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Catherine laughed. “May I infer then that your lack of sleep and your new relationship are related?”

“Pretty much. Yeah.”

“Congratulations.”

Mitchell Þ nally grinned. “Thanks.”

“No nightmares?”

“What?” Mitchell grew very still, pressing her palms to her thighs.

“No.”

Catherine was familiar with the posture. She’d seen it when Dellon had Þ rst been referred to her following a temporary suspension from duty after a physical altercation with a suspect. Some might have interpreted her body language as defensive, but Catherine recognized it now as protective. Her question had triggered something in the young woman with the potential to hurt.

“Have you found fragments of the episode breaking into your

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consciousness at odd moments? Memories surfacing and taking you unawares?”

“No,” Mitchell said, her voice suddenly rough. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Like what, Dellon?” Catherine asked softly.

“Like what nightmares are made of.” Mitchell gazed at Catherine, but she was seeing the past.

“Tell me about the other time.” Catherine’s invitation was gentle, her voice soothing. But there was strength in her tone, as if whatever was coming would not be too much for her to hear.

Mitchell blinked and shook herself, as if she had just surfaced from the bottom of a murky pond into bright daylight. She smiled crookedly.

“Tired. I guess I’m a little out of it.”

“You were going to tell me about the nightmares.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” Mitchell said briskly. “I don’t have nightmares.”

“Anymore?” Again, the question was gentle.

Mitchell’s eyes blazed, a combination of pain and deÞ ance. “That’s right, not anymore.”

Catherine waited, but Dellon remained silent. The clock behind Dellon revealed they were almost out of time. “When do you see Dr.

Torveau again?”

“Not until the beginning of next week—for the suture removal.”

“You’re not ready for duty, Dellon.”

Mitchell’s jaw set hard, her chin jutting forward as the muscles tightened. “How long?”

“I really can’t say. Certainly not before Dr. Torveau reevaluates you in light of what you are likely to be doing in any kind of street situation. Let’s talk tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

Catherine laughed. “You want to get out of here and back to work, don’t you?”

“Almost more than anything.”

“Then I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Catherine watched the young detective carefully rise and make her way with a determined gait to the door. Despite her best efforts, she couldn’t hide her limp. And Catherine now knew that in addition to the knife wound, there was some former trauma, some other pain, that had

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once plagued her. And whatever that old pain was, it had the potential to rise up again and cause destruction if not purged once and for all.

v

Rebecca grimaced as the pager on her belt vibrated. She was twenty feet from the front door to Catherine’s ofÞ ce building and had hoped to catch Catherine between patients for an early dinner or a quick cup of coffee. Spending the major portion of the last two nights tailing George Beecher had meant that she’d seen little of her lover in the past half week, other than a few murmured words when she’d slipped into bed in the middle of the night.

In previous relationships, days, sometimes weeks, had passed without meaningful contact with her lover when she’d been in the midst of a case. Her excuse had always been that she had to work when the trail was hot, because once the case grew cold, she had little chance of breaking it. But in truth, she’d always been most comfortable alone in the night, chasing evil or, if that pursuit failed, chasing away her own demons with a drink. Even after she’d given up the bottle, she hadn’t been able to give up the obsessive need to work until she had nothing left inside but the ashes of fury and frustration.

Now, she had another need.

She needed the touch of Catherine’s hand to settle her, the sound of Catherine’s voice to soothe her, and the press of Catherine’s body in the night to replenish her.

She was a better cop now, a better woman, because of Catherine.

Her pager vibrated again. Swearing, she pulled it from her belt and read the number. Exchanging the beeper for her cell phone, she pressed two on the speed dial.

“What?” she said by way of greeting.

“I might have something,” Watts replied, eschewing social niceties as well.

“Something break with Campbell?” Rebecca was beginning to feel that Margaret Campbell, the ADA who had Þ nanced her way through law school by stripping, was the Mob connection and leak in the law enforcement system. Because George Beecher appeared to be nothing more than a rich guy who spent his non–working hours chasing women.

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“No. She’s as boring as the sports teams in this town. She goes right home after work and stays there. Oh—once she went out to the drugstore, but she didn’t buy anything exciting. Cold medicine.”

“Okay, I got the picture. So why are you calling me?” Rebecca glanced at her watch. It was just before six and she knew that Catherine started her evening hours at seven. If they were going to have any chance to see one another, it needed to be soon.

