Shield of Justice, page 16
Her beeper went off, and she considered not answering it. She didn’t want to hear that the captain was waiting for his status report. She didn’t want to hear that there was another rape on River Drive. She didn’t want to hear about another dead child in a lonely room in some run-dowm hotel in hell. Whatever it was that kept her from driving to the bar, that kept her getting up every day and strapping on her weapon, that kept her reaching out for Catherine in the dark instead of swallowing her pain—stubbornness, pride, responsibility, hope—whatever it was, made her stop and call in.
“Watts wanted us to run you down,” the dispatcher said when Rebecca identified herself. “Said you’d want to know that some doctor received an interesting package this morning. That make any sense to you? I got the message—”
She slammed down the phone and was out the door before the dispatcher could finish his sentence. She went lights and sirens all the way across town to the hospital and left her car in the emergency zone outside the ambulance entrance. Storming through the sliding glass doors, she nearly collided with a woman pushing a baby stroller.
“Sorry,” she muttered as she swerved, racing to the elevator. The ride up to the psychiatric floor seemed to take forever. As soon as the doors opened, she saw Watts down the hall, leaning against the counter at the nurses’ station, conversing with a woman in white.
“Watts!” she shouted, running toward him. “Where’s Catherine? Is she all right?”
He intercepted her with a surprisingly strong grip on her arm and tugged her away from the curious eyes of the people gathered around. “Whoa…hold on. Jesus. Yeah, she’s fine.”
“Where is she?” Rebecca demanded, shaking off his arm but managing to lower her voice. “What happened?”
“I took the call because I was in the squad room. When I heard what it was, I figured you’d want to know.”
“What what was?” She thought she might throttle him in half a second.
“Your doctor friend is pretty smart,” Watts said, patting his pockets looking for his cigarettes. He stopped when he remembered where he was. “Someone sent her a dozen roses. And since it ain’t her birthday, she thought that was kinda strange. I guess she figured you didn’t send them.”
Rebecca stared at him, but his expression was completely innocent. “Damn it, Watts. You’ve got about ten seconds to tell me what’s going on before I shoot you.”
“I am telling you. I’m waiting for the lab boys to pick up the flowers now. The card reads, ‘Thank you for last night. I’ll see you soon.’ Hand printed, but the printing is pretty generic.”
“Jesus Christ.” Rebecca turned away, her face grim. “That’s it. I want to see Catherine. We need to put a guard on her.”
“I don’t think that’s such a great idea,” Watts stated flatly. “Might scare him away.”
Rebecca’s temper finally snapped. She stepped up chest to chest with him, her voice low but lethal. “Get this clear, Watts. We are not using Catherine Rawlings for bait. You understand me? If I even hear you thinking it, I’ll make you very sorry.”
Watts seemed unperturbed by her threats. “Hey, I know how you feel—”
“No, you don’t know how I feel, and you never will know how I feel. So let’s just drop it. Now.”
She could never remember being so frightened. She had been shot at, maced, and ambushed by street punks, but she had never felt the panic that infused her now. All she knew was that Catherine was being drawn into a very dangerous game, and she felt powerless to stop it. She set her jaw and took a deep breath. It was time for her to act like a cop. It was time for her to take charge of the situation, and that was exactly what she intended to do.
Catherine, as it turned out, had different ideas.
*
“Rebecca, you must understand. For any number of reasons, I can’t let you assign me to protective custody. I have responsibilities at the hospital and patients to see in my office every day. There is no way I can make arrangements for someone else to take over for me.”
They were in the small office the doctors used for chart work and phone calls, a cramped room cluttered with coffee cups, stacks of official memoranda that no one ever read, and dog-eared copies of the DSM-IV that categorized the most recent diagnoses of mental illnesses. Catherine sat at the single table, watching Rebecca carefully. The detective stood with her back to the room at the dust-streaked window that faced a parking lot. Her silence was ominous, but Catherine was used to silences. She waited.
