Chapter twenty eight

"WHAT ARE YOU thinking about?"

"Hmm? Oh," Rebecca exclaimed with a wry smile. "I was thinking how nice it was not to be thinking about anything."

They were walking hand-in-hand through the narrow streets of Old City on First Saturday, a monthly event where artisans of all persuasions displayed their wares on the sidewalks for passersby to peruse, musicians played in alcoves and on street corners, and the many bistros and cafes served drinks or cappuccino at tiny tables lining the walkways. It had a certain Mardi Gras flavor with the historical charm that made Philadelphia famous. They'd had dinner at a small, intimate restaurant and then had taken to the streets along with scores of others to luxuriate in the still warm September evening.

"You might have been thinking that five minutes ago," Catherine said with a faint laugh, "but now you have that look of complete and utter detachment that spells cop mode."

Rebecca blushed, an occurrence so rare for her that it was nearly reportable. It was true, she had been thinking about the case, and she had no idea that it showed so plainly. All she'd wanted when the evening had begun was to somehow let Catherine know how crazy in love with her she was, and now, not three hours later, here she was obsessing about the job again. Jesus. "I'm sorry," she said quickly, "I was just--"

"Don't apologize. I have to admit that I've been wondering myself what was happening with Sloan and Jason. This waiting for something to break can get very wearing."

"Really?" Rebecca was pleasantly surprised. It hadn't occurred to her that Catherine could become as absorbed in a case as she, although she certainly should have realized that after their experience with Raymond Blake. Then, Catherine had been as persistent as any obsessive detective in bringing him to justice. "You know, we're just around the corner--"

"I was just thinking the same thing.” Catherine stopped walking and regarded Rebecca with an eager glint in her eyes, then glanced at her watch. "It is after nine on a Saturday night. Think anyone is still around?"

"Can't hurt to see."

Ten minutes later, Jason's now familiar voice said from the speaker above the door, "Come on up. Might as well have a party."

When they had ascended the elevator and disembarked on the third floor, they discovered Jason and Mitchell in their now familiar poses, hunched over the monitors and murmuring conspiratorially.

Rebecca regarded Mitchell impassively when the young officer turned at the sound of footsteps. Mitchell gazed back, a faint hint of challenge in her eyes. It was the first time Rebecca had ever seen her anything but appropriately respectful. "Mitchell," she said with a perfunctory nod.

"Detective," Mitchell said stiffly.

Turning to Jason, Rebecca asked, "Anything?"

"The usual. Saturday night seems to bring out all the perverts. LongJohn hasn't shown up though. I'm not entirely certain that he will, since we already have a specified meeting time tomorrow night. On the other hand, I want to be here if he does log on."

Catherine nodded in agreement. "He may very well want to be sure that you're still interested, and I wouldn't be surprised if he sends a few more verbal tests in your direction--to verify your authenticity. He's got to be suspicious that you—BigMac, I should say--might be law enforcement. I would suggest you appear enthusiastic, but don't probe too overtly for more information."

"Gotcha." Jason reached to his right and thumbed through an inch high pile of computer printouts. "These are from the last couple of days, and there might be some other possibles in here." Glancing at Catherine he said apologetically, "Have you got a few minutes?"

Catherine hesitated, looking at Rebecca, who shrugged infinitesimally. By unspoken agreement, they had thus far kept their personal involvement private from the others in the group, for no other reason than that they both preferred to separate their professional and personal lives whenever possible. "Sure," Catherine said. "I'll just take them back to the conference room and go through them."

As she lifted the pile and turned to leave, Rebecca looked pointedly at Mitchell and said, "Officer, let's take a walk."

"Yes ma'am," Mitchell said and rose instantly.

The two of them headed in the opposite direction from the conference room toward the far end of the vast loft space, finally stopping beneath an expanse of windows that afforded them a view all the way into southern New Jersey. Between them and the industrial center of Camden ran the Delaware River, illuminated by the lights of oil barges and other ships. "Captain Rodriguez called me this afternoon," Rebecca began without preamble, referring to one of the uniform commanders and Mitchell's superior. "He told me that all they need is your paperwork cleared up and you'll be reassigned to street patrol."

"I don't want to be reassigned," she said immediately.

"Is there some problem in house?"

Mitchell glanced at her sideways, surprised by the question. It was rare for detectives to take any interest in uniform officers, and rarer still for them to question the workings of other divisions. Frye was essentially asking her if she had a problem with her superiors or her fellow officers, which was to her knowledge, unheard of. "No ma'am. No problems."

"Okay." Rebecca expected no other answer from Mitchell. The young officer was clearly a by-the-book cop, and if she were having problems, she'd keep it to herself like any good cop and try to handle it on her own. Rebecca didn't intend to push her on it, not now. They had other issues to get clear on. "Then why don't you want to go back to your regular duty?"

Mitchell squared her shoulders and said directly, "Because I want to stay on this assignment. I like working with Sloan and McBride... and I like working with you."

Rebecca turned her head and regarded Mitchell steadily. "Every uniform wants the gold shield, at least any uniform worth anything at all."

"Yes, ma'am."

