by Radclyffe
“Did she say if she told anyone about the meeting?” Watts inquired.
“No, and I don’t think she would. She’s been pretty careful about keeping her location quiet—that’s why we were using the message tree. She was freaked by what happened.”
“And you didn’t see anything unusual in the restaurant?”
“It was crowded. At that time of night, down there, there’s always a lot of weirdos around. I didn’t notice anyone who was more creepy than usual.”
“So maybe,” Watts said, turning his attention to Rebecca, “Trudy recognized the guy from somewhere else. From one of the video shoots or maybe the clubs where she danced.”
“That might explain why she wanted to leave so quickly, and also why he followed her and not Sandy,” Rebecca agreed.
“Trudy was the target,” Mitchell said quietly.
Rebecca nodded. “I’d say so.”
“Then why not take her out on the way to the restaurant before anyone had a chance to see him? Why risk someone remembering his face?” Sloan put out to the group at large.
“Because maybe,” Watts offered, “he wanted to see who she was meeting.”
Sandy stiffened and Mitchell cursed.
“That’s possible,” Rebecca said quietly. “It’s also possible that this was the first time she’d come out of hiding since the raid last weekend, and he was finally able to pick her up. It might have been coincidence that she was with Sandy.”
Watts grunted. Every cop in the room knew that there were no coincidences.
“So the question is,” Rebecca continued, “what did Trudy know that was important enough to get her killed?” She stood abruptly and looked around the table at each person. “We’re missing the key, and we’ve been missing it since the beginning. What did Trudy know that someone was afraid she would tell us? Sandy?”
Frowning in concentration, Sandy stared at the tabletop, her words coming slowly. “Well, she knew about the sex shoots, but she already told us that.”
“She knew the guy who set up the shoots,” Mitchell offered.
Rebecca shook her head. “No good. The feds have him in custody, and the porn ring is already compromised. There wouldn’t be any point to eliminating her now if that’s all she knew.”
“Payback,” Sandy said flatly.
Rebecca’s expression didn’t change. “Maybe. What else?”
“She knew the location of the film studio,” Watts noted. For a moment he looked pleased, and then his grin faded. “Except it’s the same deal. We already know that too.”
“All right,” Rebecca said. “Let’s look at what we know—everything revolves around Trudy and those films. If it’s not who, and it’s not where, then what else is there?”
The room was silent until Catherine said quietly. “When?”
Rebecca narrowed her eyes. Watts hummed under his breath. Mitchell shifted forward in her seat. Both Jason and Sloan reached for pads of paper and began jotting notes.
“Let’s assume that’s it,” Rebecca eventually said. “Let’s say when the porn films were made is important. We know that Trudy got other girls to do some of them.” She focused on Sandy again. “What did she say about those times?”
“She said…she said sometimes the regular girls couldn’t do them, and then this guy would ask around for some of us.”
“‘Us’ meaning prostitutes?”
Sandy’s chin came up. “Yes.”
“And who exactly are the regular girls?”
“I’m not really sure,” Sandy said. “There’ve been a lot of new girls in places like Ziggie’s in the last year or so. Dancers. Prostitutes. Both.”
“All right. Let’s put that aside for the moment and just say that the regular girls were busy. Busy doing what?” Rebecca made an impatient sound when no one answered. “Come on, people. Give me something here.” She’d just spent the last two hours looking at the brutalized body of a dead girl, a dead girl she’d help to put in that alley, and for a few minutes, she’d thought it had been Sandy. The shock of that had rocked her, and the frustration and pain had her strung tight as piano wire.
“Sex party?” Watts suggested.
“Could be. I wouldn’t think anyone would worry about hiding that information, unless there were high-profile clients. Judges. Das. Cops.”
“We haven’t found anything suggestive of that in Beecher’s records,” Jason interjected. “And it seems that that would be the kind of thing he’d be into. Nothing in his calendar stands out.”
