Неизвестный - 4. Justice In The Shadows

“It wasn’t anybody on the team,” he replied adamantly.

“I agree.” Rebecca’s voice was low, flat, the way it got when she was simmering with rage. “There’s something you don’t know,” she said at length. “Trish Marks over in Homicide told me that Captain Henry got with her Captain behind close doors, and then she and her partner were pulled off the investigation into Jeff and Jimmy’s murders.”

“That smells bad.”

“Yeah.” Rebecca eased up on the gas. “I don’t want to think it’s him, but…”

“You’d be a puss…ah, a chump to trust him right now.” He fingered his cigarettes fitfully, wondering if she’d ever let him smoke in her ride. “But it could be someone higher up in the Department.”

“Maybe. Or someone with access to department records.”

“How?”

“I don’t know, but someone pulled all of Dee Flanagan’s evidence reports on Jeff and Jimmy.”

“Stole ‘em?”

Rebecca slowed, made a U-turn across the median, and headed back north. “They hacked them out of her computer, it seems.”

“And we have our very own computer whiz kids, and one of ‘ems got an ax to grind.” Watts turned on the seat and studied Rebecca’s sharply hewn profile. “You’re thinking about running a shadow investigation of your own, aren’t you? Going after the leak in the department?”

“It all ties together, Watts. The porn ring, the Justice inquiry, the sex videos, Jimmy Hogan’s Intel—all of it.” She gripped the wheel hard, although her face revealed nothing. “Who knows, this case might even shake loose Zamora and the rest of the organized crime family.”

“We could get hung out to dry, too.”

“Who said anything about we?”

He huffed. “We’re partners, Sarge. Right?”

Rebecca eyed the shabby cop in the clean blue suit and sighed. Almost too quietly for him to hear, she grunted, “Right.”

“The haldol should be fine for the agitation,” Catherine remarked as she signed off on the resident’s progress notes and checked her watch. She had an hour before clinic.

Just outside the intensive care unit, Catherine saw a red-headed woman walking in her direction. Slowing at the woman’s nod, Catherine said, “Hello. I’m Catherine Rawlings. We were never properly introduced last night when Michael was brought it.”

“Sarah Martin.” The red-head extended her hand.

Catherine noticed that there were faint circles beneath her eyes. The smile was soft and genuine, but her cornflower blue eyes were troubled. “How’s Michael? I was about to go check on her.”

“Not awake yet.” Sarah glanced briefly at the double steel doors leading in to the intensive care unit. “If you could talk to Sloan…I can’t get her to leave, and she’s about to collapse.”

“Of course.”

The two women parted and a moment later, Catherine entered the small cubicle where Michael Lassiter lay. “Sloan?”

“Catherine.” Sloan’s voice was hoarse, her eyes dark hollows, the normally vibrant violet brushed black with pain.

Crouching down, Catherine placed both hands on Sloan’s face, cupping her strong jaw. “You have to get some sleep. When she wakes up, she can’t see you like this. Worrying about you will not help her get well.”

“I’m afraid to leave. What if…” She looked away, trembling.

“There’s an on call room my residents use on the next floor. Rebecca’s slept there more than once. You can shower and get some sleep, and you’ll be five minutes away.” Catherine pulled Sloan to her feet and slid her arm around the muscular woman’s waist when she swayed. “I’ll speak to Michael’s nurse and give her the number there. I’ll be sure that you’re called the second there’s any change.”

Sloan wanted to protest, but she kept hearing Catherine’s words. Worrying about you will not help her get well. Carefully she lowered the steel rail that ran along the side of the bed and leaned down to kiss Michael. “I’ll be right back, baby. I love you so much.”

Catherine spoke to the staff, found scrubs for Sloan in the locker room next to the ICU, and walked Sloan up to the resident’s room. “No one will bother you here.”

“Okay, sure. Thanks.” The minute she was alone, Sloan pulled off the clothes she’d been in for over a day, stepped into a cold shower for two minutes, and then collapsed naked onto the bed. She was instantly asleep.

It seemed like only a minute when the phone rang.

CHAPTER THREE

“Yeah,” Sloan croaked groggily.

“This is Dr. Torveau, Ms. Slo—”

“Is she all right?” Sloan pushed herself upright, fumbling on the end of the narrow bed for the clothes Catherine had left her. “Is she—”

“She’s stable. She’s not awake, but she’s starting to show some purposeful movement. It could be any time.”

“I’ll be right there.”

Three minutes later she was waiting by Michael’s bedside once again. “Baby, it’s me,” Sloan whispered, brushing her fingers over Michael’s pale cheek. “I love you.” She’d said it a thousand times in the last forty hours. It was all she could think to say. It was the only thing that mattered in her life. “I…”

Michael’s lids fluttered. Sloan held her breath.

“Michael? Baby?”

Sloan blinked, because she thought she might be dreaming. Blue eyes, the crystal blue of clear ocean water, met hers. Sloan sucked in a sharp breath, then reached trembling fingers for the hand that moved weakly across the crisp white sheets toward hers.

“Sloan?”

“Right here.” Sloan looked around, wondering if she should call someone. But nothing in the world would get her to move from Michael’s side. “You’re going to be okay. You’re in the hospital, but you’re gong to be okay.”

“You?”

“What, love?” Sloan leaned closer. She was shaking so much she thought her legs might go. “I can’t…”

“Are you…all…” Michael swallowed painfully. “…all right?”

“Oh God.” Sloan laughed, an edge of wild tears in her voice. “You’re here…that’s all I need.”

Michael sighed and closed her eyes. Sloan’s heart tripped with sudden apprehension. “Michael?”

“She’s just asleep,” Ali Torveau, the trauma surgeon, said quietly from the doorway. “She’ll be in and out like that for a while. She was lucky.”

“Lucky.” Sloan glanced back at her lover, so fragile, so precious. Rage burned like acid in her gut. “Yeah.”

When Rebecca’s pager sounded for the third time in less than half and hour, she looked at the readout grimaced. “I think our time is up. That’s the captain’s number again. I’ll come back out later tonight—see if I can shake down some of my sources.”

“How ’bout that hooker you mentioned the other day?”

Rebecca stiffened and said nothing. Although the description was true, she rarely thought of Sandy as one of the marginal, beaten-down women who sold their bodies with seemingly careless disregard for their own ultimate fate. Sandy wasn’t like that, not yet. She was still clear-eyed and spirited, still fighting the forces that colluded to drag her down.

“I’ll let her look at some pictures.” Rebecca’s tone was clipped and short. “Maybe she can ID them for us.”

Watts cleared his throat. “We’ve got some better pictures she could look at, maybe. Recent pictures.”

“What?” Rebecca pulled in to the lot behind the one-eight and turned in her seat to regard him with just the faintest hint of suspicion.

“Didn’t Sloan say she was recording that little fuck fest last night? There’s two girls right there that we know are involved for sure.”

“And a guy,” Rebecca said softly. “Jesus, Watts.”