In Pursuit of Justice

by Radclyffe

  “No, you wouldn’t. I do it because it’s fun.”

  “Deal.” It never hurt to have options, and she had a feeling that the cocky computer jock could deliver on her promises. “If I can’t find what I’m looking for any other way, I’ll let you know.”

  Sloan stood with her, and as they walked back toward the work area, she said softly, “Usually people who hack computers aren’t very dangerous, but you never know, Frye. You should be careful.”

  “I’m a cop. I don’t scare easily.”

  “I used to be a cop, too. I didn’t carry a gun, and maybe I should have.”

  Rebecca watched Sloan walk away, surprised to discover how much she liked her.

  Chapter Twelve

  Sandy opened the door and immediately considered slamming it. “I’m working. Go away.”

  “No, you’re not. I’ve been watching your building for two hours, and I know you don’t have anyone up here unless they’ve paid for the whole night.”

  “If you keep hanging around me, I’m going to starve to death.”

  “No, you won’t.” Rebecca lifted the brown paper bag in her hand. “I brought dinner.”

  Sandy rested her forehead on the edge of the door and cursed colorfully. “Whatever it is you think you do for me, Frye, it is so not enough to make up for all the trouble you could cause me.”

  “I know,” Rebecca replied seriously. “Can I come in?”

  “What did you bring?”

  “Thai.”

  “Yeah, I suppose.”

  Rebecca had never been in Sandy’s apartment before, although she had known for months where the young woman lived. She knew almost everything about the people in her territory who were important to her—friends, suspects, and enemies alike. She wouldn’t have come to Sandy’s if she’d had any other choice, but after checking all the normal places and failing to find her, she had finally staked out the apartment. When the light had come on in the front windows, she’d waited until she was certain that Sandy wasn’t with a john, and then she’d come up. She took in the small efficiency in one practiced glance. It was neat, tidy, and tastefully, although economically, decorated.

  “Nice place,” she said, meaning it.

  “Thanks,” Sandy replied, eying the tall cop suspiciously. “Hey, Frye, has anyone told you lately that you look like crap?”

  Rebecca didn’t reply, just settled herself on the sofa without being invited and put the bag of takeout on the low, plain pine coffee table in front of her. “Go ahead and eat while we talk.”

  “You want something?” Sandy asked as she walked into the small, adjoining galley kitchen. “A beer?”

  “Water would be fine.” Her throat was scratchy and dry, and, even though it wasn’t warm in the apartment, she was sweating. Briefly, she considered taking off her jacket, then thought better of it. She didn’t make a habit of flashing her weapon if she could help it.

  “You don’t drink?” Sandy asked as she placed a pile of paper plates, silverware, a bottle of beer, and a glass of water on the table.

  Rebecca hesitated, surprised by the question and even more surprised that she was considering answering. “No.”

  “Huh. Strange cop,” Sandy mumbled, opening bags and checking out the contents of the cardboard cartons. She dished out a generous amount for herself, then gestured to Rebecca with one of the containers. “Want some?”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  “Uh-huh. Sure,” Sandy replied, not bothering to repeat that the cop looked even paler and more drawn then she had the night before. “Rita called me and said you sprung her last night. Thanks.”

  “You should tell her to be more careful who she pitches her lines to.”

  “Hey!” Sandy exclaimed indignantly. “She swore she never mentioned money to that cop. The guy was cute, and he told Rita he’d make it worth her while if she got him off. Doesn’t that sound like entrapment to you?”

  “It’s just her word, Sandy,” Rebecca pointed out quietly. The undercover Vice cop had reported that the prostitute had solicited him, but Rebecca was inclined to believe Sandy. Nevertheless, a prostitute’s word against that of a cop would never hold up in court. She shook her head, not quite certain how she had allowed the topic to stray from what had brought her here. Probably the damn headache that was back again in force. “So, what have you got for me?”

  “Not a thing.”

  “I don’t have anywhere to be tonight.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning I’m not leaving until you deliver.”

