Shield of Justice, page 10
“I’m going to cruise through the Tenderloin. I’ve got contacts there. I’ll talk to people, listen to the rumors going around,” Rebecca said, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. Instantly, she was aware of the absence of Catherine’s touch. Her skin registered the loss. She was suddenly cold, although the night was warm.
“What are you looking for, Rebecca?” Catherine asked quietly, knowing that the answer she sought went deeper than the next few hours.
Rebecca pulled on her pants, looked around for her shirt, and answered absently, “News about Jeff…word about the rapist. You never know what’s out there.”
Catherine tried to absorb the realities of Rebecca’s life, wondering if she would ever truly be able to understand them. Who but another cop could appreciate the soul-numbing inhumanity that was an everyday occurrence in the world inhabited by this restless woman? She was willing to try, and she was determined not to allow Rebecca to shut her out.
Catherine started to rise. “Let me get you some coffee.”
“No. I don’t want you to get up.” Rebecca pushed her gently down, then leaned to kiss her. “I want you to stay here, where we were together, so I can think of you like this until I see you again.”
Wrapping her arms around Rebecca’s neck, Catherine returned her kiss. “All right,” she replied huskily. You can’t possibly imagine how tender you are or you’d never let it show.
Because Rebecca had asked, Catherine remained in the dark, the bed growing cold, and listened to the detective move about in the other room. She didn’t sleep again until long after the outer door clicked shut.
Chapter Fifteen
Rebecca cruised slowly north on Thirteenth to Arch, the heart of the Tenderloin, with the top down on the Vette and jazz playing softly on the radio. Nightclubs, bars, adult bookstores, and seedy hotels were crowded together, all of them lit by garish neon signs, their doors standing open to offer glimpses of the entertainment inside. The sidewalks were crowded even at three a.m. with prostitutes, johns, pushers, pimps, junkies, and panhandlers—all the flotsam that society had cast out or forgotten. The prostitutes in their crotch-high, faux-leather skirts and tight, skimpy tops leaned against buildings or strolled languidly through the litter-strewn streets. Many Rebecca recognized by sight, more than a few by name. Arresting them was not her goal—they were no more criminals than the hungry who stole for food.
When citizens of the adjoining newly gentrified blocks complained that the undesirable activity was encroaching on their neighborhoods, the cops would round up some of the girls to placate city hall, knowing full well that the prostitutes would be back on the streets and plying their trade within hours. All the participants in the charade knew it was a futile gesture. Rebecca chose not to hassle the women but rather to keep an eye out for new faces, especially the very young. She always hoped to get to a few before the streets became the only way of life. Occasionally, she succeeded. Nevertheless, she was still a cop, and when she needed information, she used the resources at her disposal to get it.
She pulled over in front of a bar that sported a flashing yellow sign reading, “Girls! Live Nude Girls!” She wondered absently if anyone besides her found that sign absurd. It wasn’t the bar she was interested in, but the thin blond stationed in front of it. The woman was about five foot five, heavily made up, with an expanse of leg showing that left little to the imagination. Her hair was bleached, in a punk cut, and she kept one eye on the cars cruising by as she talked with several other women. She might have been twenty, or twelve. When she saw Rebecca climb out of her car, her face twisted into a frown.
“Hiya, Sandy,” Rebecca said softly as she approached. The others in the group drifted quickly away.
“Jesus, Frye,” the girl hissed, looking quickly over her shoulder. “What are you trying to do to me? I’ll be poison to every john on the street tonight after this.”
“So you can get a good night’s sleep, then,” Rebecca said, turning so her back was to the building, keeping a watchful eye on the slowly moving traffic and passersby. She was alone, and it was no secret she was a cop. “I need to talk to you.”
“Is that all?” Sandy said with contempt. She’d had too much experience with cops who wanted more than just information to trust any of them.
Rebecca met her angry gaze evenly. “That’s all, right now.”
