Неизвестный - 5. Justice Served

“You know I won’t.”

“Then I’ll just make sure there’s nothing for you to see.”

“Make sure there’s nothing for me to even think about.” Rebecca stopped walking and put her hand on Sloan’s shoulder. They very rarely touched, and it wasn’t a comforting or even a particularly friendly gesture. But it was an honest one. She squeezed slowly and turned Sloan to face her in the middle of the sidewalk. “I know what you’re feeling.”

“I know that you do,” Sloan said, not resisting the hand that restrained her. “But when someone threatened your lover, you blew his heart out.”

“I’m a cop. I had no choice.”

“We’ll never know that for sure, will we?”

“You know, if you go after this guy on your own, Michael will know.”

For the Þ rst time, anger ß ared in Sloan’s eyes. “You don’t talk to Michael about this.”

“I won’t have to, Sloan.” Rebecca’s tone was level and mild.

“She’ll know. Because…they always do. The women who love us.”

Sloan stood very still, her gaze unwavering. Then, her muscles eased and a genuine smile appeared. “Fuck. They do, don’t they.”

“Yep.” Rebecca dropped her hand and rolled her shoulders, relaxing as she watched Sloan reach a decision. “I promise you this. If it’s him, we’ll get him. We’ll get him now, or tomorrow, or next month.

But he won’t get away with it. You have my word.”

“All right.” Sloan shivered. “So are you done with the interrogation, Lieutenant? Because I’m freezing my ass off out here.”

Laughing, Rebecca gripped Sloan’s shoulder, in camaraderie this time, as they turned to head back. Sloan would keep her word, for Michael.

• 121 •

• 122 •

Justice Served

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Rebecca drove south on Delaware Avenue deep into South Philadelphia. The Walt Whitman Bridge to New Jersey

loomed overhead—a huge blue spiderweb, the shadows of vehicles traversing the central span like so many prey struggling to escape. Rush hour was nearly over, and it took less than ten minutes to reach the main gates of the Port of Philadelphia. Rebecca slowed and extended her ID

out the window at the security booth, a four-by-four-foot kiosk with a wooden gate and a single, bored-looking Port Authority ofÞ cer inside.

He ignored them for a full thirty seconds before leaning out and squinting at Rebecca’s badge. “Yeah?”

“Philadelphia police. We’re looking for OfÞ cer…Reiser.”

“That would be Captain Reiser. Building C, all the way in the back. The captain know you’re coming?”

“No. It’s a social call.”

The grizzled ofÞ cer eyed Rebecca laconically. “Uh-huh. Sure.”

Taking his time, he half turned back into the tiny booth, pushed a button that powered the motor to raise the barrier arm, and gave Rebecca a perfunctory nod. “Have a nice day.”

Rebecca proceeded into the complex as Watts muttered, “You have a nice fucking day too. Moron.”

“How do you think we should play this?” Rebecca asked, maneuvering cautiously between rows of gigantic containers that had been off-loaded from ships that morning and awaited transport to the adjoining railroad yard. There they would be stacked on ß atbed cars and shipped up and down the East Coast. The workday was in full swing on the docks, and a multitude of orange forklifts, their front-loaders raised and extended, scurried about like so many ants in a hill. Rebecca began to wish she had driven a department vehicle and not her ’Vette. The last thing she wanted was for one of these teamsters to spear the side of her

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RADCLY fFE

car with a forklift or—worse yet—dump a couple of tons of metal on top of it.

“Well, we could go for typecasting,” Watts suggested helpfully.

“You could be the bad cop, and I’ll be the good cop.”

Rebecca ß icked him a glance, and he looked back, perfectly straight-faced. She grinned. “What’s your next idea.”

“Why not tell this guy we’re just following up on the homicide investigation because Horton and Marks ran out of steam. Since Jeff was one of ours, that would make sense.”

“Yeah. And we just came across these notes and are tying off loose ends. That plays.” Rebecca pulled into a space in a small employee lot in front of an eight-foot chain-link fence that ran parallel to the water as far as the eye could see in both directions. Beyond it, sheet-metal-covered warehouses as big as airplane hangars lined the waterfront.

“Guess we go on foot from here.”

“Christ, it looks like it’s a mile away.” Watts lit a cigarette the instant he stepped from the car.

“At least you’ll get some exercise.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Rebecca watched as a decktop crane on an enormous cargo ship pivoted over the water with a container as big as a Cape Cod cottage swinging from its massive arm. With surprising precision, the operator lowered the loaded storage crate onto the dock at the end of a row of a dozen others exactly like it.

“It’s amazing how they can keep track of anything here. All these cargo ships, hundreds of containers.” Rebecca shook her head. “What a perfect way to smuggle contraband.”

“Special delivery, right to your door,” Watts agreed.

Pointing to one of half a dozen identical buildings distinguished only by six-foot red letters painted on the front of each one, Rebecca said, “This way.”

After they stopped a harried dockworker to ask where the ofÞ ce was, they were directed to a side door leading into the warehouse. Once inside, they followed an unadorned corridor lit by bare ß uorescent tubes dangling on chains toward the interior of the building. Just before the passageway opened into a cavernous space Þ lled with pallets of boxes and more containers, they found the ofÞ ce. The door was open, and Rebecca and Watts stepped inside.

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Justice Served

The top half of one wall of the twenty-by-twenty-foot room was glass, affording anyone inside a view of the interior of the warehouse beyond. File cabinets lined the opposite wall, a metal desk sat in the center of the room, and a small TV stand in one corner held a water-stained coffee machine. A single monitor displaying a view of the dock immediately in front of the building was mounted high in one corner opposite the desk. An African American woman in a spotless uniform sat behind the desk.

She studied them with an expression of curious interest. “Can I help you two?”

“Captain Reiser?” Rebecca asked.

“That’s right.”

“I’m Detective Lieutenant Rebecca Frye, and this is Detective Watts. PPD.”

Reiser pushed back her chair and stood in one ß uid motion, extending her hand. “Detectives,” she said, as she shook each of their hands in turn. Indicating a stack of metal chairs along one wall, she said ruefully, “Grab yourself a seat.”

“Thank you, we’re Þ ne,” Rebecca said.

Seated again, Reiser nodded. “Same question. How can I help you two?”

“We wanted to ask you some questions about Detective Jimmy Hogan.”

Reiser’s expression didn’t change. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“Somebody put a bullet in his head down here about six months ago,” Watts said conversationally.

“Ah, yes. Him and another police ofÞ cer. I’m sorry.”

“We thought you might be able to tell us what he was doing down here.” Rebecca’s tone was casual. Friendly. But her ice blue eyes were sharply appraising.

“Is there some reason you think I might know?” Reiser replied, her expression equally relaxed and her deep chocolate eyes just as intent as she scrutinized Rebecca.

“Watts,” Rebecca said softly.