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“I’ve been logging in potential online suspects as Mr. McBride has initiated contact, ma’am. It’s too early to tell you the specifics such as location or level of activity, but I should be able to begin cross-referencing within a day or two and generate possible lines of follow-up from that.”
Rebecca glanced at Sloan, her eyebrow elevating slightly in question. That hadn’t been part of Mitchell’s job description. The kid had initiative as well as brains, apparently.
Sloan nodded, as if reading her thoughts. “Officer Mitchell has been making herself very useful. She’s freed me up to focus on large scale web-hosting sites that seem to have concentrated activities in this area. Anyone receiving live-video feeds will need high-speed access and they’re going to be paying hefty user fees. I’m trying to get in the back door by starting with the customer data bases and looking for common user time frames.”
“How about grabbing a cup of coffee, Sloan,” Rebecca replied, choosing not to comment on Sloan’s information until they were alone. You didn’t discuss strategy in front of the ranks.
“Sure,” Sloan replied. The two of them walked in silence to the conference room where they had first been briefed by Clark, helped themselves to coffee, and settled across from one another at the conference table.
“How close are you to narrowing this search down to real people and not just internet aliases?” Rebecca asked.
“Closer than anyone would have expected a week ago. We caught a break—the FBI has been running a national sting operation over the last eighteen months called Operation Avalanche. They’ve already identified and collated a tremendous number of potential Internet sites marketing porn, and they’ve prescreened hundreds of e-mail accounts of users frequenting porn chat rooms aimed at those with a taste for kids. A lot of those names have already been traced and filed geographically.”
“Did Clark get you that information from the FBI?”
“Nope,” Sloan answered immediately.
“Are you going to tell him you have it?”
“Nope.”
Rebecca sipped her coffee, considering Sloan’s openness in answering questions, her seeming lack of concern about the repercussions of her hacking into Federal law enforcement data bases, and her obvious skill. The woman had all the earmarks of a rogue agent, but Rebecca didn’t think she was. Sloan wasn’t rogue, because rogue agents were always wary and suspicious and afraid of being caught. She was just untouchable. And you only got that way if you’d already had everything done to hurt you that could be done. “What about Mitchell? She’s just a rookie, and I don’t want her getting in the middle of anything.”
“Mitchell may be young, but she’s savvy. I’ll give her the info when we have some local leads to chase electronically. Everything she touches will be clean and accountable.” Sloan eased back in her chair, watching the blond detective astutely. “If you want, I can just give you the bottom line and leave out how we got there, too.”
“I don’t need your protection, Sloan,” Rebecca replied, her tone oddly mild. “But I appreciate the thought. I prefer to have as much information as possible during an investigation. What I’m curious about is why you are so willing to share.”
“I’m willing to share with you, because when the time comes, I figure you’re going to be the one standing in front of the door, not Avery Clark. Maybe I’m wrong to trust you, but, then, I don’t work for Agent Clark.”
“No, you don’t. Not anymore.”
Sloan’s eyes narrowed and her fingers tensed on the coffee cup. “I never worked for Clark.”
“But you did work for the Justice Department, didn’t you?” Rebecca knew she’d struck gold when the dark haired woman across from her grew tight and still. A second later, she could see Sloan consciously relax each tense muscle in her formidably powerful shoulders. Incredible control. “Does Clark have something on you and McBride?”
“Not a thing,” Sloan said amiably. “Believe it or not, I took this job because I thought it was a job worth doing. Believe me, Detective, I don’t take any job unless I want to. Not even for the Department of Justice.”
“Fair enough,” Rebecca said with a nod. “It’s been my experience that people who are blackmailed into an assignment aren’t very trustworthy. And I like to know if I can trust the people I’m working with.”
“I could tell you I’m trustworthy,” Sloan said, unveiling her megawatt, devil-may-care grin, “but I don’t think that would impress you.”
Despite herself, Rebecca grinned back. “I don’t impress very easily, Sloan. But if you can come up with someone for me to investigate, I’ll be appropriately impressed, I promise. What about McBride? Do you vouch for him, too?”
“Jason is his own man, and if you have any doubts, talk to him yourself.”
“But he’s your associate.”
“And my friend.”
Rebecca could easily imagine JT Sloan standing up to the Justice Department, and she had a feeling that Sloan probably had. The computer expert had obviously been valuable to them once, or they wouldn’t have come back to her when they needed her services. Rebecca had a feeling that they had come back with apologies in one hand while waving the flag in the other. “I’m working on a few things from my end, but at this point I don’t have dick.”