“Keep looking,” Rebecca instructed. “Some kind of drug transfer, perhaps. Maybe the girls were muling and weren’t available to do the videos those particular nights.” She made a note in her small black notepad. “Sloan? Can you run a computer check on the narcotics busts for the last twelve months—cross-reference with organized crime, prostitution, anything that might tie this together.”
“On it.”
“Jason,” Rebecca continued, suddenly energized. “Comb through Beecher’s computer and the computers confiscated during the raid. Find out the dates of all the live video broadcasts. Let’s look for some kind of pattern there.” Then she focused on Sandy. “What exactly did Trudy say about the nights that she filled in for the video shoots?”
“Just what I said earlier,” Sandy said, weariness and stress edging her voice with impatience. “Every few months, is what she told me. I didn’t ask for dates.”
“I need specific dates.”
“I’ll ask arou—”
“No,” Mitchell said forcefully. “Whoever shot Trudy saw you with her. You’ve been made. It’s not safe.”
“I’ll be careful.”
This time, it was Rebecca who spoke. “No. Mitchell’s right. I want you off the streets.”
“Wait a minute,” Sandy protested. “You can’t—”
“I’ve got an idea,” Jason interrupted. “I can pull the videos from the confiscated computers, at least all the ones that were downloaded and saved. And these guys save everything. Sandy can screen them for me. She ought to be able to tell the ones that have street girls in them.”
“Perfect,” Rebecca said with satisfaction. “In the meantime, I want Mitch back in Ziggie’s tonight. Watts, you and I will be backup.”
Watts snorted. “Great. I get to watch the door again while he gets the T&A.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Saturday Afternoon
“How are you holding up, Detective?” Catherine asked as Mitchell slumped into the chair opposite her desk with a sigh.
“Not bad.” Mitchell resisted the strong urge to lean her head back and close her eyes. She’d slept very little the night before, especially after awakening at three and realizing that Sandy had not returned to the apartment. She’d paced until daybreak, when she’d finally given in and called Rebecca for help.
Catherine regarded her with a compassionate smile. “Sure?”
“I’ll make it. I need to be sure that all my paperwork is in order.”
“It is Saturday, and—”
Uncharacteristically, Mitchell interrupted. “I know, but the lieutenant is a stickler about these kinds of…” She trailed off, casting Catherine an apologetic look.
“And?” Catherine prodded with the barest of smiles.
“And as long as I tell her I’m cleared for duty, she won’t care about getting the forms filed.”
“This is so you can work tonight? The surveillance Lieutenant Frye was talking about this morning?”
“Yes,” Mitchell said, her voice gaining strength as she sat up straighter. “I’m ready.”
“You’ve had a rather momentous few days.”
Mitchell huffed out a laugh. “Yeah. Actually, it’s been a really momentous week. I get stabbed, my sister shows up unexpectedly after two years, and then I find a body I think is my girlfriend.”
“And despite all of that, you want to undertake this assignment tonight?”
“Of course.” Mitchell looked confused. “This i
s it. This is when it all starts coming together, and after this morning…” Her voice caught unexpectedly, and she blinked in surprise.
“Tell me about this morning,” Catherine urged.
For a moment, Mitchell remained silent, her eyes distant, remembering. Then she twitched as if awakening from a dream and focused on Catherine’s face. “It was the worst thing I’ve ever experienced in my life.”
Catherine nodded wordlessly.
“She’s got this stupid short, red, fake-leather jacket.” Mitchell laughed, the sound undercut with pain. “She looks really hot in it, but the damn thing is worthless as far as keeping her warm is concerned.” Mitchell stared at her lap, her hands curled over the tops of her knees. “Trudy was wearing it, but I didn’t know that. I saw the body, the blood, the red jacket.”
Mitchell fell silent again, the agony of the memory written across her face. Catherine had a sudden flash of Rebecca lying in a pool of blood, her skin white, her chest unmoving. She experienced the terror again, the empty desolation. Her heart aching for the young woman across from her, she murmured, “You thought it was Sandy.”