“I found a couple of faxes Jimmy Hogan had stored in his locker.

Somebody had cleaned out his stuff and tossed everything that didn’t look ofÞ cial into a cardboard box. Including some paperwork.”

“Wait a minute. No one claimed Hogan’s personal items?”

“Nope.”

“And you were down in storage going through them?”

“Yeah.”

“Good thinking, Watts,” Rebecca muttered.

“What was that?” he asked, his tone suggesting he’d heard clearly.

“Nothing. Go ahead.”

“Like I said…”

Rebecca heard the click of metal on metal, then his long intake of breath as he drew on his cigarette.

“…there were some unÞ led papers, and three of them were faxes from Port Authority. Shipping schedules for the two months right before he was killed.”

“Shipping schedules.” Rebecca rubbed the bridge of her nose, digesting this new piece of information. “What do you think? Stolen cars? Drugs?”

“Can’t tell. We’ll have to try to Þ gure out which ships he was checking on. Maybe get a look at their bills of lading.”

“Christ. That’s a million hours of paperwork.”

“Maybe not.”

Rebecca waited, and when he said nothing, Þ nally complained,

“Come on, Watts. I’ve got better things to do tonight than reading your twisted mind.”

Watts laughed. “All three faxes came from the same person. A supervisor at Port Authority. Maybe…uh, here it is… C. Reiser has some idea what Jimmy was after.”

“First thing in the morning, let’s go Þ nd out.”

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“Any chance we can get together at Sloan’s Þ rst? Her coffee beats the hell out of that crap at the station house.”

“Seven thirty. Tell the others.”

“You got it, Loo.”

“And Watts—nice work.”

“What was that?”

Rebecca hung up.

v

Mitchell hummed to herself as she waited for the elevator in the ground-ß oor garage of Sloan’s building. Sandy should be home by now, and maybe no one else would be. Jason, she knew, would be deep in the data traces on the third ß oor, Sloan was most likely still at Police Plaza, and Michael had gone with Sarah for a late-afternoon doctor’s appointment. Which meant that she and Sandy would be alone. Not that being alone was a prerequisite for making love, but it sure made things more fun when you didn’t have to worry about making noise.

And somehow, Sandy always got her to make noise.

Grinning at the memories and the images of things to come, she used her key to program the double-wide converted industrial elevator to the private fourth-ß oor residence. When the doors slid silently open directly into the living room, she stepped out, calling, “Honey? Hey, San? Your baby’s home and ready to rumble.”

“Dell,” Sandy said quietly from the direction of the kitchen.

One-handedly loosening her belt and stripping it off with a snap that cracked like a bullwhip, Mitchell turned in the direction of her girlfriend’s voice. “Hey, sexy, I—”

The Þ rst thing she saw was the uniform. For some reason, it still stirred her to see it, the gleaming silver bars, the crisp creases in the deep green material, the row of duty medals and ribbons. The United States Army. The dreams of her childhood. Her eyes followed upward, over the neatly buttoned jacket, to the face framed by dark hair, only an inch or two longer than her own and with a touch of curl that hers never had. The blue eyes were hers, though. As was the rest of the face.

Mitchell’s gaze jumped to Sandy, whose face was pale, her eyes dark pools of questions and hurt. I would’ve told you, honey, but she’s part of the past. And the past is dead. Buried.

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“Hello, Dellon.” The voice, modulated and oddly devoid of emotion, drew Mitchell’s attention from her lover.

“Erica.” Mitchell whispered the name as she stared at the face that was the mirror image of her own.

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Justice Served

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Rebecca!” Catherine tossed aside the insurance form she had been in the midst of completing and hurried around her desk to greet her lover.

“Hi,” Rebecca replied hastily. “I know you don’t have much time, but—”

Catherine stopped her words with a kiss. Settling her palms against Rebecca’s shoulders, she leaned into her, savoring the taste of her after a day apart. Then she drew back with a smile and a sigh. “I have almost an hour. It’s so good to see you.”

Rebecca skimmed an arm around Catherine’s waist. “I still can’t believe how much I miss you, even when I see you every day.”

“Darling,” Catherine chided gently, “seeing me for Þ ve minutes in the middle of the night when we’re both too tired to even talk hardly counts.” She touched her Þ ngers to Rebecca’s cheek, then kissed her softly again. “It’s been a long week. I’ve missed you too.”