Sloan looked surprised at the honest admission, then said good-naturedly, “I’ll never tell.”
“Thanks,” Rebecca said dryly, but she finally smiled. On impulse she added, “Question—if someone pilfered files—stole them—from someone’s system, could you figure out who did it?”
“Probably.” Sloan’s deep violet eyes sparkled with interest. “Unless they were awfully good at concealing themselves, and most hackers aren’t that good.”
“Compared to you, you mean.”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I mean.”
“What would you need to do to find them?”
“I’d need the hard drive. Preferably, I’d like to have it here, but I could work on the system in place if I had to.”
Rebecca stood and rolled her shoulders, “It would be unofficial, and it would be for free. If you did it, I’d owe you.”
“No, you wouldn’t. I do it because it’s fun.”
“If I can’t find out any other way, I’ll let you know.”
Sloan stood with her, and as they walked back towards the work area, she said softly, “Usually people who hack computers aren’t very dangerous, but you never know, Frye. You should be careful.”
“I’m a cop, Sloan. I don’t scare easily.”
“I used to be a cop, too. I didn’t carry a gun, and maybe I should have.”
Rebecca watched her walk away, surprised to discover how much she liked her.
Sandy opened the door and immediately considered slamming it. “I’m working. Go away.”
“No, you’re not. I’ve been watching your building for two hours, and I know you don’t have anyone up here unless they’ve paid for the whole night.”
“If you keep hanging around me, I’m going to starve to death.”
Rebecca lifted the brown paper bag in her hand. “No, you won’t. I brought dinner.”
Sandy rested her forehead on the edge of the door and cursed colorfully. “Whatever it is you think you do for me, Frye, it is so not enough to make up for all the trouble you could cause me.”
“I know,” Rebecca replied seriously. “Can I come in?”
“What did you bring?”
“Thai.”
“Yeah, I suppose.”
Rebecca had never been in Sandy’s apartment before, although she had known for months where she lived. She knew almost everything about the people in her territory who were important to her—friends, suspects, and enemies alike. She wouldn’t have come to Sandy’s if she’d had any other choice, but she had checked all of the normal places for her and had finally given up and staked out her apartment. When the light had come on in the front windows, she’d waited until she was certain that Sandy wasn’t with a john, and then she’d come up. She took in the small efficiency in one practiced glance. It was neat, tidy, and tastefully, although economically, decorated. “Nice place,” she said, meaning it.
“Thanks,” Sandy replied, eying the tall cop suspiciously. “Hey, Frye, has anyone told you lately that you look like crap?”
Rebecca didn’t reply, just settled herself on the sofa without being invited and put the bag of carry out on the low, plain pine coffee table in front of her. “Go ahead and eat while we talk.”
“You want something?” Sandy asked as she walked into the small, adjoining galley kitchen. “A beer?”
“Water would be fine.” Her throat was scratchy and dry, and, briefly, she considered taking off her jacket, then thought better of it. Even though it was warm in the apartment, and she was sweating, she didn’t make a habit of flashing her weapon if she could help it.
Sandy returned and set a pile of paper plates, silverware, a bottle of beer, and a glass of water on the table. She opened the bags, checked out the contents of the cardboard cartons, and dished out a generous amount for herself. Gesturing to Rebecca with one of the containers, she asked, “Want some?”
“No, I’m fine.”
“Uh huh. Sure,” Sandy replied, not bothering to repeat that the cop looked even paler and more drawn then she had the night before. “Rita called me and said you sprung her last night. Thanks.”
“You should tell her to be more careful who she pitches her lines to.”
“Hey!” Sandy said indignantly. “She swore she never mentioned money to that cop. The guy was cute and he told Rita he’d make it worth her while if she got him off. Doesn’t that sound like entrapment to you?”
“It’s just her word, Sandy,” Rebecca pointed out quietly. The undercover vice cop had reported that the prostitute had solicited him, but Rebecca was inclined to believe Sandy. Nevertheless, a prostitute’s word against that of a cop would never hold up in court. She shook her head, not quite certain how she had allowed the topic to stray from what had brought her there. Probably the damn headache that was back again in force. “So, what have you got for me?”
“Not a thing.”
“I don’t have anywhere to be tonight.”
