by Radclyffe
Laughing, Rebecca pulled Catherine down on top of her. Work would always be there.
*
“You want that last piece of pizza?” Mitchell, propped up naked in bed, looked down at Sandy, whose head was cradled in her lap. The pizza box lay on the floor beside them where they’d placed it earlier so they could eat in bed. When Mitchell had indulged herself by licking off a few drops of sauce that had fallen on Sandy’s breast, they’d gotten sidetracked. They’d made love, fast and hard, and then consumed the rest of the pizza in postcoital indolence.
Sandy nuzzled Mitchell’s navel, then tugged at the skin around it with her teeth. “Nuh-uh.”
“Jeez, San, cut that out. I don’t have time to go again.” Mitchell squirmed as Sandy bit harder. “Ouch. Come on. I’ve got that doctor’s appointment, and Jason’s been waiting all day for me to finish up some stuff.”
“Say please,” Sandy muttered, circling her tongue where her teeth had just been.
“Oh man,” Mitchell sighed, her stomach quivering as her body went molten. “Honey.”
Sandy slid a hand beneath the sheet and up the inside of Mitchell’s leg. “What do you say?”
“Please,” Mitchell whispered.
*
“Good afternoon, Lieutenant,” Flanagan said when Rebecca rapped on her open office door. “I hope you’re not bringing your bulldog in here.”
“Watts?” Rebecca grinned. “No, he’s down at the docks following up on some paperwork with Port Authority.”
“Good, because even when he does keep his hands in his pockets, I don’t trust him in my lab.” Flanagan capped her pen and shuffled papers into a folder. “So, nice showing this morning.”
“I didn’t see you there,” Rebecca said, surprised. Flanagan was not one to appear at departmental gatherings, official or otherwise. “Maggie make you go?”
Flanagan harrumphed as she stood. “Actually, no. I just put my head in for a minute. Saw you get the commendation. Congratulations.”
“Well, thanks.”
The two regarded one another from a few feet apart, then spoke at once.
“About the case…”
“So regarding the findings…”
With comfortable routine once more restored, they moved companionably into the laboratory where Flanagan led Rebecca to a workbench.
“Nothing new about COD. GSW at close range. From the trajectory, I put your shooter in the car with the victim, not just leaning in the door. That means considerable blowback—his, or her—clothes and body would have been grossly contaminated with the spray. No professional would get into another vehicle like that.”
“I’ve got uniforms checking every dumpster, sewer drain, and alley in a three-block radius. But down there, in the middle of the night, with no one around, the shooter would have had ample opportunity to discard the weapon and their clothing somewhere we’d never find it.” Rebecca shrugged. “And by now, any evidence that might have been on his body is gone.”
“Probably dumped the clothes in the river.”
“Yeah,” Rebecca agreed. “The dive team is dragging in the immediate area, but with the currents…we’d have to get real lucky to find anything. How are we doing on time of death?”
“According to the surveillance team, Beecher dined at eight at a Thai place on Third.” Flanagan leafed through several pages clipped inside a file folder that had been labeled with a case number, the initials GB, and the date. “Decomposition of the stomach contents puts TOD at three a.m., give or take an hour and a half.”
“Can you narrow it down any more than that?” Rebecca asked, thinking that Mitchell’s report had put Sloan squarely in front of her computers at 3:00 a.m. There was ample data to make a case that it couldn’t have been anyone else using the computers. Neither Sandy nor Michael had the expertise. Mitchell did, but Sandy had stated unequivocally that Mitchell was with her from 1:30 on. Tapes from the exterior cameras had shown Sandy’s arrival at 1:20, supporting that. The tapes also verified that no one else had entered the building until Rebecca’s arrival. The only occupant who could have been logged on to the system at 3:00 a.m. was Sloan.
But a time of death of 4:30 a.m. was going to be a problem, because Sloan had logged off at 3:52 a.m. The crime scene was only three blocks from her building. She could easily have walked there and killed Beecher a few minutes after 4:00 a.m.
