Читаем без скачивания 5. Justice Served - Неизвестный

Catherine sat up and switched on the bedside lamp. A check of the alarm clock told her it was close to 4:00 a.m. “What is it?”

“Trouble,” Rebecca grumbled on her way to the bathroom.

“Four a.m. calls always are,” Catherine whispered. She followed her lover into the bathroom and pulled her robe from behind the door.

Slipping into it, she leaned against the vanity and observed Rebecca’s sleek form shimmer behind the glass shower doors. Raising her voice to be heard above the water, she asked, “Can you tell me?”

After twisting the hot water knob to off and enduring Þ fteen vicious seconds of cold water beating on her head, Rebecca stepped from the shower and took the offered towel. “Thanks.” Rubbing down briskly, she said, “That was one of the night Ds. He called in a homicide, and Captain Henry told him to call me. Details are sparse, but if Henry’s putting me in the middle of someone else’s case, it can’t be good.”

“That’s it?” Catherine leaned against the bathroom door and watched Rebecca efÞ ciently assemble her battle gear. Dark suit, pale shirt, thin black leather belt, shoulder harness, handcuffs, bifold leather wallet with its shiny gold badge declaring to all the world just who Rebecca Frye was.

“For now.” Rebecca halted abruptly in the midst of dressing and leaned to kiss Catherine’s cheek. “I’ll let you know when I know.”

Catherine stepped into Rebecca’s arms and kissed her mouth. “If you don’t get home before morning, call me. I have a break at noon.”

Rebecca took the time to hold her lover for an extra twenty seconds that in the past she would never have spent. Holding Catherine, savoring her warmth and remembering the sound of her climaxing just hours before, Rebecca murmured, “I’ll call just as soon as I can. I love you.”

“Be careful, darling. I love you too.”

Catherine went back to bed, retrieved a book from a stack on the bedside table, and tried to read. It was always hard to sleep when Rebecca worked at night, and now that she was wondering what new challenge her lover was about to face, it was impossible.

v

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“Don’t touch anything yet,” Dee Flanagan ordered automatically and, since she was addressing Rebecca, needlessly. Rebecca always waited until given the go-ahead before slipping on gloves and examining anything at a crime scene. At least, at one of Flanagan’s crime scenes.

“Just give me the word,” Rebecca replied as she always did, even though Flanagan routinely made a point of telling her Þ rst when she released the scene.

Rebecca hunkered down next to Watts. Their shoulders and thighs touched as they stared into the open driver’s side of a BMW sports coupe. A white male, thirty to forty years of age, was slumped behind the wheel, very dead. “Is the ID for certain now?”

“Yeah.”

“Fuck.”

“You got that right.”

“Time of death?” Rebecca questioned.

“Flanagan hasn’t graced us with her opinion yet.”

Rebecca nodded, silently assessing the body. The victim was casually dressed in chinos and a polo shirt. His topcoat was unbuttoned, as if he had been sitting in the car with the heater running—waiting for someone, perhaps. Or holding a conversation. No sign of a struggle. No sign of a weapon.

“There’s blood and such on the driver’s door,” Watts said quietly.

“The window’s down a couple of inches, so maybe he was here awhile.”

“Looks like one shot. Exit wound on the left temple.” Rebecca studied the two-inch crater between the corner of the victim’s left eye and ear. The edges of the wound—a pastiche of skin, muscle, and bone—were exploded outward, indicating the shot had come from the opposite side. “Passenger?”

“Could be. Or else he met someone here who opened the passenger door, leaned into the car, and—bam.”

Rebecca looked over her shoulder, scanning the empty parking lot between Market and Front Streets under the massive arch of the Ben Franklin Bridge. Under ordinary circumstances, the lot was shrouded in shadow, but the potholed surface now appeared eerily bright under the halogen glare of the portable crime scene unit lights. A bevy of black-and-whites were parked along the perimeter, the reds and blues from

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their light bars adding to the surreal glow. Yellow crime scene tape ringed the block-square asphalt Þ eld. “Desolate area under the best of circumstances. Had to be someone he knew to get him down here this time of night.”

“Or someone he wasn’t afraid of,” Watts said.

“Or maybe someone he was afraid of. And couldn’t refuse.”

Watts grunted. “Can’t wait to see what the surveillance team has to say about this.”

Rebecca studied George Beecher, the man she had spent the previous three nights shadowing. She had been relieved of that burden after Captain Henry had assigned round-the-clock surveillance on him.