“God, you think because you buy me dinner a couple nights in a row that you own me?”
Rebecca smiled. “Trust me, Sandy. Owning you is the furthest thing from my mind.”
Sandy took a pull on her Corona and shifted on the couch until her knees brushed Rebecca’s and their eyes met. “I’ve heard that a couple of the girls have been making extra cash doing films.”
“Films?” Rebecca asked with interest.
“Skin flicks.”
“Tell me everything you know. Names, dates, places—what do you have?”
“Nothing yet,” Sandy said defensively. “Only talk. But I think I can probably find out if you give me a little room here.”
“Good,” Rebecca said, reaching for the water as she coughed dryly.
“Who knows, maybe I’ll get into a new line of work. Do you think I would make it as a porno queen?” She frowned. “Probably my tits are too small…but then I’d fit right in if they’re looking for girls.”
“Don’t even think about it,” Rebecca said sharply, ignoring the pain that had started in her chest on the heels of the cough. “All I want is for you to get some information. Do not agree to anything else.”
“Well, I could probably get a lot more information if I hired on to do one of the movies,” Sandy said musingly. “The talk is they’re paying mucho bucks.”
“Just call me if you hear anything,” Rebecca ordered as she stood, suddenly feeling like she needed some fresh air. “Don’t go playing games.”
“You know, you are a real pain in… Frye?… Hey!”
Rebecca was aware of Sandy’s voice, but she couldn’t make out the words over the roaring in her head. She could just barely hear someone saying fuck…it might have been her…she thought she was speaking. Mostly all she wanted to do was get one clean, deep breath and she’d be fine. Man, it hurt to breathe, and it kept on hurting until finally, she just closed her eyes and stopped struggling.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CATHERINE KNOCKED SHARPLY on the door to apartment 3 B. Although socioeconomically the residential area immediately surrounding University City where she lived in a historically renovated Victorian was light years away from the apartments bordering the Tenderloin, they were separated in distance only by the river that bisected the city and twenty city blocks. It had taken her less than six minutes to arrive after she had gotten the phone call. The door opened and a young Annie Lennox look-alike in a tight, midriff baring T-shirt and hip hugger jeans slung so low they barely covered the essentials greeted her with a distinct disregard for social amenities.
“Are you Catherine? Fuck, you better be.”
Catherine merely nodded and stepped hurriedly inside. “Where is she?”
“Over there. Goddamned stubborn cop moron.”
Sandy jerked her head in the direction of the couch, but she needn’t have bothered. Catherine could hear the labored breathing from across the small apartment. Two steps further into the room and she saw Rebecca lying on the sofa, her shoulders propped against the arm with a pillow behind her head. The top three buttons on her shirt were open and her chest heaved spasmodically with each struggling attempt to get air. Sweat poured from her face, and her skin had a faint bluish tint. Catherine’s heart seized with fear. God, what was this? Hemorrhage? Embolus? It looked terrifyingly like an MI.
“Call 911.”
“No,” Rebecca gasped, opening her eyes.
When she turned to Catherine, her eyes were swimming with pain and something else, something Catherine didn’t think she had ever seen in them before. Fear.
“See what I mean?” Sandy muttered. “You think I didn’t want to? She threatened to shoot the phone if I did. I’m lucky she gave me your number. Fucking rock head.”
Catherine knelt by the sofa, noting the remains of a takeout meal and Rebecca’s jacket thrown over a nearby chair. Anger was an excellent antidote to fear, but she had time for neither, so she pushed the quick surge of jealousy and confused disappointment aside. Pulling open a worn satchel that she hadn’t used in more than a decade, she extracted a stethoscope, which she swung around her neck with one hand while reaching for a blood pressure cuff with the other. As she wrapped the cuff around Rebecca’s arm, she said steadily, “I need to get you to a hospital.”
“I… know.” Rebecca made an effort to sit up, but any exertion made her lightheaded. “I’ll go. Just not…in an…ambulance.”
Catherine tried not to think about what might be going inside Rebecca’s body as she concentrated on the physical facts. Although her pressure was low, it wasn’t critical yet. Slipping her hand under Rebecca’s shirt, Catherine moved the stethoscope back and forth over her chest. Frowning, she listened for a few seconds to the right and then the left, then she glanced quickly at the distended veins in Rebecca’s neck. “Your left lung is collapsed. We need to get you out of here.” Looking over her shoulder, she said again, forcefully, “Call 911.”
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