“You want a window of less than ninety minutes?” Flanagan snorted.
“Less than sixty.”
Flanagan eyed her speculatively. “That critical?”
“Yes.”
“Get one of your detectives to question the wait staff at the restaurant. I’ll need as precise a time as possible for when he was actually served the meal. If you want a window that narrow, I need to know if we’re talking eight thirty or nine. Without that, what I gave you is as good as you’re going to get.”
“I’ll talk to them myself as soon as we’re done. What else do you have?”
“Something personal going on here?” Flanagan asked. “You’re pushing more than usual, even for you.”
Used to keeping the facts of a case to herself, often not even sharing everything with Watts, Rebecca hesitated. Flanagan, however, was one of the few people in the department she trusted implicitly. “Clark has a suspect in mind whom I’d like to clear.”
“Then the less I know, the better. I don’t trust the feds not to claim collusion.”
“No one in their right mind would believe that about this lab.”
“Thanks,” Flanagan said gruffly. “So, not much else to tell you.” Then as if on an afterthought, she said, “Except about the bullet.”
“You’re kidding.” Rebecca whistled softly. “You got a bullet? How? It was a through-and-through shot, the bullet went through the window of the driver’s door, and the car was parked in the middle of nowhere.”
“True. All true.”
Rebecca followed as Flanagan moved down the aisle to the far end of the bench and lifted a section of wood that, on closer inspection, proved to be a round cut from a tree. Rebecca raised a questioning eyebrow.
Unable to suppress a grin, Flanagan picked up a thin metal probe and pointed out a neat, round hole punched into the bark that led into the interior of the section of wood. A bullet track. “Voilà.”
“No way.”
“This morning, Maggie and I took a crash-test dummy, sat him behind the wheel of Beecher’s car in the position we assume he in was prior to death, and shot a hole through its head using the same trajectory as that found in the body.” Flanagan pointed to the section of tree. “Then we aimed a laser beam through the hole in the dummy’s cranium, out the open window of the car, and traced its path through the parking lot, across the street, and into this tree.”
“Beautiful,” Rebecca breathed in true awe.
Flanagan’s expression grew serious. “The bullet’s a match to a previous homicide, Rebecca.”
Alerted to the unusual use of her first name, Rebecca tensed. “Okay.”
“It’s the same gun that killed Jeff and Jimmy.”
“Son of a bitch.” Rebecca’s jaw clenched.
“The shooter probably didn’t think we’d find the bullet, so he wasn’t worried about a match. Or maybe he just doesn’t care.” Flanagan shrugged. “Some professionals get very attached to their weapons. Some just figure they’re too clever to ever get caught. For whatever reason, he didn’t ditch the gun after the first murders.”
“Or he did, and someone else is using the gun this time,” Rebecca pointed out.
“And how likely do you figure it is that Beecher, who is peripherally, at least, related to the first murders, was killed by a different shooter?”
“Not very likely,” Rebecca said grimly. “We always assumed that Jeff and Jimmy were done by some out-of-town hit man. Looks like we were wrong. This has got to be local.”
“Because of the timing?”
Rebecca nodded. “Whoever did this set it up very qu
ickly. There wasn’t enough time to bring someone in to do that hit.”
“Find me a gun, and I’ll tie these all together for you in a neat little package.”
“This guy just made a big mistake,” Rebecca said, almost to herself. “He just stuck his head out where we can see him.”
“Look, Frye,” Flanagan said carefully. “I know this guy shot Jeff, but…”
“There aren’t any buts about this.” Rebecca’s expression was completely unreadable, but her eyes were molten pits of fury. “He pays.”
*
Sloan absently reached for the phone on the desk beside her, still scrolling with the other hand. “Sloan.”
“Got a minute?” Rebecca asked.
Her voice decidedly cool, Sloan replied, “Do I have a choice?”
“I’ve called the team together for seven at your place. I’d like to meet with you alone first.”
