Chapter twenty one

"SORRY WE’RE LATE," Rebecca said, carefully avoiding Catherine's eyes. "Traffic." She and Watts took seats at the table while everyone murmured greetings.

Clark said, "Dr. Rawlings, this is Detective Sergeant..."

"We've met, thank you." Catherine stared at Rebecca, her initial disbelief having given way to something between incredulity and outrage. The detective was wearing the same clothes that Catherine had last seen her in, and it was obvious that she had come directly from the hospital. From the nearly translucent pallor of her skin and the hollow shadows beneath her eyes, it looked like that's precisely where she still should be—in a hospital bed.

Sloan watched the two of them curiously, aware that the temperature in the room had plummeted to below freezing, but she wasn't quite certain the cause. Frye had taken a seat across from her to the left of Rawlings, and after a brief nod to the psychiatrist, the detective stared pointedly ahead. Still, Sloan could have sworn the air between them vibrated, rather like the tremor in the tracks when a freight train approached. Something very volatile going on there—professional differences, maybe? Cops rarely take to theoreticians.

Then, Sloan smiled inwardly, thinking of her own theoretician and how very quickly and inextricably she had taken to her. Thinking about Michael in the middle of a meeting was a bad idea, because Michael, in body or spirit, was the only thing she had ever encountered that could distract her. And she couldn't afford to be distracted--not with Clark already hinting that he'd picked up on how quickly she and Jason had developed a working list of suspects. She wanted to end the briefing as quickly as possible, before Clark could push her for the specifics of their investigation or ask just how they had managed to assemble a preliminary list of potentials in record time. Clearing her throat, she said into the obvious silence, "We have transcripts of dozens of online chats between Jason and personalities who thought he was a 13-year-old girl. We also have a number of hits from men in a private bulletin board who have made overt or veiled allusions to movie distribution. It would be great to nail them—all of them—but what we really want are the manufacturers. Those are the guys who have set up their computers as FTP servers and are broadcasting to a select group of subscribers. With a videocam hook up, they can produce live feeds of child sex. And they have the kids."

"Locations?" Rebecca asked sharply. She needed a lead to chase, a case to work--something to take her mind off the hollow feeling in her chest that hurt every time she breathed. The pain had built all night in that empty place where Catherine had once dwelled, until finally she hadn't been able to stand it any longer and she'd called Watts. Catherine sat next to her now, and she felt like they were strangers. The loneliness had been so much easier to bear before. Before she had known what it was to be touched. "Anything solid?" she asked, hoping she didn't sound as desperate as she felt.

"Nothing specific, not yet," Sloan admitted. "But we're pretty sure they’re regional, if not local." She glanced at Catherine. "It would be very helpful if you could go through these with us, and give us your take on the most likely possibles, and perhaps lend some insight as to how Jason can more effectively manipulate them into committing themselves."

"And then?" Catherine asked with genuine interest, even as she listened with relief to the sound of Rebecca breathing beside her. Respirations steady, unlabored. Stable. For now.

Sloan grinned, a happy, hungry grin. "As soon as we narrow it down to a manageable number, I can launch digger programs which will follow the sender back to his ISP address, among other things. Then we'll cross-reference to the credit card clearing houses, track the business sources. Get us some names."

"Yeah, and once you get us a name, we can start knocking on doors," Watts said with evident satisfaction. "Real police work."

Sloan managed not to snarl.

"Anything from your street sources, Detective?" Clark asked, looking at Rebecca.

"Not yet." She had no intention of sharing anything with Clark at this point, and she certainly didn't want to discuss the details of the case with Catherine in the room. Jesus, everyone was acting like Catherine was an official part of the team.

"My schedule is pretty full," Catherine stated, "but I should be able to spare an hour or two in the evenings--or even during the day if you absolutely need me."

Avery Clark stood, signaling the end of the meeting. "We'll try to give you as much advance notice as we can, Doctor. Any time you can spare would be greatly appreciated. I'll leave the details to you and Sloan to work out."

"Certainly," Catherine replied, standing as well and gathering her things.

"Sloan, may I see you outside?" Clark murmured softly as he passed behind her.

"Sure." Sloan responded, rising and following.

Jason and Mitchell left as well, leaving Catherine staring at Rebecca while Watts fidgeted in the doorway, looking as if he wasn't certain whether to go or stay.

"What in God's name are you doing here?" Catherine demanded.

"I knew the meeting wouldn't be long. I wanted to make it."

"How did you get discharged so quickly?"

Rebecca held Catherine's gaze. "I was never admitted."

“Jim would never have released you, not in the shape you were in last night. You signed out AMA, didn’t you?” she accused furiously. She wanted to touch her. It felt like days since she had. But she was so angry, the last thing she wanted was contact. Her mind was reeling from the barrage of dissident emotions.