“Yeah,” Mitchell said, her voice hoarse, her fingers white. “I thought she was dead, and I felt something inside of me…freeze. Like all the life was leaving my body and there was nothing left behind.” She shook her head, then met Catherine’s eyes, her own bleak. “It hurt so much.”
“I know,” Catherine said softly. “Does it still hurt?”
Mitchell took a shaky breath and nodded. “Some. I mean, I know she’s all right. But I still…feel it.”
“Your head knows she’s all right, but your heart will take a little while longer to believe it.”
“I almost didn’t come this morning because I didn’t want to let her out of my sight.” Mitchell smiled crookedly. “She’s starting to complain that she’s suffocating.”
Catherine laughed. “Do you think she means it?”
“Probably a little. She’s pretty independent.”
“I noticed. How do you feel about that?”
“Most of the time I think it’s pretty great,” Mitchell conceded. “But when she insists on getting in the middle of things where she might get hurt, I’m not too keen on it.”
“And have you talked about it?”
Mitchell grinned. “Uh…maybe more like shouted about it.”
“But you’re handling it?”
“We’re okay. I drive her crazy, but she knows I’m doing it because I love her.”
“Good.” Catherine regarded Mitchell intently for moment. “Is there some other reason, besides not wanting to leave Sandy, that you didn’t want to come today?”
Mitchell looked down at her heavy black motorcycle boots, considering, then shrugged one shoulder. “I thought you might tell me I can’t go back to work.”
“Why did you think I would say that?”
“Because of this morning. I didn’t handle it so well.”
“Oh? I didn’t notice that anything was wrong at the conference.” Other than the fact that you looked like you’d been through the wringer. “Was there some kind of procedural problem in the field?”
Swiftly, Mitchell shook her head in denial. “Not that kind of screwup. I mean, I think I handled everything okay. Followed protocol. But…”
“But?”
Mitchell sighed heavily. “I pretty much fell apart when I thought it was Sandy. I kind of couldn’t think. Then…well, then I heaved in the gutter.” She grimaced, remembering, still chagrined. “Jesus. I can’t believe I did that.”
“Don’t you think it’s natural for someone to have an extreme reaction when they believe someone they love has been killed?”
“I’m a cop,” Mitchell said immediately. “I’m supposed to be able to handle it.”
“Handle that kind of loss? How?”
“By doing the job. By just…doing what has to be done.”
Catherine struggled to be objective. Mitchell sounded eerily like Rebecca, so certain of what must be done and so very certain she could trade her humanity for her duty over and over without slowly dying. God, what makes them do this?
Wishing desperately that she understood, Catherine knew with a sinking heart that she might never find the answer to what made her lover who she was, what made this young woman believe that it was possible to bury that much pain for the good of a…a job. Not a job. The job. Suddenly, she realized that she had never asked the right question. The answer wasn’t to be found in understanding why they did what they did. It was all about how the work was an extension of who they were. “What does being a cop mean to you?”
Mitchell’s brows drew down sharply at the unexpected question. Taking her time, she formed her answer. “It means taking all the things that are important to me, about who I am and what I believe, and bringing them together in one place. When I’m a cop I’m me, more than any other time in my life except…” She smiled. “Except when Sandy and I are making love.”
“When you’re being a cop and when you’re with the woman you love,” Catherine said quietly. “That’s when you’re you?”
“Yes,” Mitchell replied solemnly.
Catherine considered the idea, considered all she knew of her lover, all she had learned from Dellon and from other police officers over the years. She believed it. She still didn’t entirely understand it, but she accepted that the essence of their being, their self-definition, was intimately shaped by their responsibility, dedication, and pride in being police officers. Her responsibility at the moment was determining if this one police officer could safely function, regardless of how critical it might be to Mitchell to fulfill her role on the team.
“You seem to like being undercover. Is it stressful?”