“I was about to wrap things up here anyhow,” Sloan conceded. She stretched her back and swiveled in the desk chair to survey the room. The two detectives assigned to the new unit had left for the day, and she found the solitude welcome. Boxes of computer equipment, tools, stacks of cartons filled with files—years of data to be sorted and input—surrounded her. Peaceful. “Where are you?”
“Downstairs. How about I buy you a drink at Barney’s?”
The cop hangout was a ten-minute walk away. Sloan had never been there. “Sure.”
It took Sloan less than that to get there, and when she did, she found Rebecca already seated at a booth in the back of a long, narrow, noisy, smoke-filled bar. So much for the No Smoking signs. Of course, with the room filled with cops, who was going to complain? She settled onto the cracked leather-covered bench across from Rebecca. “Frye.”
“Thanks for coming,” Rebecca said.
A waitress appeared, and Sloan ordered scotch on the rocks after Rebecca asked for a cup of coffee. Then Sloan waited.
“I just finished a briefing with Captain Henry and Clark,” Rebecca said with a hint of disdain. “George Beecher was killed by the same shooter who took out Jimmy Hogan and Jeff Cruz. Also, Beecher was killed sometime before four a.m this morning, within the frame of your alibi.”
“I suppose no one could come up with a good reason why I might have wanted to kill two cops I didn’t know?”
“No one tried. You’re clear regarding last night’s shooting.” Rebecca saw no point in adding that Clark had grilled her relentlessly about the evidence, but she’d had Flanagan’s report in hand, and that was unimpeachable. No one questioned Dee Flanagan’s conclusions.
“I suppose Clark was disappointed,” Sloan said.
“What’s he got in for you?”
“I’m not sure he has anything in for me, not personally.” Sloan nodded her thanks to the waitress who passed her her drink. She took a swallow, then set the glass on the wooden tabletop. The scars of many years marred the surface, each with a tale to tell. “Federal agents don’t look kindly on those of us who’ve left the fold. Especially when we leave under a cloud. It’s in his nature not to trust me.”
“Do you know why he’s here?”
Sloan shook her head. “My guess is that your case bumps up against something the feds are interested in. I don’t think it’s a local Mob organization. I don’t think it’s Internet porn, either.”
“No, neither do I. I don’t think it’s ever been about that. Clark put Jimmy Hogan undercover in the PPD because something was going on here that the feds were interested in. He wanted someone deep undercover—so deep that we didn’t even know.” Rebecca cursed under her breath. “That’s probably what got Jimmy killed. And Jeff. Jimmy was essentially on his own, and he couldn’t even ask us for backup. He was trying to feed Jeff information without revealing his identity, and the whole thing came apart in his face.”
“Which means Jimmy was getting close to whatever it was Clark is after.”
Rebecca nodded. “And I think we are too. Beecher’s a piece of it, but I’m not sure where he fits.”
“Someone probably thought he’d talk if you squeezed him. Cut a deal to save his own skin.”
“Someone tightening up their ship. Snipping loose ends,” Rebecca mused. “That plays.” She took a sip of coffee, then winced. “Christ, this is awful. Jason has spoiled me.”
“Why don’t we go over to the office and wait for the rest of them,” Sloan suggested. “May not be as good as Jason’s, but I think I can manage to put together a passable pot of coffee.”
“Good idea.” Rebecca made no move to leave but instead leaned forward, her eyes fixed on Sloan’s. “I’m sorry I upset Michael this morning. Is she all right?”
“She was sleeping when I left,” Sloan said quietly. “But she’s fine. Getting better every day.”
“I’m glad.”
Sloan took a breath, blew it out slowly. “I keep walking around thinking something’s going to happen to her. That she’ll end up back in the hospital. This morning…when I saw her like that…” She looked away, swallowed. “I got pretty hot with you. I’m sorry.”
“Forget it. I’d’ve done the same if it had been Catherine.”
“I appreciate you getting me off the hook with Clark so fast.”