  “God, you think because you buy me dinner a couple nights in a row that you own me?”

  Rebecca smiled. “Trust me, Sandy. Owning you is the furthest thing from my mind.”

  Sandy took a pull on her Corona and shifted on the couch until her knees brushed Rebecca’s and their eyes met. “I’ve heard that a couple of the girls have been making extra cash doing films.”

  “Films?” Rebecca asked with interest.

  “Skin flicks.”

  “Tell me everything you know—names, dates, places. What details do you have?”

  “Nothing yet,” Sandy said defensively. “Only talk. But I think I can probably find out more if you give me a little room here.”

  “Good,” Rebecca said, reaching for the water as she coughed dryly.

  “Who knows, maybe I’ll get into a new line of work. Do you think I would make it as a porno queen?” She frowned. “Probably my tits are too small…but then I’d fit right in if they’re looking for girls.”

  “Don’t even think about it,” Rebecca said sharply, ignoring the pain that had started in her chest on the heels of the cough. “All I want is for you to get some information. Do not agree to anything else.”

  “Well, I could probably get a lot more information if I hired on to do one of the movies,” Sandy said musingly. “The talk is they’re paying mucho bucks.”

  “Just call me if you hear anything,” Rebecca ordered as she stood, suddenly feeling like she needed some fresh air. “Don’t go playing games.”

  “You know, you’re a real pain in…Frye?…Hey!”

  Rebecca was aware of Sandy’s voice, but she couldn’t make out the words over the roaring in her head. She could just barely hear someone saying fuck…it might have been her…she thought she was speaking. She couldn’t tell for sure, and it didn’t really matter. Mostly all she wanted to do was get one clean, deep breath, and she’d be fine. Man, it hurts to breathe.

  It kept on hurting as the room swam, her legs gave out, and she went down.

  *

  Catherine knocked sharply on the door to apartment 3B. Although the residential area immediately surrounding the university where she lived in a historically renovated Victorian was socioeconomic light-years away from the apartments bordering the Tenderloin, they were separated in distance only by twenty city blocks and the river that bisected the city. It had taken her less than six minutes to arrive after she had gotten the phone call. The door opened, and a young Annie Lennox look-alike in a tight, midriff-baring T-shirt and hip-hugger jeans, slung so low they barely covered the essentials, greeted her with a distinct disregard for social amenities.

  “Are you Catherine? Fuck, you better be.”

  Catherine merely nodded and stepped hurriedly inside. “Where is she?”

  “Over there. Goddamned stubborn cop moron.”

  Sandy jerked her head in the direction of the couch, but she needn’t have bothered. Catherine could hear the labored breathing from across the small apartment. Two steps further into the room and she saw Rebecca lying on the sofa, her shoulders propped against the arm with a pillow behind her head. The top three buttons on her shirt were open, and her chest heaved spasmodically as she struggled to get air. Sweat poured from her face, and her skin had a faint bluish tint. Catherine’s heart seized with fear. God, what is this? Hemorrhage? Embolus? It looks like an MI…no…that can’t be!

  “Call 911.” Catherine’s voice showed none of her
terror, but for one second, she though she might scream.

  “No,” Rebecca gasped, opening her eyes at the sound of Catherine’s voice. When she turned to Catherine, her eyes were swimming with pain and something else, something Catherine didn’t think she had ever seen in them before—fear.

  “See what I mean?” Sandy muttered, following Catherine as she hurried toward Rebecca. “You think I didn’t want to? She threatened to shoot the phone if I did. I’m lucky she gave me your number. Fucking rockhead.”

  “Rebecca, what happened?” Catherine knelt by the sofa, noting the remains of a takeout meal and Rebecca’s jacket thrown over a nearby chair. Anger was an excellent antidote to fear, but she had time for neither, so she pushed the quick surge of jealousy and confused disappointment aside.

  “Don’t…know. Pain…can’t breathe.”

  “Sudden onset?” After pulling open a worn satchel that she hadn’t used in more than a decade, Catherine extracted a stethoscope, which she swung around her neck with one hand while reaching for a blood pressure cuff with the other.