Clearly, something had gone awry. “Anybody talk to them yet?”

Straightening slowly, stretching his back before casually adjusting his crotch, Watts shrugged. “Who the fuck knows.” He looked around with a sour expression. “Between the brass and the press, it’s a goddamned three-ring circus. I can’t even tell who’s in charge of the case.”

“Wait until the DA hears about this. She’s going to have someone’s head.” Rebecca searched the crowd for Flanagan. Right now, what she needed was hard data. And Flanagan was the only one who would have it.

Watts grunted. “Well, as long as it ain’t ours.”

“Don’t bet on it.”

“You know, Loo,” Watts said with uncharacteristic hesitancy, “this place is three blocks from Sloan’s.”

Rebecca gave him a sharp look, but the fact hadn’t escaped her.

“You have a point?”

With his gaze Þ xed somewhere beyond Rebecca’s left shoulder, he nodded. “I don’t like coincidences.”

“Neither do I.”

“We got company.”

The increasingly dyspeptic expression on her partner’s face tipped Rebecca to the identity of the new arrival. Her own face expressionless, she turned to watch Avery Clark cross the parking lot toward them.

“Man, this guy gives me a giant pain in the balls,” Watts muttered.

“Me too.”

Watts chuckled and shifted his weight from foot to foot, as if

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expecting a punch—or getting ready to throw one. Rebecca doubted that he was aware of just how intimidating he looked—a bulky, hard-eyed, tough guy who could just as easily have been a thug as a cop. She hadn’t the slightest inclination to rein him in.

“Well, Lieutenant, this is an unfortunate occurrence,” Avery Clark observed, bending down to peer into the vehicle.

“I’d wager Mr. Beecher feels the same,” Rebecca replied.

Clark straightened. “Yes, well, we have a bit of a problem, don’t we?”

Rebecca said nothing, aware of Watts next to her, rocking back and forth like a rodeo bull ready to burst from his pen. Clark pretended not to notice.

“We’ve lost a suspect,” Clark intoned as if it were news. “A high-proÞ le suspect likely to give us credible intelligence concerning a major crime organization in this city. That does not look good.”

“To who?” Watts asked abruptly, the words chopped out with the force of a blow.

Clark spared Watts a glance before locking eyes with Rebecca.

“To anyone.”

Rebecca took this to mean that some of the dirt from this Þ asco was going to rub off on Clark, and he didn’t like it. She didn’t really care whether he liked it or not. What she did care about was that they’d had a brieÞ ng in Police Plaza less than twenty-four hours earlier where they’d discussed their suspicions regarding George Beecher, and now he was dead. He was undoubtedly their leak, and now it appeared as if he might not be the only one. He’d been neatly and swiftly eliminated before they could question him.

“We need to move quickly to freeze all of his accounts, get his computers from both his residence and his ofÞ ce, and start looking for connections,” Rebecca said. “Because whoever eliminated him is burying their trail right now.”

When she turned as if to leave, Clark nonchalantly stepped into her path. “I’m wondering if this hit might not be something a bit closer to home.”

Beside her, Watts made a sound in the back of his throat that reminded Rebecca of an attack dog warning off an intruder. She said nothing, because she knew Clark’s game. He was looking for information and hoping to goad her into providing it.

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“Maybe this has nothing to do with anything…professional,”

he went on. “Maybe it’s someone with a personal score to settle with Beecher.”

Unfortunately, Rebecca knew what he was after and also what needed to be done to protect the integrity of her team. “I’ll talk to her.”

“I’ll have one of my agents pick her up—”

Rebecca stepped forward so quickly that Clark took an involuntary step backward. With her face an inch from his, she shot out in a clipped, deadly voice, “You don’t go near her. I’ll question her. The report will be on Henry’s desk by eight a.m. If you want to know what it says, read it there.”

Clark blinked, a slow ß ush darkening his features. “I have jurisdiction—”

“You don’t have dick,” Rebecca interrupted. “This is a homicide.

This is PPD business. The only reason you’re standing here right now is because I’m trying to be cooperative. You touch any of my people and I’m not going to be so obliging in the future.”

For a moment, they stood toe to toe in the unforgiving glare of the artiÞ cial lights, looking like two Þ ghters in the middle of the ring waiting for the starting bell to sound. Waiting to throw the Þ rst punch.

Then, Clark abruptly pivoted and strode rapidly away.

“So now we know who’s really got the balls around here,” Watts remarked appreciatively.

Rebecca ß icked him a look of amused irritation. “Let’s go talk to Sloan.”

