by Radclyffe
“What Internet angle?” Catherine asked, trying unsuccessfully to quell her anger. She couldn’t believe that Rebecca’s superiors didn’t know that this was a tacit approval for her to go back to street duty.
“The feds brought a couple of civilian computer hotshots on board, at least that’s what I think they are. They’re going to try to contact some of these characters on the Internet.”
“Why civilians? That seems unusual.”
“It would be if this was any other kind of case, but we sure don’t have anyone with the technical know-how of these people.” Sloan had shed a little light on the situation, but she knew damn well there was more that the woman hadn’t told her. “Apparently, there are so many problems with hackers on the national level with corporate and even military break-ins that the feds are stretched thin enough to see through in computers crimes investigations. They’re recruiting college kids to fill in the gaps.”
Rebecca pushed open the car door and caught her breath as a sharp twinge knifed down her left arm. “Let me run in and get dinner.” Carefully, she slid the rest of the way out and straightened up. The pain was gone.
Catherine watched her cross the sidewalk, wondering if the detective really thought she hadn’t noticed that quickly suppressed grimace of pain. When Rebecca returned, by unspoken agreement they avoided further talk of her new assignment, letting casual conversation and easy silences dissipate the vestiges of tension.
“I’ll get plates,” Catherine said as she dropped her briefcase by the door, and Rebecca carried the takeout toward the coffee table in front of the sofa. Walking into the kitchen, she called, “Want soda?”
“Just water is fine,” Rebecca answered, settling wearily on the couch. She glanced at her watch, amazed to see that it was only 10:20. Leaning back, she closed her eyes and absently rubbed the ache in her chest.
A minute later, Catherine returned, balancing plates, silverware, and napkins. She stopped a few feet from the sofa and quietly set the items on the table. Carefully, she lifted a light throw she kept on the back of the nearby chair and spread it over the slumbering woman. She could wake her, but Rebecca was already deeply asleep. If she awakened before dawn, she would come to bed. If she didn’t, Catherine would sleep well knowing that for tonight at least, her lover was safe. That thought comforted her, but there was a dull ache of loneliness in her heart as she turned off the light and made her way by the dim light of the moon through the quiet apartment toward the bedroom.
*
Across town, J. T. Sloan leaned against the window’s edge in the large darkened loft, staring into a night only faintly illuminated by the glow from ships moving slowly on the wide expanse of river a few hundred yards below. Off to the left, the huge steel bridge arched over the water, its towering arches outlined with rows of small blue lights. She’d stood in the same spot countless times before, but the melancholy that had once been her companion was gone.
The muted sounds of the elevator ascending in the background brought a smile to her lips. The reason for her present contentment had just arrived. She walked to the long barlike counter that separated the loft living space from a sleek, efficient modern kitchen, turned on a few recessed track lights, and poured from a bottle of Merlot she had opened earlier to allow it to breathe. On her way to the door, she set the wine glasses and a cutting board with crackers and cheese on the low stone coffee table that fronted a leather sofa in the sitting area. She slid the heavy double door back on soundless tracks just as the blond in the hallway outside approached.
“Hello, love,” Michael said, her full mouth curving into a soft smile. She set her bags down, regarding the woman in the doorway. Sloan’s expressive eyes were one of the first things Michael had noticed the day they’d met nearly a year before. Those eyes were now a deep purple, a sure sign her lover had something on her mind.
“Hey, baby.” Stepping forward, Sloan slid her arm around the slender woman’s waist and pulled her close for a kiss. She’d only intended to say hello, but the touch of her, the faint hint of her perfume, settled the lingering uneasiness in Sloan’s stomach that had been plaguing her all afternoon. She brought her other hand under the hair at the back of Michael’s neck, caressing the smooth skin while she explored her mouth. Finally, she lifted her lips a whisper and murmured, “Welcome home.”
“Yes,” Michael said softly. “It certainly is.” She leaned back in Sloan’s arms and studied her intently. “Are you all right?”