Rebecca stood. “Fuck Clark.”
Sloan slid from the booth to join her. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Okay,” Rebecca said, turning with coffee cup in hand and surveying the team, who had gathered at the conference table. “Let’s start with Beecher.”
She brought the others up to speed with the forensic evidence and the link between the previous homicides and the present one. It took a full minute for the murmured curses and general unrest to settle after she’d announced that whoever killed Jeff and Jimmy had also eliminated Beecher and was still eluding them. “So what else do we have?”
“I got a positive hit on Beecher’s Visa card from an on-line porn relay station,” Jason reported. “The same network we busted.”
“Doesn’t mean he knew anything about the actual operation,” Watts pointed out.
“True, it’s only an indirect link, but it’s still a connection.”
“On the other hand,” Mitchell interjected, “it does prove he used it, and it’s one more link in the chain tying him to organized crime.” She glanced at Rebecca as if seeking confirmation. When Rebecca nodded, she continued, “And if you put this together with all the other evidence we have linking Beecher to criminal activity, it would only be a matter of time before we had something solid to charge him with.”
“Which,” Rebecca added, “made him a very bad security risk.”
“Not anymore,” Watts said.
“Precisely.”
“Except no one could’ve known how much we had on him,” Jason said reasonably.
“It would seem that way on the surface of things.” Rebecca settled into her seat at the head of the table. “We’ve been careful not to circulate our reports.” She queried Sloan with a raised eyebrow. “What are the chances that whoever was using Beecher’s computer to access the law enforcement network would know you were onto him?”
“If they were good, which they are,” Sloan answered, “they’d know I’ve been looking. Hell. They’ve known all along we were looking, because we reported it all to Henry before we knew how widespread a leak we really had.” She grimaced and shook her head. “They may not know just how close I’ve gotten, but they have to know it’s only a matter of time. It’s impossible even for the best cracker to hide their tracks from someone just as good.” Her smile was vulpine. “Or better.”
“There’s one more thing,” Jason said. “I just got a hit on the deep-level financial search we ran on Beecher’s accounts. Until eighteen months ago, he made sizable cash withdrawals from his personal account on a regular basis, extending back over a period of three years. Then they stopped.”
“What’s your take on that?” Rebecca asked, lean
ing forward with interest.
“I’d say he was being blackmailed.”
“And then,” Rebecca thought out loud, “someone thought he would be more useful as a source of information. Once they started using him to infiltrate the department, they stopped blackmailing him. Probably an incentive for him to cooperate. Any idea what they had on him?”
Jason shook his head. “Not yet, but I’m willing to bet it has something to do with his taste in young girls. Remember, he had a previous sexual assault charge that was dismissed.”
“So someone knew about his...proclivities…and used it as leverage—first to blackmail him and then to set him up as their inside man.”
“That’s the way I see it,” Jason said.
“When he became a liability, they cut their losses,” Watts noted.
Rebecca turned to another page in her notebook. “I’m going to hand off Beecher’s case to the homicide team that caught it. They can follow up on the routine leads and forensics. I’m having his personal and work computers brought here.” She looked at Sloan. “That’s yours.”
Her eyes glinted. “Got it.”
“Watts,” Rebecca said, moving on. “Anything from Port Authority?”
“You mean other than a big, fat headache?”
Rebecca suppressed a smile.
Watts gave an eloquent grimace. “You know how many pieces of paper it takes to move a crate of overpriced fish eggs from some Commie factory on the Caspian Sea to America?”
“Are you telling me that Jimmy Hogan had developed an interest in caviar?”
“I don’t know what the hell he was interested in,” Watts said grumpily. “The only thing I know right now is that all three ships he asked about originated from the same port in Russia.”
“Whoa,” Mitchell said, unable to restrain her excitement. “That has to be something, right?”
“Damned if I know, kid. Carla…uh, Captain Reiser…says that 30% of the ships coming into this port start out somewhere over there. The big question is why those three ships.”