Justice Served

by Radclyffe

  “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 fixed 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 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-profile 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 fiasco 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 briefing 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 office, 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.

  “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 flush 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 artificial lights, looking like two fighters in the middle of the ring waiting for the starting bell to sound. Waiting to throw the first 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 flicked him a look of amused irritation. “Let’s go talk to Sloan.”

  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 office.”

  “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.”

  *

  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?”

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

  “Coffee, then?”

  Before Rebecca could answer, Watts jumped in. “That would be terrific. 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 traffic 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 finally 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 muffins 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 first 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?”

  “It’s all right, darling,” Michael murmured, smiling weakly. “I’m fine. It’s fine. I was asleep when Rebecca came. I’m just not quite awake yet.”

  “You’re not hurt? Not sick or anything?” Sloan passed trembling fingers over Michael’s cheek.

  “No. I’m really all right.” Michael stroked Sloan’s arm, then covered Sloan’s hand with her own, placing a fleeting kiss on the palm.

  With one protective arm still around Michael, Sloan looked from Rebecca to Watts in confusion. “Then what are you doing here?”

  Rebecca was about to answer when a voice called from the other side of the room, “Hey, what’s going on?”

  Sandy shuffled into view, Mitchell’s T-shirt brushing her thighs mere inches below her panties. Mitchell was right behind her in a PPD T-shirt and boxers. “We heard voices. Problem?”

  Watts took one look in Sandy’s direction and immediately glanced away. “Jesus Christ. No one around here has any clothes on.”

  “What do you sleep in?” Sandy mumbled as she walked past him in the direction of the kitchen. “Ugh. No, never mind. Forget I asked.”

  “We needed to talk to you, so we thought we’d come by,” Rebecca said to Sloan. “Where have you been?”

  Mitchell and Sandy returned, each holding a cup of coffee. Sandy curled up on the sofa on Michael’s left. Mitchell stood uncertainly midway between Sloan and Rebecca, who sat facing one another across the expanse of living room.

  “What the fuck’s going on?” Sloan said sharply.

  “I need to know where you were tonight, from the time you left here until now.” Rebecca’s face was a blank, her voice still calm. But now, a core of steel crept into her tone.

  “Same question goes. Why?”

  “Just answer the question, Sloan,” Watts urged in a surprisingly gentle voice.

  Sloan jumped to her feet so rapidly that only Rebecca’s quick reflexes prevented her from being taken off guard. She surged upright just as quickly, so that she and Sloan ended up only a few feet apart.

  “Do you think I don’t recognize an interrogation when I hear one?” Sloan’s body vibrated with fury. “You have the fucking balls to come here in the middle of the night and question my lover?”

  “Sloan,” Michael said gently, standing as well. She placed her hand in the center of Sloan’s back. “Darling, let Rebecca talk.”

  “She’s done talking. She’s leaving now.” Sloan took another step in Rebecca’s direction, one hand raised as if to shove Rebecca aside.

  “You don’t want to do that, Sloan,” Rebecca warned.

  With surprising grace, Watts gained his feet and insinuated himself between them in one fluid motion. His face was an inch from Sloan’s, his voice like granite. “You dumb fuck. If she hadn’t stood up for you tonight, you’d be downtown in a locked room with Clark right now. So put your dick away and answer the questions. Then we can all get back to work.”

  Sloan stared into his eyes for a long moment. Whatever she saw in their hard, cold depths must have extinguished the blaze of fury consuming her reason, because the tension in her broad shoulders eased visibly. She took a long breath and shifted her gaze to Rebecca’s. “Are you going to tell me what this is about?”

  “No. I’m going to ask questions, and you’re going to answer.” Rebecca needed the interview to be by the book if it was to be credible to Avery Clark. She waited, wondering how far Sloan’s tenuous trust would extend. Wondering, not for the first time, what had happened during those lost years in Sloan’s past.

  “I was here until just after two,” Sloan stated in a flat, uninflected tone. “I woke up thinking about the computer traces that Jason and Mitchell have been running. I haven’t had a chance to go over any of their data because I’ve been so busy at Police Plaza with the…other situation. So I decided to have a quick look at what they’ve got. I dressed and went downstairs.”

  “Is there any way to verify that?”

  “No. Michael was asleep.”

  “What about a time stamp on the security cameras?”

  Sloan shook her head. “The internal cameras are turned off when we’re home.”

  Mitchell spoke up quietly. “There should be a record of when you logged on the system downstairs.”

  “Circumstantial,” Sloan replied. “Doesn’t prove it was me.”

  “It’s corroboration,” Rebecca said. “There are only a limited number of other people who it might’ve been.” She scrutinized Michael, then Sandy and Mitchell. “The only real possibility is Mitchell.”

  “Dell was with me from one thirty on,” Sandy said immediately.

  “Did either of you hear Sloan leave?” Watts asked.

  Mitchell shook her head. Sandy replied, “We were talking, and then we were…busy.”

  Watts snorted.

  “So we wouldn’t have noticed,” Sandy added sweetly as Mitchell blushed.

  Watts looked glum. “Perfect.”

  “All right.” Rebecca made a notation in her notebook. “You were with Michael all night. Went to the offices just after two.” She turned to Mitchell. “I want you to secure the computer logs. No one touches the system until you’re done.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Mitchell said smartly. “I’ll get dressed and get right on it.”

  When Sloan opened her mouth to protest, Michael said softly, “Let Rebecca help you, darling.”

  Sloan reached for
Michael’s hand, nodding silently.

  “You weren’t here when we arrived at four fifty-five,” Rebecca stated. “There was no answer. Where were you?”

  “I went for a walk after a couple of hours of scanning the data.”

  Rebecca stared at her, and Sloan held her gaze unflinchingly. Finally, Rebecca said, “At four in the morning?”

  Sloan shrugged. “I was awake. I was restless. I went for a walk.”

  “I don’t suppose you have any way of proving that?” Watts interjected.

  “Not real…” Sloan slid her hand into the front pocket of her jeans and extracted a crumpled slip of white paper. “I bought a cup of coffee at the diner at Third and Market around ten minutes to five.”

  “Christ, she couldn’t have been any closer to the scene and not tripped over one of us,” Watts muttered.

  Rebecca took the offered receipt, smoothed it out, and noted the time and date in her notebook. She then placed it carefully in the breast pocket of her shirt. “Is someone there going to remember you?”

  “The waitress. Jenny. She knows me.”

  Watts looked skeptical. “She’s a…what? Friend?”

  Sloan gave him a withering look. “Acquaintance.”

  “There’s nothing between the two of you that might bring her verification of your alibi into question?” Rebecca asked as discreetly as she could.

  “No. Nothing. I’ve never even seen her outside of the diner.”

  “Good,” Rebecca muttered.

  “Look,” Sloan said irritably. “I’ve told you where I was. Now tell me what’s going on.”

  “George Beecher was murdered about three blocks from here sometime in the last six hours,” Rebecca informed her, watching Sloan’s face intently. As she had anticipated, Sloan’s expression never changed, but her violet eyes darkened to nearly black. Rebecca was convinced she hadn’t known.

  “And you think I did it?” Sloan’s voice was cool, her posture relaxed.