“No,” Mitchell admitted. “Not when I’m Mitch. Mitch is…” Struggling, she met Catherine’s eyes and found only acceptance. “Mitch is me. Part of me, anyways. I just let that part come to the surface, and it’s not work.”
“I’ve wondered,” Catherine said. “Do you have to think about behaving like a man, or…how does that happen for you?”
Mitchell grinned. “It comes pretty easy. It’s not just clothes or the co—other stuff. When I’m Mitch, and people relate to me like I’m a guy, it’s easy to stay in character. Sure, it helps to look the part, to have the right equipment in my jeans, but a lot of it is about how other people see me. Sandy helps a lot.”
“How?” Catherine watched Mitchell’s face come to life, saw the energy return to her eyes, saw her body straighten with renewed strength. She wasn’t entirely certain whether it was the mention of Sandy or Mitch, but something had infused Mitchell with excitement and purpose.
“She digs Mitch. She makes it work for me. She never lets me forget who I am when I’m him.” Mitchell made a wry face, considering her words. “Did that just make any sense?”
Catherine laughed. “I think so. Having Sandy believe in Mitch, and relate to him with consistency and sincerity, makes it easier for you to project his personality.”
“Yes.” Mitchell grinned. “Having her have the hots for Mitch helps me be him.”
“I think that’s what I just said,” Catherine murmured, and Mitchell laughed.
“I can see that the undercover portion of the assignment is not a problem for you. What about the rest of it?” Catherine asked, suddenly serious. “Are you concerned about the danger?”
“Concerned?” Mitchell pondered the idea. “No. It takes some getting used to, never knowing exactly what’s going to happen, but I feel prepared. Being a cop is just like being a soldier. You train, you know you’re ready, and whatever happens, you deal with it.”
“Speaking of soldiers,” Catherine remarked evenly, “Erica was a bit of a surprise.”
“Yeah, well, she hasn’t been part of my life for quite a while, so I never thought to mention her.”
Catherine made a sound of assent, watching Mitchell’s face.
“Okay,” Mitchell conceded. “I don’t li
ke to talk about her.”
After a moment, Catherine asked, “Has seeing her yesterday changed how you feel at all?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. It’s going to be a lot harder to put her out of my mind now.”
“It must take a lot of work to keep your twin out of your mind.”
For the merest instant, Mitchell closed her eyes. Then with a sigh, she said, “It’s impossible. Most of the time I don’t think about her, but then at odd moments, I remember something we did or something she said, or I’ll want to tell her something…and she’s not there.” She took a deep breath and sighed again. “Then it’s really tough.”
“Now…with all that’s going on with this investigation, is probably not the best time to explore your feelings concerning the estrangement with your sister, but at some point, I think you should.”
Slowly, Mitchell nodded. “So…you and I, we could do that?”
“Yes, we could.”
“Okay,” Mitchell said as if that settled the matter. Then she leaned forward, her gaze intent. “So, will you clear me to get back to work?”
Catherine didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
*
Mitch sat on the edge of the bed, leaning forward to pull on his right motorcycle boot. Sandy scooted around behind him and threaded her arms around his neck, running her hands back and forth over his chest.
“Remember, Ali said you couldn’t ride the bike.” Sandy kissed the back of his neck.
“I won’t,” he replied, reaching for the other boot. His leg ached when he stood too long or stretched too far. But basically, it didn’t bother him. The stitches hadn’t yet been removed, but the incision was healing fine, and he rarely thought about it. “Jasmine will pick me up in her car.”
“I could come with you to the Troc,” Sandy suggested. “I am supposed to be your girlfriend, you know.”
“You are my girlfriend.”
“So, I’ll come.”
“I’m going to Ziggie’s after the Kings finish their show.”
“I know. I’ll catch a ride home with someone.”
Mitch angled around on the bed until he could see Sandy’s face. He grinned. “Uh-huh. Anybody who sees us together will really believe that I’m going to leave you to go out clubbing with the guys.”