  Rebecca gave a weak nod and closed her eyes.

  “I need to get you to a hospital,” she said steadily as she wrapped the cuff around Rebecca’s arm.

  “I…know.” Rebecca made an effort to sit up, but any exertion made her light-headed. “I’ll go. Just not…in an…ambulance.”

  Catherine tried not to think about what might be going on inside Rebecca’s body as she forced herself to concentrate on the physical facts. It looked like a myocardial infarct at first glance, but Rebecca was way too young for a heart attack. Although her blood pressure was low, it wasn’t critical yet. Slipping her hand under Rebecca’s shirt, she moved the stethoscope back and forth over her lover’s chest. Frowning, she listened for a few seconds to the right and then the left, then she glanced quickly at the distended veins in Rebecca’s neck.

  “Your left lung is collapsed. We need to get you out of here.” Looking over her shoulder, she said again, forcefully, “Call 911.”

  “Uh, it will probably take them a few minutes to get here. This area doesn’t get the fastest service. Maybe it would be quicker if you drove her?” Sandy stood close behind Catherine’s shoulder, watching Rebecca’s face. “She didn’t look this bad when I called you.”

  Listening to Rebecca fight for air, Catherine had to agree with the young woman. “Can you stand?” she asked, pulling the blood pressure monitor from the detective’s arm and stuffing it into her bag. “We’ll help you.”

  “Okay…yes.”

  Sandy and Catherine steadied Rebecca from either side with an arm around her waist and half-carried her down the three flights of stairs to Catherine’s car, which she had left in front of a hydrant a few doors down from the once elegant brownstone. By the time they got the detective into the front seat and Catherine had fumbled the seat belt around her, Rebecca was barely conscious and her respiratory distress had worsened. The ominous sound of an airway about to collapse completely filled the car.

  “Rebecca,” Catherine said sharply, grasping her chin, turning her lover’s face toward her. “Rebecca, don’t struggle. Breathe as slowly as you can. Do you understand?”

  She couldn’t get enough air any longer to speak, but she nodded.

  Sandy bent down and whispered something to Rebecca that Catherine couldn’t hear as she ran around the front of the car to the driver’s side. She had the key in the ignition before she was completely settled behind the wheel, and she careened away from the curb without even a backward glance at the young woman who stood on the sidewalk watching the taillights disappear into the dark.

  Thankfully, at that time of night there was almost no traffic in University City. Within a matter of minutes, she was screeching to a halt outside the emergency room at University Hospital. She ran through the double doors into the harshly lit admitting area and shouted, “I’m Dr. Catherine Rawlings. I have a critically ill patient in my car! Someone bring a gurney.”

  *

  Catherine glanced at the clock in the small doctors’ lounge adjacent to the emergency room. Midnight. She was alone in the drab, disorganized room. A pot of hours-old coffee steeped on a water-spotted, double-burner coffee maker next to the sink, and the institutional-issue table in the center of the room held the vestiges of a half-eaten pizza. It was a desolate place to be at any time of the day. The waiting created a painful sense of déjà vu, and as the minutes dragged on, it was harder and harder for her not to think about the night that Raymond Blake had taken her hostage and had nearly taken Rebecca’s life.

  Forcing her thoughts from that horror, she reminded herself that Rebecca was not dying, not tonight. But being separated from her, not knowing precisely what was happening, frayed the last remnants of her nerves, and she was losing the battle to stay calm. She had too many recollections, some of them too terrifying to erase even from her dreams. Now, she had another unwelcome memory—the image of Rebecca suffering, struggling in agony for each insufficient breath. It was tearing her apart.

  “Catherine?”

  She spun around, grateful for the sound of another human voice to distract her from her pain. “Jim! How is she?”

  “She’s stable…”

  “Where is she? Can I see her? What—”

  The emergency room physician smiled, raising a hand to stem the flow of words. “In a minute. She’s on her way back from CAT scan.”