“I don’t have much choice, do I?”
“No, you don’t.”
“Can we talk inside? You’re killing my business out here.”
Rebecca nodded and followed the girl into the dark bar, taking a table well away from the small platform where a woman did a tired bump and grind for the few patrons. Sandy signaled for a drink. Rebecca put a twenty on the table.
“So, what do you need, Detective?” Sandy asked in a bored voice. “I’m fresh out of discount blow jobs. Or are you going to pretend you’re not into that sort of thing?” She took a healthy swallow of her drink, scanning the bar for anyone she knew. It wasn’t good PR to be seen with a cop.
Rebecca ignored the taunt. “Two cops were killed the day before yesterday. What do you hear about it?”
Sandy rolled the shot glass in her hands and regarded Rebecca coolly. She didn’t actually dislike the good-looking cop; in fact, Frye was one of the few cops who didn’t harass the working girls. She’d even let Sandy out of the police van one night after a raid rather than bring her downtown for the empty exercise of booking. Still, Sandy didn’t want the detective to get the idea she was her private snitch or anything. And it didn’t help her reputation any to appear too chummy with the cops. There was something different about the tall, blond detective tonight, though. She seemed almost human, like she had feelings, like she was hurting. You’re losing it, girl. Cops with feelings?
“There’s nothing going down that I’ve heard,” Sandy said finally, which was pretty much true. They’d all heard about the shooting, of course. Usually when something like that happened, it brought the whole police force down on them, like they were the source of all the city’s problems. Probably this cop was just the first of many.
“What about the chicken trade? Any new faces in town?”
Sandy snorted in disgust. She hated the child procurers and pornographers as much as she hated the pushers. Like most of her friends, she stayed clear of them. “Since that big bust six months ago, it’s been quiet. I heard there might be a new house open somewhere in a very ritzy location, but it isn’t down here.”
“Who’s running it?” Rebecca asked nonchalantly, hiding her surprise at the information. She had been instrumental in cleaning out half a dozen establishments supplying children for all types of amusement in the citywide crackdown to which Sandy referred. If they were up and running again, there had to be big money behind it. Could that have been what Hogan was on to? It would take an organization as big as the Zamora crime family to start up the kiddie industry again. It took money, muscle, and overseas connections, because much of the advertising and clientele was established through Internet sites in foreign countries. She hadn’t heard that the feds were looking into anything local, and she should have if anything serious was going on.
“No one knows, and that’s the truth. There’re more than a few people who’d like to find out.”
“Yeah,” Rebecca muttered in disgust. “Where there are kids, there’s money.” She looked at the young woman across from her, already cynical and hardened. There was nothing Rebecca could do to change her future, but maybe she could make a difference with a few of the really young ones. She pushed back her chair, leaving another twenty with the change on the table. “Thanks, Sandy. Keep your ears open. I’ll be back.”
“Hey, Frye,” Sandy called, pocketing the money quickly. “Who were the cops who got killed?”
“Just cops.”
Chapter Sixteen
Rebecca was still in the car when the sun came up, so she stopped at an all-night diner for breakfast before a quick detour to her apartment to shower and change clothes. The traffic was light, and her thoughts wandered, returning unbidden to memories of the previous night.
Just recalling the sound of Catherine’s voice made her skin burn. The images of Catherine threatened to unhinge her—images of passion; images of splendor and surrender and desire; images that promised to hold her captive for eternity. Being with Catherine had been physically exciting, more fulfilling than she had ever dreamed, and easily the most frightening thing she had ever experienced.
She was relieved when the station house appeared, and she pulled into the lot on squealing tires. Work was just what she needed to put Catherine Rawlings into perspective. It was too early for the day shift to arrive, and she walked unnoticed through the quiet halls. When she pushed open the door to Vice, she was astonished to see Watts at Jeff’s desk, his desk now, with a half-eaten pizza in front of him. She wasn’t certain, but she thought he was wearing the same suit as he’d had on the day before. He was the only one in the room.
