Неизвестный - 4. Justice In The Shadows

“Yes.” Completely unexpectedly, Rebecca felt a wave of nausea. She forced herself not to change expression but she failed.

“Rebecca,” Catherine said softly, seeing the discomfort in her lover’s eyes. “I love you. That doesn’t stop just because you aggravate me.”

“I’m glad.” In a low voice Rebecca muttered, “I think it was right about at this point that I fell in love with you the first time around.”

Taken completely off guard, Catherine’s heart lifted. “Why Detective Frye, could it be that you’re mellowing?”

Ice blue eyes suddenly bored into Catherine’s, only to soften instantly. “Sensitivity training.”

Catherine laughed out loud and moved closer to the sofa. Rebecca automatically threaded her arm around Catherine’s waist, and the psychiatrist rested her head on the detective’s shoulder. “If it’s all right with Officer Mitchell, I’ll check my notes and let you know if there’s anything in my records remotely connected to what you’ve been doing.”

“Thanks.” Rebecca looked at the remarkable woman who had changed her life. “I love you, you know.”

“Yes. I know.” Catherine smiled. “Just be careful, Detective.”

CHAPTER TEN

“How’s it going?” Dee Flanagan asked.

Sloan pushed back the small stool on which she had been perched since midmorning and eyed the CSI chief. “Your computer is a dinosaur. I’m surprised it still runs.”

“Police issue. You should see what the patrol cars look like.” Dee moved through the small space that was covered on every surface with stacks of journals, boxes off crime-scene mockups, files, and reference books. “Did you find anything?”

“Not yet.”

Dee sat behind her desk and sipped from the mug of coffee she had carried in with her. “Whoever took the files did it months ago. Do you really think you can find anything now?”

“If you had a body that had been buried for twenty years, would there be anything still there that would help you find the killer?”

“There’s always something there. The flesh decays, but even as it does, it changes the nature of whatever surrounds it—chemically, physically, biologically. The bones tell their own tale. Age of the victim, gender, sometimes even the manner of death. The answer is always there; you just need to know how to read the story.”

Sloan nodded. “That’s what it’s like with a computer, too. Even the best hacker leaves a trail. Just by trying to erase the evidence of their presence, they change other things, always leaving some sign of having been there.”

Dee leaned forward over the desk, her intelligent eyes alight with excitement. “So—what does he leave behind?”

“Could be any number of things, depending on how your system is set up and how he accessed your hard drive. One of the first places to look is the log files, which is sort of a diary of events. Information is constantly stored automatically by the operating system without you ever being aware of it. There are also telephone logs which will tell us when attempts were made to dial into the computer from remote access, and usually, with a little creative backtracking, I can get those phone numbers. Once I secure your system, the next thing I’ll do is to analyze the log files around the time your data disappeared and look for evidence of illegal entry.”

“Secure my system? No offense, but isn’t beefing up the security a little late now?”

Sloan regarded the other woman contemplatively. “If someone tampered with your data once, there’s no reason to think they didn’t do before or since. It would certainly be desirable if someone could access your files and find out just what evidence you had accumulated on a certain case, even if they couldn’t take a chance on altering it.”

“Altering it! Jesus Christ. Just a suggestion that evidence has been tampered with could overturn dozens of verdicts.” Dee stood suddenly, quickly threaded her way through the obstacle path on the floor, and shut her office door. “That kind of speculation could be disastrous.”

“I’m aware of that,” Sloan said quietly. “Hopefully, we’ll be able to identify the hacker and then look elsewhere for corroborating evidence to link him to the crimes. That way, we can leave your department out of it completely. But we’d better be sure your system is secure now.”

“If you find something that suggests my files have been compromised in any way, I want to know.”

Sloan shook her head, appreciating the other woman’s integrity, but also recognizing her naïveté. “Look, I’ve been involved in this kind of thing before, and if that turns out to be the case, it’s going to fall on your doorstep. That’s not something you want to have happen.” Your career will be over, and you’ll be lucky if you don’t face criminal charges.

Before Sloan could elaborate, Dee repeated forcefully, “There are people in prison right now because of evidence I presented at trial. There are also a fair number of scumbags walking the streets who were freed because my analysis exonerated them. I have to know I made the right calls.”

“Despite its importance, the crime scene evidence is only one piece of the case presented at trial. The verdict doesn’t rest on your testimony alone.”

“I don’t give a good goddamn about the other pieces of the case. I only care about mine.”

“I understand.” Sloan glanced at her watch. “I don’t have much time today, but I’ll be back either tonight or tomorrow morning. How do I get in here?”

“I’ll give you the combination to the touchpad lock on the morgue admissions bay door.”

“Thanks.” Sloan leaned over, closed her black satchel, which held tools and disks loaded with software programs, and stood. “What if someone sees me in here and asks why I’m working after hours?”

Dee grinned, a mischievous grin that was twice as charming for its rarity. “Just tell them I wouldn’t let you work in here during the day. You could throw in something about me being a pain in the ass—that will help with the authenticity of your story.”

Sloan laughed. “I’ll just mention that I touched something, and you threw me out.”

“I see that Frye instructed you well.”

Sloan just grinned as she walked with Dee toward the exit. It was time to put revenge aside. Now, it was time for Michael.

When Sloan entered Michael’s room shortly before two, she found what appeared to be a party in progress. Michael, looking pale but visibly stronger than just a few hours before, was seated in a leather-padded wooden hospital chair by the side of the bed, a thin blanket over her knees.

Sarah crouched beside the chair, her hand on Michael’s knee. Ali Torveau leaned against the side of the bed, a plastic folder containing Michael’s hospital chart tucked under one arm.

“Dr. Torveau says I can go home,” Michael’s announced, gripping Sloan’s hand with surprising strength.

Almost afraid to believe it, Sloan glanced at the trauma surgeon. “Today?”

“Right now,” Torveau replied even as she held up a hand. “Under certain conditions.”

“Anything,” Sloan responded quickly.

“Someone, preferably a trained medical professional, needs to stay with her twenty-four hours a day.”

“I’m an OMD,” Sarah interjected. “I’ll stay as long as you think it’s necessary—that is if Sloan and Michael don’t mind me moving in for a bit.”

“That would be great, Sarah,” Sloan said instantly. “Thanks.”

“That sounds good,” the surgeon agreed. “It’s also very important that I be advised immediately should there be any change at all in your symptoms, Michael—that means a worsening headache, visual disturbances, weakness—even temporary, cognitive or expressive difficulties, or seizures.”