“Is there some other reason?” Rebecca asked at length, finally turning to look at Catherine. Her voice was curiously flat.
It wasn’t often that someone surprised Catherine. She was an expert at anticipating reactions and predicting behavior. Not only was she trained for it, but also it was simply her nature. She had been attuned to the nuances of inflection and expression since she was a small child. Some children were.
Rebecca’s question had taken her aback because rarely had someone gleaned her motives and unspoken intentions. Only Hazel had ever been close enough to her to do that, and she had known Hazel a very long time.
“I may very well be able to establish a relationship with this man. If we have some idea of the state of his mind, we may be able to predict his actions. It could mean saving a life, Rebecca.”
“He fascinates you, doesn’t he?” Rebecca asked softly, leaning against the windowsill, her eyes so dark they were nearly black.
Catherine wasn’t sure if it was anger or fear she saw in the depths of Rebecca’s eyes. Whatever it was, lying would not mitigate it. “You must be a very good interrogator,” she murmured.
She took a breath and gathered her thoughts. “Yes, he fascinates me. The human mind fascinates me. There is something terribly wrong with this man’s mind, and I want to know what…and why, insofar as we can ever understand the whys of behavior.” She stared intently at Rebecca, who was regarding her with a completely impassive expression, except for a flicker of fire in her eyes now. Anger. Good…much better than fear.
“You understand that you are putting yourself in danger even talking to him?” Rebecca asked, unable to keep the edge out of her voice. “This isn’t a game, God damn it.”
“I know that,” Catherine said, “but I am only proposing that we leave some avenue open for him to contact me. If I suddenly disappear, he won’t call again. Talking, listening—that’s what I do best.”
“Don’t you think I know that?” Rebecca retorted. I know you hear me, even the things I can’t say. She turned her back again, looking out the window at nothing as she struggled to clear her head. All of Catherine’s arguments made sense, and at any other time, she would have accepted the logic of maintaining contact with a psychopath like this. Christ, even Watts had been urging her to see the benefit of Catherine communicating with him. But she couldn’t accept it.
“I know you’re right,” she said softly, her voice hollow. “If I were a good cop, I should be overjoyed that we finally have a way to get to this guy…” Her voice trailed off.
“No. This isn’t about what kind of cop you are.” Catherine went to her, put her arms around her, and leaned her cheek against Rebecca’s back. Rebecca’s muscles were taut and unyielding under her hands, the tension humming through her slender frame. She didn’t acknowledge Catherine at all. Neither did she move away.
Catherine sensed that the rejection was not of her, but of the weakness that Rebecca perceived in herself. And she knew that much of this struggle was because of her. Her presence in the detective’s life disrupted the professional control, threatened the absolute emotional distance Rebecca needed to do the work she did, to be the cop she was. This conflict, between caring and caution, was a battle Rebecca would face again and again, and Catherine understood that the outcome of this battle would determine just how much the two of them could share. That meant a great deal to her.
“Rebecca, I know you’re worried about me,” Catherine said quietly, still holding her loosely, determined neither to ignore the problem nor to allow Rebecca to face it alone. “We’re involved with each other. We’ve made love; we’ve shared something of ourselves. It would be hard for you to let anyone do this; it must be even harder now. I imagine I’m not someone you can be objective about.” And not someone you must push away to satisfy your sense of duty. I hope.
“I never should have let this happen,” Rebecca said starkly, her back still to Catherine. “It’s compromising my thinking, and that could mean jeopardizing your safety. I can’t believe I’m in the middle of a case and I’m involved with one of the main participants.”
“Well, I’m just as surprised as you are,” Catherine persisted. “But, believe me, I, for one, am not sorry that it happened.” But I’m just as scared as you are. I never thought I’d ever feel this way about anyone, and I certainly didn’t expect to feel so much so soon.