He glanced her way, grunting a greeting as he reached for another slice of the now congealed pizza. “I was just going to call you, Sarge,” he said around a mouthful of crust slathered with thick tomato sauce and cheese.
“What could be so important at five thirty in the morning?” Rebecca commented, not really caring what Watts had to say. She couldn’t stand to see him sitting in Jeff’s chair. She noticed a stack of folders beside the desk. Her and Jeff’s open case files. Could Watts actually be working?
“Thought you might like to read the morning paper,” he said, tossing the early-bird edition onto her desk. He went back to eating, munching the cold crust, his face expressionless as he watched her pick up the paper and glance at it without much interest. Then he saw her eyes darken, and he braced himself.
“What the hell is this,” she exploded, staring up from the headlines that proclaimed, “River Drive Rape Witness Found!” She regarded him in wordless astonishment, and he shook his head grimly.
“Read it. It’s very interesting,” he flatly intoned.
She began to read aloud, her voice tight and angry. “Sources reveal that a witness to the brutal rape of a college student on the River Drive last week may have been found.”
What followed was a sensationalized review of the previous two assaults, but it was the last paragraph that caused Rebecca to clench her fists in frustration. “Dr. Catherine Rawlings, a noted psychiatrist at the University Hospital declined comment, but unnamed sources confirm she is the primary physician of a patient who witnessed the most recent attack. The patient’s name has not yet been released, nor has a description of the assailant been made public.” The article finished with an indictment of the police for failing to keep the public informed.
“Jesus Christ,” Rebecca cursed, tossing the paper aside. “I can’t believe the asshole put Catherine’s name in the paper! He might as well have put Janet Ryan’s in, too. We’ll need to tighten security down there right away. Catherine didn’t want us to put a guard on Ryan, but we’ll have to now. God damn it.”
“I already called the patrol commander. He said he’d post someone down there in an hour or so, as soon as the day shift signs in.”
Rebecca regarded Watts with surprise, but she was too disturbed by the article to appreciate his quick thinking. “This kind of media coverage we do not need. It engenders public hysteria and distrust. If that isn’t bad enough, it jeopardizes the whole damn investigation. If the perp thinks we may have a lead on him, he could change his pattern or stop temporarily, and then we’re screwed. He could move to another city altogether, and we’ll never get him.” What she didn’t add was what really worried her most—the perpetrator might try to silence Janet Ryan, now that he knew where she was.
“Looks like somebody talked,” Watts remarked with disgust. “Probably the shrink.”
“It wasn’t her,” Rebecca stated flatly, knowing that Catherine would never endanger Janet Ryan. What she couldn’t understand was why Catherine hadn’t told her about the reporter.
“She knows almost as much as we do,” Watts continued unperturbed, fingering the reports in front of him. “She’s been present every time you’ve talked to the Ryan kid—”
“I told you, Watts. It wasn’t her. Now let it drop,” Rebecca barked. She was feeling the effects of the long night, and the nagging headache was back. “Why don’t you find out where that leak came from?”
“Yeah?” he said belligerently. “And just how do you suggest I do that?”
“Get that little twerp from the Daily and shake it out of him,” she said, heading for the door.
“Hey! Where you going?” he called after her.
“The morgue.”
He didn’t ask her anything else.
*
“You don’t want to be down here, Frye,” Dee Flanagan said sharply when she looked up from her microscope to see the detective striding through the lab. Hogan’s and Cruz’s bodies were still down the hall in the autopsy room, and that wasn’t the kind of memory a friend should have. “Besides, we aren’t open yet. It’s not even seven o’clock.”
“You’re always open,” Rebecca said, ignoring the frown on Flanagan’s tanned face. “Did you look at the slug you dug out of the dock?”
