Неизвестный - 3. In Pursuit Of Justice

“Sloan,” Michael gasped helplessly. “I’m coming.”

Sloan fought not to go off with her, watching the pleasure flow through Michael’s body, her own nerves melting as she began to burn from the inside out. Her arms trembled, supporting Michael’s weight as she convulsed, and her legs twisted as orgasm thundered through her. Her shouts were lost in Michael’s cries as they held to one another while pleasure raged.

Moments, eons, later, Sloan managed, “What do you think?”

“A hundred and ten percent,” Michael gasped, still trembling.

“Hmm,” Sloan grumbled. “Maybe I am slipping.”

Michael laughed. “You know, I can cancel this overnight to Boston. I don’t want to be away if something breaks on your case.”

“No—go ahead,” Sloan said, brushing her cheek against the fine hair at Michael’s temple. “We’re not that close. I’ll pick you up at the airport tomorrow night like we planned.”

“If something happens, will you call me? I’ll come right back.” Michael brushed her hand along Sloan’s side, feeling her stiffen. “I know you, Sloan. You’ll want to be in the middle of it. And I want to be here.”

“Just go sew up your deal,” Sloan insisted. “You’ll be back in plenty of time. Promise.”

“Mmm,” Michael said, curling into Sloan’s body and closing her eyes. “I’ll hold you to that.”

Eighteen hours later, Catherine looked up as the door to the conference room opened. As it never failed to do, her heart rate skyrocketed at the sight of the handsome blond in the pale blue button-down collar shirt and faded jeans. It was unusual to see Rebecca working in anything other than a well tailored suit, but it was, after all, eleven p.m. on a Friday night. She supposed that when Rebecca worked the streets well into the early morning hours, she did it in jeans and a leather jacket. The memory of just how good Rebecca looked when dressed that way was followed quickly by an image of Sandy’s small cozy apartment and the remains of the takeout meal. Impatiently, she set that thought aside. There was work to be done, and musing about Rebecca’s secret life was not going to help.

“You’re working late,” Rebecca remarked, surveying the pile of computer printouts on the table. Other than several phone calls and one hurried lunch together in the hospital cafeteria, they hadn’t really had much contact the entire week. It was the longest they had been separated since Rebecca moved back to her own apartment. With each passing day, Rebecca felt more at sea. She had a feeling that Catherine was waiting for her to say something, or do something, but she wasn’t certain what that was.

“I can’t believe how much traffic there is on these sites,” Catherine said, indicating the stacks of on-line chat transcripts. “And these are just the ones that Jason thought were interesting.”

“This is the fifth night into a row that you’ve been at it. You look tired. You do still have a day job, remember.”

Catherine studied her, aware of the reservation in her tone. The concern was genuine; she could see it in her eyes. But Rebecca hadn’t touched her when she’d walked into the room, and although she sat within arm’s length now, the emotional distance between them seemed unbridgeable. Not for the first time, she wondered where Rebecca had been spending her nights. “I’m okay. Reading through these is a lot easier than doing an hour or two of therapy.”

Rebecca smiled wryly. “I can only imagine. How’s it going?”

“Surprisingly,” Catherine said, pushing back in the chair with a sigh, “not too bad. It occurred to me this morning while I was making rounds that we aren’t the only people profiling.”

Rebecca edged a hip onto the corner of the table, her expression interested. “What do you mean?”

“Well, thus far, Sloan and Jason have been concentrating on finding individuals who fit a certain profile. I’m sure that the computer wizards in the other room will be able to manipulate this information and eventually come up with something concrete. Still, they’ve amassed a tremendous amount of information which could take a long time to analyze.”

“Right,” Rebecca grimaced. “If I think about it too hard, it gives me a headache.”

“Actually, me too. I think I might be able to add another piece to the puzzle and speed up the process.”

“How?” Rebecca asked, crossing the room and testing the heat of the coffeepot with her palm. It was warm and the coffee smelled fresh. She lifted the pot and gestured in Catherine’s direction. “Want some?”

“Thanks, no,” Catherine replied with a shake of her head. “Anyhow, it occurred to me that if someone is making money, presumably a lot of money, producing and selling pornographic movies—as well as broadcasting live videos of child prostitution—they have to have an audience.”

“Well, that’s the point, isn’t it?” Rebecca said, moving back to Catherine side with her coffee in hand. “All of these dirt balls that Jason’s been communicating with are the audience members.”

“I’m not arguing that they are all purveyors of child pornography in one form or another. But only a select few — probably very few — would actually be in the position to subscribe to this live broadcast that Sloan’s so anxious to get a lead on.”

“Wait a minute,” Rebecca said, an edge of excitement in her voice. “It’s just like any television program — a target audience always has a particular profile. A particular demographic make-up. Is that what you mean?”

“Precisely,” Catherine stated emphatically. “That’s exactly what I mean. Obviously, the viewers are going to be men, probably between the ages of twenty-five and fifty. Secondly, they need expensive equipment and high-speed Internet access—that requires a certain income level.”

“Probably single, or at least someone who has a large chunk of private time,” Rebecca interjected, a note of enthusiasm in her voice.

“So my theory,” Catherine continued, “is that there are probably a number of middlemen recruiting potential subscribers for this—broadcasting service—for want of a better word. And we should be able to identify them by the questions they’re asking.”

“So you’re looking for someone who is trying to find out if Jason—well, the Jason persona—is a single adult male with expendable income who might be interested in something more than still pics or cybersex.”

“You’ve got it. I’m looking for someone who appears to be profiling. What I’ve done is give Mitchell a list of hypothetical questions that these recruiters might ask so she can screen for them. Then we’ll pull the transcripts of anyone who hits fifty percent and, with luck, I can string all of that individual’s chats together and see if the whole picture fits.”

“I don’t know why Clark didn’t get you in on this from the beginning,” Rebecca said with a shake of her head.

A voice from the door responded, “Because we didn’t know what the hell we were doing. And if you repeat that, I’ll deny all knowledge.” Grinning, Sloan nodded to Rebecca as she made her way to the coffeepot. “How are you doing?”

“Fine.” Rebecca glanced at the woman who entered behind Sloan. “Officer Mitchell. Putting in a little overtime?”

“No, ma’am. I’m here on my own time.”

Rebecca raised an eyebrow. “Any particular reason?”

“Since Dr. Rawlings is here, I thought I could help out with logging identifiers and running probabilities. Seemed like the best use of resources.”

“It’s your dime, Mitchell.” But she made note of it. The kid was quality.

“Any luck with street Intel, Frye?” Sloan inquired.

“Maybe. I’ll know better in a couple of hours,” Rebecca responded as she glanced in Sloan’s direction, not noticing Mitchell’s body stiffen or her expression darken.