She did tighten her grip then, needing to feel Rebecca’s solid strength in her arms, needing the reassurance of her presence. She kissed the skin on the back of Rebecca’s neck bared by the collar of her shirt. She knew she was taking her own emotional risks by admitting to Rebecca, and to herself, just how important this woman had become to her. But one of them had to make the first move. She waited, her heart loud in her ears.
Rebecca turned to her then, tightening her arms around her, holding her fiercely. “Neither am I,” she answered, her voice rough with emotion. I’m afraid to even think about how much you mean to me. I just don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to you.
“Good,” Catherine answered, her breath a soft sigh.
Rebecca kissed her gently, a quiet kiss of tender caring, and then she closed her eyes, leaning her cheek against Catherine’s hair. Her tension began to subside in the soft embrace of Catherine’s arms. This woman’s touch restored her, brought clarity to her overworked and stressed mind. She was continually astonished, and still a little afraid, of the woman’s effect upon her.
“I don’t suppose I could persuade you to have a police officer accompany you around until this is over, could I?” Rebecca asked, her lips against Catherine’s forehead. “We can’t leave you unprotected, Catherine.” I can’t. No matter what anyone says.
“No.”
“At least at night, when you’re at home?”
“Only if it’s you.”
“It’s not in my contract,” Rebecca whispered, leaning back to gaze into her face, amazed by the effect just looking at her produced. She wanted to forget everything except the tenderness of those full lips and the welcoming heat of Catherine’s passion. She wanted to fall into the depths of those green eyes, drown in them, just let go. Never had peace been so close.
“It could be,” Catherine answered, her lips finding Rebecca’s. The kiss took her by surprise, the hunger, her own and Rebecca’s, rising quickly. In a moment, she was gasping. She pushed back, not quite breaking Rebecca’s grip. “We have to stop,” she managed.
“Why?” Rebecca asked, a grin pulling at the corner of her mouth. The light glinting in her eyes was a dangerous mixture of amusement and desire.
“Because it’s the middle of the day, in the middle of the psych ward, and I have to work,” Catherine said emphatically, her voice stronger now that she could breathe again. She lifted a hand to Rebecca’s cheek. “You look exhausted, Detective.”
“I’m okay,” Rebecca assured her.
“I’m sure,” Catherine acknowledged, her fingers lingering on Rebecca’s face a moment longer. “I should go,” she said reluctantly.
“I’ll drive you home later,” Rebecca said quickly. “I’ve got a few hours’ downtime coming, and the lab won’t have anything new today.”
“You can wait, if you do it in one of the on-call rooms, with your eyes closed,” Catherine countered.
Rebecca sighed, aware of fatigue for the first time. “You’re the doctor.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Rebecca slept during the afternoon in an empty on-call room that the residents used at night. It was after six p.m. when Catherine roused her and close to seven when they reached Catherine’s home. While Catherine went to get changed, Rebecca attached a voice activated recording device to the telephone.
“I’ll have to erase any patient related calls before I can turn the tape over to you,” Catherine reminded her when she walked back into the room and observed Rebecca setting up the machine.
“Just be sure that you call me the second he contacts you. Promise me that,” Rebecca requested, looking over her shoulder at her. For a second, seeing her standing there in loose cotton pants and a faded shirt with the cuffs turned back, the detective forgot what she was doing. Catherine was just so damn…beautiful.
“I will, don’t worry,” Catherine said softly, watching Rebecca’s gaze travel down her body, the blue of her eyes darkening with each second. She flushed as heat spread over her skin.
Reluctantly, Rebecca turned away to finish with the recorder and then walked through the apartment, checking the doors and windows, finally calling the local precinct to arrange for extra patrols to pass through the neighborhood. After that, she had done all she could do. The next move was up to him. Catherine was waiting when she returned to the living room, a question in her eyes.
“I’m sorry. I have to go out for a while. There are people I need to talk to—people I can only find at night. Will you be all right?”