"You've got a long ways to go before that, Mitchell."

"Yes, ma'am."

"But you've made a good start." Rebecca slid her hands into her pockets and rocked slightly on the balls of her feet as she watched the night slide by on the river below. "I'll see what I can do about keeping you around."

"Thank you very much," Mitchell said, trying not to sound as relieved as she felt. Frye was not the type you kissed up to.

"One more thing."

Mitchell looked at her questioningly. "Yes, ma'am?"

"You want to tell me about you and Sandy Dyer?"

Mitchell's heart began to race. Suddenly, for the first time since the day she had stood on the parade ground at West Point as a new cadet, she felt her knees shaking. In a clear voice that she willed not to waver, she answered, "No, ma'am, I do not."

"If you get between me and this investigation, or any other investigation, I'll have your badge."

"Understood."

"Good," Rebecca said. "We'll meet here tomorrow afternoon at 4 p.m. to review the details of the operation."

"Yes, ma'am," Mitchell said, hoping that the shock didn't show in her voice. Frye had just invited her along on a high level tactical maneuver. It was more than a dream come true, it was a career making opportunity. And that after asking her about Sandy. How in hell had she known?

"And Mitchell," Rebecca added as if in afterthought, "never turn your back on the night. You never know who might be watching."

Catherine reappeared an hour and a half later. Rebecca sat with her feet up on the counter, leaning back in a swivel chair, watching a computer monitor. Jason and Mitchell were busy inputting data into one of their seemingly endless analysis programs.

"I've pulled three that I think have promise. Officer Mitchell," Catherine said, "I've circled the identifiers that I'd like you to cross-reference."

"I'll get on it right away."

"Tomorrow will surely be soon enough," Catherine said with a smile. Glancing at her watch, she said, "It's nearly 11:30. I don't know about the rest of you, but I need a break. Where's Sloan, by the way? She seems to be the only one of us with any common sense."

Jason laughed. "Don't you believe it. She went to the airport to pick up Michael. If it hadn't been for that, you can bet she'd be right here."

"Michael?" Catherine said, trying to remember if she had forgotten someone on the team.

"Her lover."

"Oh," Catherine said, somewhat surprised. She would have thought Sloan was a lesbian, but perhaps that was just because she found her attractive. Smiling inwardly, she reminded herself that appearances were most often deceiving. "Well then, I'll say goodnight."

"I'll walk you out," Rebecca said, getting to her feet. "Jason--call me if anything comes up. Mitchell--go home."

Both of them nodded, but they were already engrossed in some bit of electronic information, their heads bent close together over a print out. Neither of them said goodnight.

Michael Lassiter glanced at her passenger. "I could have taken the train from the airport, you know."

Sloan reclined in the passenger seat, her left hand resting loosely in Michael's right, their fingers intertwined. Smiling, she replied without opening her eyes, "I know that. I just wanted to be there when you came home."

"I'm glad you were," Michael said softly, her voice thick with a panoply of emotions--wonder, gratitude, desire. In all the years of her marriage to Nicholas, she had never felt this kind of welcome or the peaceful sense of well-being that came from knowing precisely where you belonged in the universe. "I love you."

"Good thing," Sloan said drowsily. "Because I'm mad about you."

Michael had rarely seen Sloan exhausted, but she had known when she'd left for Boston that it was unlikely that her lover would sleep at all in her absence. From everything she had gathered, things were moving so quickly on the new investigation that even had she been in town, Sloan would probably have been working nearly twenty-four hours a day. It was only her quiet insistence that her lover get an occasional hour or two of sleep that ever brought her upstairs during this kind of intensive assignment. Turning off the four lane highway that ran along the river onto the narrow streets of Old City, she stated emphatically, "When we get home, you're going straight to bed."

"Promise?" Sloan rejoined, turning her head on the seat and finally opening her eyes. Grinning, life clearly returning to her features, she added, "I think you're exactly what I need to jump start my engines."

"Well, you can just motor down, hotrod," Michael said with a laugh. "Maybe in the morning I'll take you for a ride."

"I'll pencil you in to my schedule then."

Michael was about to launch a comeback as she turned onto their block. Slowing, peering at the unexpected obstacle in her path, she muttered in frustration, "For God's sake, who would leave that right in front of the driveway."

Had Sloan been less tired, perhaps she would have been faster to make a connection. As Michael downshifted into park and opened the driver's door to get out, Sloan glanced idly out her window toward her building. A shopping cart, turned over on its side, lay on the sidewalk in front of the wide double doors leading into their garage. Odd, she thought to herself, as she dimly registered the sound of an engine starting nearby. Suddenly some long-ingrained distrust pulsed through her brain, and she turned just as Michael stepped from the car. "Michael, no..."

The words were lost in the sound of squealing tires, a muffled scream, and the rending of metal as the driver's door of the Porsche was torn off and catapulted down the street. By the time Sloan extricated herself from the car, which had been pushed into a parked minivan, the vehicle which had struck her lover was gone.

Ten feet away, Michael lay motionless on the street, a dark pool spreading on the pavement beneath her head.

Дата добавления: 2015-11-16