time your data disappeared and look for evidence of illegal entry.”

“Secure my system? No offense, but isn’t beefing up the security a little late now?”

Sloan regarded the other woman contemplatively. “If someone tampered with your data once, there’s no reason to think they didn’t do before or since. It would certainly be desirable if someone could access your files and find out just what evidence you had accumulated on a certain case, even if they couldn’t take a chance on altering it.”

“Altering it! Jesus Christ. Just a suggestion that evidence has been tampered with could overturn dozens of verdicts.” Dee stood suddenly, quickly threaded her way through the obstacle path on the floor, and shut her office door. “That kind of speculation could be disastrous.”

“I’m aware of that,” Sloan said quietly. “Hopefully, we’ll be able to identify the hacker and then look elsewhere for corroborating evidence to link him to the crimes. That way, we can leave your department out of it completely. But we’d better be sure your system is secure now.”

“If you find something that suggests my files have been compromised in any way, I want to know.”

Sloan shook her head, appreciating the other woman’s integrity, but also recognizing her naïveté. “Look, I’ve been involved in this kind of thing before, and if that turns out to be the case, it’s going to fall on your doorstep. That’s not something you want to have happen.” Your career will be over, and you’ll be lucky if you don’t face criminal charges.

Before Sloan could elaborate, Dee repeated forcefully, “There are people in prison right now because of evidence I presented at trial. There are also a fair number of scumbags walking the streets who were freed because my analysis exonerated them. I have to know I made the right calls.”

“Despite its importance, the crime scene evidence is only one piece of the case presented at trial. The verdict doesn’t rest on your testimony alone.”

“I don’t give a good goddamn about the other pieces of the case. I only care about mine.”

“I understand.” Sloan glanced at her watch. “I don’t have much time today, but I’ll be back either tonight or tomorrow morning. How do I get in here?”

“I’ll give you the combination to the touchpad lock on the morgue admissions bay door.”

“Thanks.” Sloan leaned over, closed her black satchel, which held tools and disks loaded with software programs, and stood. “What if someone sees me in here and asks why I’m working after hours?”