Неизвестный - 3. In Pursuit Of Justice

“I know that. Sorry.”

Then, patting her lap with her free hand, Michael said, “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 read 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 asked, 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 day 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. “I’m an official civilian consultant, ID badge and all.”

“What about Jason?”

“Him, too.”

Michael considered the night she’d sat on this couch for the first time, a little over a year before, and listened to Sloan’s tale of Justice and the injustices done in the name of patriotism and honor and national security. She remembered every anguished word, and every tremor of pain in Sloan’s body, and now her own anger at the memory threatened to make her voice harsh. Tenderly, still stroking her lover’s face, she took a deep breath and asked quietly, “What about everything that happened before?”

“They made nice; all is forgiven.” She 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 breast, brushing her lips over the swell of flesh beneath the sheer fabric. “I’m okay with it. Clark is 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 clearing houses 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, kissed her again, and 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, 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 NINE

AT 7:24 AM, 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 added, “Uh oh. Looks like we have a babysitting 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!” 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 just the fact that she let him ride along was enough for him.

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. 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 continued, “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 wanna-bes as he peered about. When 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 said, “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 hair cut, 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, then turned, saying, “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 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, and then they all filed past a counter in the corner for drinks and food and eventually migrated to seats around the granite-topped table.