“Not exactly against medical advice. We made a deal.” She said it reasonably, trying to sound confident, but Catherine's fury was so potent it was like a blow. Her hands trembled and she stuffed them in her pockets.

“Doctors don’t make deals,” the psychiatrist snapped.

“All right,” Rebecca admitted. “But I agreed to go back for a chest x-ray this morning.”

“And if your lung drops right now?”

“He left a catheter in my chest. In an emergency, he said I’d be able to aspirate the air out. That I'd have plenty of time to get back to the emergency room.”

Catherine slammed both palms down on the tabletop and leaned forward, her eyes blazing. "What is the matter with you? Don't you know you almost died last night? What could be so important about this meeting?"

"It's not the meeting," Rebecca said quietly, but the fear was thundering through her now. She had to stay calm. If she explained it clearly, Catherine would have to understand. "If I let them admit me, if I didn't show up here--if I can’t work--they won't just take me off the case. They'll put me on medical disability. I won't even have light-duty."

"You shouldn't have any kind of duty! You should be home or in the hospital." Catherine whirled in Watts’ direction so quickly that he jumped. "Did you have a hand in this? After all the nights we sat by her bedside, waiting for her to live or die? After that, you could help her do this?" She ran a hand over her eyes and then slowly turned from one to the other. In a voice that was deadly calm, she said, "I do not understand what is important to you. All I know is that whatever it is, it's more important to you than your life. And I can't live with knowing that."

For a moment, it seemed as if no one even breathed. Then, Catherine quietly lifted her briefcase and walked from the room.

Rebecca stood rigidly, the fingertips of her right hand pressed against the granite table top, white to the bone. She hadn't realized that her eyes were closed until they snapped open at the sound of Watts' voice. She blinked in the bright sunlight coming through the windows.

"Sarge?"

"I want to talk to Mitchell and you—alone. We need to assess where we are in this case. Five minutes, in our conference room."

"She's just steamed, Sarge. She'll get over it."

No, she won't. Christ, what do I do now?

"You just gotta give her ti—"

"Let it go, Watts."

"Yeah, but—"

"Goddamn it," she shouted, her fist connecting with stone as she pounded her hand onto the table. "Go find Mitchell and shut the—"

She started to cough and he thought his heart would stop. "Oh, fuck. Are you—"

"I'm fine," she snapped, waving a hand as she caught her breath. "Just do it."

"Right. Just do me a fucking favor and go sit down until we get there." He didn't wait for an answer, but went to find the rookie. They couldn't get back to the hospital soon enough to suit him.

Sloan looked up as Watts charged by and then caught sight of Frye still in the conference room. She walked back in, poured a cup of coffee, and leaned against the counter, observing the detective, who seemed a little unsteady on her feet.

"You all right?"

Rebecca stared at her. "Yeah."

Sloan sipped her coffee. "We're making progress."

"Good," the detective sighed, giving in and sitting down. She rubbed her eyes, then blew out a breath. Just work the case, Frye. That's what you do. That's what you know. "Because I'm not. We had a couple of names from the previous kiddie prostitution bust, but we haven't been able to turn up anything. I've got a few feelers out, but so far, nada. There's a rumor of somebody making movies, but so far that's weak. If I get lucky, someone will point us toward that."

"It's early, on a case like this," Sloan observed mildly, wondering how out of line it would be to ask Frye what the hell was going on. The cop didn't exactly make it easy to get friendly, but she looked like she was hurting. And not just physically.

"Is Clark on to your FBI hack?" Rebecca asked suddenly.

"You're sharp, Frye," Sloan said with an appreciative laugh. "You were here, what? Five minutes? And you picked up on a certain tension between us?"

"I've met the type." Rebecca shrugged and grinned weakly. "When someone says outside the way Clark said it, it usually implies they have a burr up their ass."

"He suspects we might have used unorthodox methods to acquire some of our information, but he didn't want specifics."

"They never do," Rebecca observed wearily. "Too accountable then."

"Yeah. Mostly he wanted to be certain that I understood that I was on my own."

"Why are you doing this, Sloan? You could be making a lot more money doing something with a lot less potential to fuck you over."

Sloan walked to the sink and poured out the last of her coffee, surprised at the question. When she turned around, she said quietly, all hint of her usual cockiness gone. "Maybe I wanted them to see what they lost."

Rebecca rose, more surprised at herself for asking than she was by Sloan's answer. "That's a fairly fucked up reason."

"Yeah," Sloan admitted, feeling an odd sense of relief.

"But I understand," Rebecca added as she headed out the door. "Keep me up to speed, Sloan."

"Right," Sloan called after her. She hesitated for a second, then walked to the wall phone and dialed a number. After a second, she smiled and said, "Hey. Any chance you could meet me for lunch?...No special reason. I just love you."

Дата добавления: 2015-11-16