A quicksilver ß ash of concern ß ickered in Rebecca’s eyes and then quickly died. But not before Catherine had seen it.

“I know how hard you’re working,” Catherine said. “I know how important this case is. I understand.”

“Do you?” Rebecca asked, almost to herself, thinking of how many women she had lost because of her obsession with work. Not Catherine. God, please not Catherine.

“I do. ” Catherine wrapped both arms around Rebecca’s waist and tightened her hold. “You look exhausted. What else is bothering you?”

“Nothing—I’m Þ ne.”

“Rebecca.” Catherine drew out the word. I can hear the evasion in your voice.

“It’s just…hell…I don’t know how…I need you to know that just because I’m not home…” Rebecca raked a hand through her hair.

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“Christ, I don’t even know how to tell you how important you are to me.”

“Oh, Rebecca,” Catherine murmured, “you’re here. That’s how you tell me.” She took her lover’s hand and led her to the sofa that sat against the wall opposite her desk. Curling into one corner, she drew Rebecca against her with an arm around her lover’s shoulders. “Just to have these few moments together makes all the difference.”

“It does.” With a sigh, Rebecca pillowed her cheek against Catherine’s shoulder. “I just have to be with you and something inside me settles.” She tilted her head enough to meet Catherine’s eyes. “Some days, I’m not sure how I would keep going without you.”

“Oh, Rebecca,” Catherine murmured, gently stroking Rebecca’s face as she pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I love so many things about you. Your strength, your conviction, your need to right the wrongs in a world where those things don’t seem to matter to many people any longer.” Unconsciously, as she spoke, she caressed Rebecca’s back, urging Rebecca to relax against the curve of her body. “But more than anything, I love being important to you. I love knowing that my loving you makes a difference in your life.”

“I don’t know how I held on until you, Catherine.” Rebecca closed her eyes and let peace take her. In Catherine’s arms, she relinquished the memories of so many nights when loneliness of the spirit and desolation of the heart had scoured her, leaving her hollow. Of the years Þ lled with alcohol-induced numbness and meaningless encounters with women whose names she could not remember. “I love you.”

“I love you.”

Catherine sensed Rebecca drift away and held her Þ ercely.

“I was happy with my life, before you,” Catherine whispered, stroking Rebecca’s hair. “I had everything I wanted—my career, good friends, satisfying interests.” She rested her chin against the top of Rebecca’s head and reveled in the sharp, clean scent of her. “You brought me to the Þ re, Rebecca. You brought me to the passion. Oh, darling, you are my life.”

In the still room, Catherine watched the rest of the hour pass, listening to her lover’s quiet breathing, guarding her as she slept.

Providing this one woman refuge, creating for her a place to rest, a place to heal, brought Catherine the fulÞ llment she hadn’t known she’d needed.

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“Darling,” Catherine Þ nally murmured.

“Hmm?” There had been a time when Rebecca would have snapped into immediate consciousness at the slightest sound, already reaching for her gun. But now, she lingered on the edge of waking, reluctant to relinquish the safety of her lover’s embrace.

“It’s time,” Catherine announced gently.

“I know.” Rebecca eased away but kept one arm around Catherine’s waist. “I had intended to ask you out to dinner at Chucksteak Charlie’s.”

“Oh, I can’t believe we missed that!”

Rebecca grinned. “Sorry.”

“This was much better.” Catherine leaned forward and kissed Rebecca softly. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For letting me love you.”

Rebecca gave a short, incredulous laugh. “Letting you? Jesus, like I have a choice.”

Catherine smiled. “Good. Remember that.”

“Always.” With a sigh, Rebecca stood and stretched, rubbing one hand briskly over her face. “I’ll probably be late again tonight.”

“Be careful.” Rising, Catherine threaded an arm around Rebecca’s waist to walk her to the door. “I’ll see you when you get…home.”

Home.

The word lingered in the air between them as Catherine searched Rebecca’s face. When will you let it really be our home? In your heart, and mine? She knew the question must show in her eyes, because a shadow passed through Rebecca’s. She waited and watched Rebecca struggle with that Þ nal barrier, knowing that tonight would not be the night that it fell.

“I’ll see you later,” Rebecca said at last, sweeping her Þ ngertips over Catherine’s cheek.