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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Michael surfaced slowly from deep sleep, roused by an annoying, repetitive beep. It took her a few seconds to recognize the sound as the alarm from one of the security sensors. She rolled over with a murmur of protest and extended one arm. “Sloan, darling…”

The bed beside her was empty. Sighing, she drew back the covers, reached automatically for her robe at the foot of the bed, and absently tied the sash around her waist as she walked down the hall. Beside the elevator doors, a panel slid open at the touch of a button to reveal a recessed cabinet holding a bank of security monitors. Squinting at the image on the screen above the blinking red light, she recognized Rebecca Frye standing on the small landing at the front entrance.

“Rebecca?” Michael asked after switching on the audio.

“Sorry to bother you, Michael, but we need to see Sloan.”

“She’s not here,” Michael replied. “Maybe downstairs in the ofÞ ce.”

“Can we come up?”

“Of course. I’m sorry. I’ll buzz you in.” Michael gave a small laugh. “I’m still half asleep.”

“Sorry.”

“No, no need to be. Come up. I’ll put coffee on.”

v

Two minutes later, Rebecca exited the elevator with Watts by her side. They stopped just inside the loft, waiting.

“Good morning,” Michael said with a smile, emerging from the kitchen alcove. She indicated the leather sofas in the living room.

“Would you like to sit down?”

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“No, we’re Þ ne,” Rebecca said out of habit.

“Coffee, then?”

Before Rebecca could answer, Watts jumped in. “That would be terriÞ c. I can smell it from here.”

“It’ll just be another minute or so. Please, won’t you sit down?”

Rebecca acquiesced, and they moved into the living room. Rebecca and Watts took opposite ends of a deep teal leather sofa while Michael settled on an ivory one across from them.

“Do you know where Sloan is?” Rebecca asked.

“No, I called downstairs while you were on your way up. No one answered, so I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

“It’s pretty early,” Rebecca said.

Michael laughed. “Sloan has no regard for time, especially when she’s involved with a case. She keeps odd hours.”

“But she was here earlier in the evening?”

“Oh, yes. We went out in the late afternoon and were back here by nine, I think. We…” Michael smiled faintly and blushed. “We went to bed early.”

Watts shifted uneasily and made a point of gazing out the wall of windows toward the Delaware River. Barge trafÞ c was already heavy on the river below.

“Would you happen to know about when you…got to sleep?”

Michael laughed softly. “I’m afraid I wasn’t watching the clock, Lieutenant.”

“No, of course not,” Rebecca said evenly. “So you have no idea when she might have left?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t. I seem to sleep very deeply once I Þ nally nod off.” Michael tilted her head, her expression quizzical. “Why don’t you call her cell phone? Most of the time she forgets to turn it on, but since I’ve been…ill, she’s very good about it.”

“We will,” Rebecca replied. At the moment, she wasn’t actually interested in speaking to Sloan. What she wanted was to establish a timeline for Sloan’s activities the previous evening. Hopefully, a timeline that would put her far away from the parking lot at Front and Market.

Rebecca waited until Michael had gone to the kitchen and returned with a tray holding coffee mugs, cream and sugar, and a small plate of

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mufÞ ns before continuing her questions. “Would you know if she made any phone calls last night from home?”

“No, I’m quite sure she didn’t. We came in and went directly to bed.”

Watts coughed and busied himself with his coffee.

“What about incoming calls? Did she perhaps receive a call and go out afterward?”

Michael frowned. “No. Nothing that I recall. What’s going on?

Is…she’s all right, isn’t she?” She sat forward, paling visibly. “You don’t think she’s hurt or in danger?”

“No,” Rebecca said quickly. “Nothing like that.”

“But something’s wrong. What’s happened?”

Rebecca hadn’t touched her coffee. She’d gotten little help from what Michael had given her, and that frustrated her. But the sudden change in Michael’s appearance worried her even more. Michael was trembling, and there was something close to panic in her eyes.

“Michael, I…”

The nearly inaudible swish of the elevator doors sliding open brought Michael to her feet, and the sudden change in position made her light-headed. She swayed unsteadily.

The Þ rst thing Sloan saw when she walked into her home was her lover, looking as if she was about to fall.

“Michael?” Sloan cried in alarm, reaching Michael’s side in four long strides. “Baby, what’s wrong?” She slid an arm around her lover’s waist and eased her down on the sofa. She brushed her lips over Michael’s forehead. “Hey. What happened? Did you get sick? Why didn’t you call me?”