Sloan smiled ruefully. When had she gotten so easy to read? “Just missing you.”
“Uh-huh. And as smooth as ever.” Michael reached for her hand and gave it a tug. “Come on, let’s take this inside.”
Sloan grabbed one of the suitcases and followed. Inside the door, Michael kicked off her heels, shed her suit jacket to the back of a chrome-and-leather Breuer chair, and pulled her silk blouse from the waistband of her skirt.
“Tired?” Sloan asked, resting her palm against the small of Michael’s back, under the fabric, on her skin. It was always like this when Michael had been gone. She had to keep touching her, just to be sure—that she was back, that she wasn’t a dream.
“A bit,” Michel replied. She found Sloan’s hand again and drew her around to the sofa. When they were settled, she with her legs tucked beneath her, Sloan sprawled by her side, she reached for the wine. “This is wonderful. Just one of the many reasons that I love you.”
“How was Detroit?”
“Hot and smoky.” Michael groaned. “Four days felt like a month.”
“And the meetings?”
“They went well.” Michael sipped the full-bodied red wine and sighed. “A decade ago, the catch word was image. Image was everything. Now, thank God, innovation is everything. DaimlerChrysler has a new team of design consultants, and I have a lot of work to do.”
“Congratulations. I know you wanted this one.”
Michael smiled. “Thanks.”
“Are you going to have to go back?” Sloan tried to keep her tone casual, but she hated it when Michael traveled, which as head of her own company, Innova Design Consultants, she did frequently. Sloan just plain old missed her. Nothing felt quite right, no matter how busy her days might be, when at the end of the night Michael wasn’t beside her in bed.
“Not often,” Michael answered, glancing at Sloan quickly as she heard what Sloan wasn’t saying. She lifted a hand, ran her fingers lightly along the edge of her lover’s jaw. “Danny will do that. He likes to travel. I don’t.” Michael hooked her fingers inside the collar of Sloan’s T-shirt and pulled until the other woman was leaning toward her, then kissed her. “I don’t like being away from you either.”
“I know that. Sorry. Just missing you still, I guess.”
“I like it when you miss me—just not when you worry. Don’t ever forget that I can’t do without you.” Then, patting her lap with her free hand, Michael said, “Now stretch out, put your head down here, and tell me what’s going on.”
Sloan considered protesting, but she knew it would do no good. Michael knew her too well. Besides, she wanted to talk. She just hadn’t quite gotten used to doing it, even after a year of never being disappointed. With a grateful sigh, she turned and laid her head in Michael’s lap and closed her eyes.
“So,” Michael pronounced, running strands of thick dark hair through her fingers, “talk. You’re edgy and something is not right.”
“I took that job with Justice.”
Michael stiffened, her hand stilling on Sloan’s cheek. “When?”
“Two days ago.” Sloan opened her eyes, reached into the back pocket of her jeans, and removed a thin black leather case. She held it up, allowing it to fall open. “See? I’m an official civilian consultant, ID badge and all.”
“Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“I wasn’t sure even after I said yes that I wouldn’t change my mind,” Sloan said quietly. “And I didn’t want to tell you on the phone.”
“I would have
come back.”
Sloan reached for her hand, threaded her fingers through Michael’s. “I know, but I didn’t want you to. It’s okay.”
“What about Jason?”
“Him, too.”
Michael considered the night a year before when Sloan had first shared the story of her past, a story almost no one else knew. They’d been sitting on this very couch, and she’d listened to Sloan’s tale of the Department of Justice and the injustices done to her in the name of patriotism, honor, and national security. She remembered every anguished word and recalled every tremor of pain in Sloan’s body. Now her own anger at the memory of how her lover had been hurt threatened to make her voice harsh. And that won’t help her.
Tenderly, still stroking the sculpted face, Michael took a deep breath and asked quietly, “What about everything that happened before?”
“They made nice; all is forgiven.” Sloan said it lightly, but her shoulders were tight against Michael’s thigh.