“Yes. Will you?” Catherine replied, walking over to her, but not reaching out and touching. She concentrated instead on silencing her fears—not fear for her own safety, but for this intensely honorable woman. Whenever she saw the gun strapped against Rebecca’s chest, she was reminded of what could happen every time the detective went out into the streets. Rebecca’s world, her reality, was so different than Catherine’s, where the injuries were not of the body but of the heart and spirit. The violence was no greater, perhaps, but its consequences so much more immediate, and so often irreversible. There were no second chances where deadly force was the weapon. The fear was new for Catherine, and something she wasn’t certain she could get used to. Knowing that it was the price she had to pay for allowing Rebecca into her life, into her heart—this kept her from reaching out to her.
They stood, separated by inches, a lifetime of defenses between them. Catherine spoke first. “Can I expect you back tonight?” She placed her hand gently on Rebecca’s arm.
With something very close to relief on her face, Rebecca whispered, “Count on it.”
*
Rebecca found Sandy without any difficulty and was surprised by the lack of the usual protest when she stopped the car beside her.
Instead of complaining, the young prostitute crossed the sidewalk quickly, pulled open the door, and slid into the passenger seat. “Let’s get out of here, okay?” she urged.
Rebecca pulled into the line of traffic and looked at the girl questioningly. “Why so glad to see me?”
Sandy grimaced. “Things are getting really weird out here. All the pimps are uptight because the cops are pulling them in, asking questions about all kinds of shit—kiddie porn, drug rings, the rackets. It makes the guys mean, and they take it out on us.”
Rebecca reacted quickly. “You all right? Is there somebody you need me to talk to?”
“Oh sure,” Sandy said with a snort. “That’s exactly what I need—you hassling the men on my behalf. That ought to shorten my life span.”
Rebecca swerved to the curb and parked, turning in her seat to face the young woman. Sandy was dressed conservatively, for her. Hip-hugger jeans and a blouse tied in the front that exposed an expanse of smooth firm abdomen and navel ring. She was pretty without the makeup that made her eyes look dark and wary. “Just tell me straight out. Is someone giving you a hard time?”
“Nah,” Sandy said with a shrug. “I don’t exactly work for one of the guys. I’m in a group, you know?”
Rebecca knew. Often one of the more experienced women would befriend a few younger ones, teaching them the ropes, giving them advice, often providing them with a place to stay. They, in turn, gave her a part of their earnings with which she paid off the pimps to leave her girls alone. It was a loose form of a union, and it kept some of the naïve, fresh-off-the-farm ones off drugs and out of the hands of the pimps who literally and figuratively abused them.
“Okay,” Rebecca said with a nod, pulling back into traffic. “Then what does have you so spooked if some pimp isn’t threatening you?”
“The last few days the Vice cops have been pulling in the girls, too, asking everyone about kinky johns and rough trade. It’s making us all nervous. What’s going on?”
Rebecca smiled at the reversal in their positions. Suddenly, she had become the informant. “I don’t know for sure. There may be a loose cannon around—some guy who likes girls in gym shorts and gets rough.”
“How rough?”
“Rough like dead.”
Sandy leaned her head back against the seat and sighed. “Shit, we don’t need this. Got anything on him?”
“Look in the backseat. There’s a sketch of someone who might be him.”
Sandy looked at the police rendering and snorted. “Oh, him. I must see ten dudes a night who look like this.”
“Yeah, that’s what I was afraid of,” Rebecca commented grimly. “Like I said before—he’s white, late twenties or early thirties, probably well educated, and won’t seem like a nut case. And, this is important, he may have a gym bag or something like it that he carries clothes in. He likes his women to dress for his pleasure. Skimpy running shorts seem to do it for him.”
“That’s it?”
“Afraid so.”
“What do we do if he shows?”
“If you can, don’t work alone; stay in pairs or a group. That way, if he approaches one of you, someone else can call me. Try to get the word out as quickly as you can to everyone in the area. The girl he killed two days ago is the only prostitute we know about. I don’t want there to be another one.”