“Maggie has it now. I told you I’d call. You’re just gonna piss off Homicide by poking around in their case.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Rebecca muttered as she threaded her way down the narrow aisle constricted further by equipment stands, boxes of supplies, and makeshift work areas. She went through the far door into the brightly lit room beyond and looked for Maggie Collins, a slender, blue-eyed redhead. Maggie was fifteen years younger than Dee Flanagan and her head technician, as well as her lover.
When she saw Rebecca, Maggie asked quietly, with just a hint of Ireland still in her voice, “Dee know you’re here?”
“Yep.”
“Hmm,” Maggie mused, setting aside a labeled tube of something that looked like it had been scraped off the inside of a dumpster. “Slipping a bit, is she?”
“Nah,” Rebecca assured her. “I was moving fast, and she didn’t have a chance to tackle me.”
Maggie smiled, a smile that melted hearts. “Ah, that’s all right then. You’ll be wantin’ the report on the gun that killed Jeff?”
“Do you have something?” Rebecca asked hopefully.
“Not as much as you’d like, but something,” Maggie responded, directing Rebecca’s attention to a large computer monitor. She slid a disk in and deftly worked the cursor through a series of images until she had a gray object that barely resembled its previously cylindrical shape centered on the screen. “That would be it—9mm standard automatic. Best guess is a Mauser.”
“Hell,” Rebecca exclaimed when she saw the condition of the bullet. “You’ll never get bore marks off that thing.”
“Don’t you be pullin’ such a long face, Sergeant,” Maggie muttered, her Irish thickening as she frowned in concentration, highlighting several areas of the distorted fragment and bringing up the magnification. “This section here shows enough of the land and groove pattern that I can make a match if you bring me a firearm to test it against, or even another bullet from the same weapon.”
“You’re beautiful.”
“She is,” Dee said as she walked up behind them, “but you should leave this alone, Frye.”
Rebecca fixed the Crime Scene chief with a steady stare, and said in a low, dangerous voice, “He was my partner.”
“All the more reason to let Homicide handle it.”
For a moment the two women faced each other in stony silence, and then Rebecca said, “I can’t.”
Flanagan continued as if she hadn’t heard. “We’ve pretty much finished up with all the exemplars from the River Drive rape site. There’s nothing there that will help until you have a suspect and can search his place for physical evidence. I can tell you this with certainty, though—Janet Ryan was involved in a physical altercation with your perp. The skin under one of her nails matches the DNA from the semen on all the rape victims. I got the preliminary analysis back just now. You have your witness.”
“Yeah,” Rebecca snapped, tired and frustrated and knowing that Dee was right to tell her to back away from the homicide. “If she ever remembers anything.”
“Why don’t you do us all a favor and concentrate on that case. Trish Marks is a good homicide cop, and even Charlie Horton isn’t going to screw around when it’s a cop who has been taken out. Give them some room to work.”
“Thanks for the info on Ryan,” Rebecca said, walking away without bothering to pretend she could leave Jeff’s death alone. No one would have believed her anyway.
Chapter Seventeen
Catherine finished her second cup of coffee and glanced up at the cafeteria clock. It was 7:15 a.m. Residents and students were beginning to gather in tired clumps to discuss the night’s events and the day’s demands over breakfast. She was one of the few staff present. The surgeons had already come and gone on their way to the operating room, and it would be relatively quiet for the next hour until the outpatient clinics opened at 8:30. She had come early for one specific reason—to intercept Hazel Holcomb before the chief of psychiatry’s busy schedule made her inaccessible for the day.
Catherine saw the familiar figure moving through the coffee line at precisely 7:30, carrying a coffee and danish as she had each morning for the fifteen years that Catherine had known her. She was nearing sixty, but her age showed only in the gray of her hair and a slight thickening of her body. Her brisk step and quick piercing gaze were as youthful as ever.
Hazel’s face registered faint surprise when she saw Catherine beckoning to her from across the room. As she settled into the chair across from her younger colleague, she said, “I don’t suppose this is just a pleasant coincidence, is it?”