“I don’t care about them. I care about you. Are you all right to work with them again?”
Sloan turned her face and pressed her cheek against Michael’s breasts, brushing her lips over the swell of flesh beneath the sheer fabric. “I’m okay with it. Clark seems like a straight shooter, and I don’t have any history with him. It feels a little weird right now, but it’s just another job.”
“Is it dangerous?”
“No.” Sloan laughed. “I’ll just be doing some Net trolling, looking for sites that are clearinghouses for the hard-core porn sites, and trying to find any that are actually making the stuff. Especially the videos. Jason is going to play Net bait and see if he can make contact with anyone that way. The police will be doing the search and seizure part of it…if we ever get that far.”
“You’re sure?” Michael leaned over and kissed her again. This time her kiss was hungry. “I don’t want you hurt.”
Raising one hand and encircling Michael’s neck, Sloan pulled her down, shifting on the couch until they were lying side by side. As she slid her hand beneath the edge of Michael’s skirt, finding warm soft skin awaiting her, she whispered huskily, “Don’t worry. I’m a cybersleuth. Safest job in the world.”
Michael worked a hand between them, deftly opening the buttons on the denim fly. Moving her hand inside, smiling when she was swiftly rewarded by Sloan’s soft groan and the subtle lift of her hips, she brought her lips to Sloan’s ear. “It had better be. Your services are required right here at home, and I need you all in one piece.”
Sloan meant to answer with something clever, but Michael’s fingers found her and she was lost. It was nearly dawn before she caught her breath again.
Chapter Six
At 7:24 a.m., Rebecca held up her identification to the impersonal eye of the video surveillance camera again and motioned to Watts to do the same.
“What is this, Mission Impossible?” he grumbled. Looking over his shoulder, he caught sight of a figure rapidly approaching on foot from the direction of Arch Street. “Uh-oh. Looks like we have a baby-sitting assignment on top of everything else.”
“That’s not we,” Rebecca reminded him, turning her back to the camera as she followed his gaze. Lowering her voice to avoid being overheard by the audio she felt sure was connected to the camera, she whispered, “You’re just here as an invited guest, remember? Try not to say anything when we get upstairs. If I know the feds, it will all be taped.”
“Hey! Come on, Sarge—give me a little credit.” He tried to look offended, but he was aware that Frye was stepping outside of channels to bring him in on this, and he was grateful. He wasn’t foolish enough to think it was because she felt any special friendship for him, but the mere fact that she let him ride along was enough for him.
“Just keep a sock in it, Watts.”
A young uniformed officer approached, her smooth unlined face set in a determined expression. She looked as if she were about to salute when she came to a smart stop in front of them. “Detective Sergeant Frye?” At Rebecca’s nod, she continued, “I’m Dellon Mitchell from the one-eight. The duty sergeant told me I was to report to you here.”
“Did he say why?” Rebecca asked, trying not to allow her annoyance to show while giving the slim, dark-haired officer a quick once-over. She absolutely did not have time to keep an eye out for a rookie, even though the uniform looked a little older than the usual recent Academy graduate. In fact, something about the younger woman looked familiar.
“He just said…” Mitchell hesitated, looking uncomfortable for the first time. Then she squared her shoulders and replied, “He said you would need a clerk, ma’am.”
“Ouch—sounds like you’ve been sat down,” Watts observed with a chuckle. “What did you do, kid? Forget to shine your shoes?”
“No, sir. I—”
“Never mind that, Mitchell,” Rebecca interrupted curtly. “If this is where you’ve been assigned, that’s good enough for now.”
She turned back to the video camera and said in a firm tone, “Philadelphia PD. Three to come up.”
Without the slightest hint of crackle or electronic interference, a male voice said from the invisible speaker, “Good morning, Sergeant. Please come ahead, and welcome aboard.”
*
They were silent on the ride up, although Watts snorted derisively at the elaborate security measures throughout the building, muttering colorfully about spy games and cop wannabes as he peered about. As they exited the elevator directly into a brightly lit, wide-open room that was sectioned off by partial walls of glass and steel and filled with surveillance equipment and computers, he asked, “What the hell is this place?”