  “How serious is it?” Catherine managed in a more controlled fashion. The panic that had simmered just beneath the surface of her soul was beginning to abate.

  “Well,” the treating physician replied, motioning to a chair beside him as he sank heavily into a seat at the small table, “if you’re interested in a new job, I’m fairly certain we could find you one down here. Your exam on the scene saved us a lot of time and her a lot of pain. She had a pneumothorax, just as you suspected. Probably an area of scar tissue had adhered to the inner surface of one of her ribs, and it tore lose tonight, collapsing her lung.”

  “Will it require surgery?” These things happened, she knew that as well as anyone; it was no one’s fault. Then why did she feel like screaming?

  “A little too soon to tell.” He gave her a satisfied smile. “I put a needle in, aspirated the air, and the lung came back up. The CAT scan looks good right now. We’ll have to see if the lung stays up or not.”

  “Thank you, Jim.”

  “Don’t mention it. She should be back by now. Cubicle seven.”

  Catherine murmured her thanks once again and hurried away. To her great relief, when she opened the door to the small private treatment room, she found Rebecca sitting up on a stretcher, looking drawn but breathing easily. The relief was so intense, for a second she feared she might cry.

  “Hey, there. How do you feel?” She managed to keep her voice from quivering, but something of her fragile emotional state must have shown in her face, because Rebecca’s welcoming smile immediately turned to a look of concern.

  “I’m okay.” Reaching out a hand, the one that was not tethered to an intravenous line, Rebecca caught Catherine’s and drew her closer. “If I understood what the doc told me, it was a fluke—a little bit of scar tissue acting up. Not a big deal.”

  Catherine was emotionally and physically exhausted—tired and still reeling from worry and her own terrifying memories. If she hadn’t been so shaken, she probably would have been more circumspect, but she just didn’t have enough strength to control her response. It was raw emotion, uncensored.

  “Rebecca, you could have died. If you weren’t as physically fit as you are, you probably would have. It could happen again; in fact, it often does. This was a warning, and you were lucky that your young friend was quick-witted enough to realize how ill you were.”

  “She’s not a friend. She’s a source.”

  “What she may be to you, I don’t know,” Catherine said more sharply than she intended. “But she’s fond of you, I’ll tell you that.”

  “What?”
Rebecca had never seen Catherine quite like this before. When she had first walked into the room, it’d looked as if she was going to break down. That was so unlike her that it was alarming. During all the long weeks of Rebecca’s convalescence, Catherine had been nothing but upbeat and positive. If she had cried, she had done it alone. Now, she was all over the place. First, on the verge of tears, then in the next second, angry—the shifts so sudden that Rebecca was stunned. Carefully, she replied, “What are you talking about? Sandy is an informant. I was working and—”

  “You’re not required to explain,” Catherine interrupted, irritated with herself for even bringing up the subject of the girl. She had no idea why she had. Except there had been something uncomfortably intimate about the entire setting—the small cozy apartment, the takeout dinner, and the way the young woman had berated Rebecca with unmistakable tenderness in her voice. You have another life that I know nothing about. A life that might mean more to you than anything we could share.

  “I’m sorry that you had to go through this,” Rebecca said urgently, lifting Catherine’s hand and placing a kiss against the fingers she cradled in her own. “I’m sorry I had to drag you into it at all, but I didn’t want an official report—any kind of record—tying Sandy to me.”

  “Why not?”

  She hesitated only a second. “Because officially Sandy and I don’t have a relationship. It’s safer for her that way.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t call Watts instead of me,” Catherine said, and there was pain in that knowledge. “Would you have called me if I hadn’t been a doctor?”

  She hesitated longer this time. “I don’t know.”

  “Would you even have told me?”

  The silence between them grew so loud that Catherine slipped her fingers out of Rebecca’s hand and moved a little away from the stretcher. “Rebecca?”

  “I don’t know. I would have told you…something. Maybe not all of it.”

  “I see. Why not?” Her anger was gone, replaced by an honest desire to know, and by incredible sadness. How can we feel so much, and share so little?