From their left, a man said, “This is the tech center for Sloan Security Services.” Nodding to the group and giving no sign that he was perplexed by the unexpected presence of Watts, he stretched out a hand toward Rebecca. “Avery Clark. Justice.”
“Rebecca Frye,” she replied, assessing him quickly. Standard government issue—somewhere between thirty-five and forty, brown hair, dark steel-framed glasses, conservative haircut, well-tailored but conventional suit, dark tie, white shirt. Wedding ring, hip holster, sharp eyes. And he’d been briefed. He didn’t make the mistake of thinking that Watts was in charge but had addressed himself to Rebecca. She gestured to the others with her. “Detective Watts and Officer Mitchell.”
“Detective, Officer,” he added as he shook both their hands. He turned back to Rebecca. “The briefing’s down the hall. Coffee and such there, too.”
“Very fancy,” Watts observed dryly.
Rebecca said nothing. It was Clark’s show.
*
The conference room was in the corner of the third floor, walled on two sides in floor-to-ceiling glass and outfitted with sleek Bauhaus furniture. The occupants who awaited them looked right at home in the high-tech urban surroundings. Rebecca nodded to the two civilians she’d met the day before.
As previously, Sloan appeared deceptively casual at first glance, in jeans again, this time with a white oxford shirt, sleeves rolled up, and ankle-high leather boots. But her eyes were lasers, scanning everything, on high alert. The amazingly handsome man at her side gave off a lazy aura of insouciance, but Rebecca had no doubt that he was just as sharp. Interesting pair.
Watts gave them both a suspicious nod when introduced but kept silent while Mitchell shook each offered hand with rigid formality. They all then filed past a counter in the corner for drinks and food, eventually migrating to seats around the granite-topped table.
Clark walked to the head of the table and set a cup of coffee on the smooth surface. Smiling, he looked at the group. “Everybody get coffee, something to eat?”
There were a few grunts and one clear Yes, sir. Watts gave Mitchell a look that suggested she needn’t be so polite.
“So.” He sipped his coffee. Suddenly, his smile disappeared. “This is what we know. Six weeks ago, an international Web-monitoring group called the Action Coalition Against the Exploitation o
f Children, whose members surf the Internet looking for child pornography activity of any kind, alerted us to a number of references concerning a real-time child sex ring operating, and apparently broadcasting, from this area.”
“How’d the watchdog group pick up on it?” Sloan asked.
“Chat rooms. Unfortunately, nothing too specific—just enough for them to realize there was a live feed somewhere in the Northeast. As you may know, most of the organized distribution of sex material on the Internet occurs through private bulletin boards, and they’re all carefully screened, password controlled, and often encrypted. If you aren’t a member, you don’t have access.”
“Whoa,” Watts interrupted, ignoring the swift look from Rebecca implying that he shut up. “You want to translate that? I still can’t figure out how to put the paper in the fax machine.”
Clark regarded him expressionlessly. He’d had plenty of experience dealing with local law enforcement, and he was used to the obstacles, resistance, and outright obstructionism that was almost ritual. This guy had the look of old-school hard-ass written all over him. “There are two kinds of Internet pornography activity. The most widespread is the kind of stuff that anyone can find easily—chat rooms, mostly. People meet there, connect for sex, and sometimes even try to set up an f-to-f.”
“Huh?” Watts asked, looking dazed. This time it wasn’t an act.
“Face-to-face,” Jason remarked quietly. “In person.”
“Right…sorry,” Clark added. “Real-life assignations—dates for sex. Nothing wrong with that, unless it happens to be an adult looking to hook up with a minor. That’s where we come in.” He glanced at the expressions of the individuals seated around the table. Everyone was alert, watching him, waiting with more than a hint of reservation. He was used to being viewed with suspicion by the locals—hell, not even just the locals always; sometimes by other federal agents.