Justice in the Shadows (7 page)

“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.”

Sloan felt slightly ill as she listened to the list of potential problems and struggled to keep her expression blank. “How long do we have to worry about something like this happening?”

“Some things could develop months from now, particularly a seizure disorder, but in all likelihood, after a week or two, we can all relax.”

“Can I work?” Michael asked. “I wouldn’t have to leave the house.”

“Michael…” At a swift look of warning from Sarah, Sloan clamped her mouth shut and swallowed the protest. All she could see, still, was Michael lying on the ground in a puddle of blood. But Michael didn’t know what had happened, and there was no reason to make her afraid now.

Ali raised an eyebrow. “I don’t expect you’ll feel like working for a week or so. But,” she added at the look of dismay on Michael’s face, “if it doesn’t involve digging ditches or moving heavy furniture, I don’t see why you can’t try it when you feel up to it.”

“Good.” Michael smiled wanly.

“I understand. Just remember, even though you’re being discharged, you’re still recovering. Don’t expect too much of yourself.”

“What about sex?” Michael kept her eyes on the surgeon’s face, but a soft sigh of resignation from Sloan’s direction was impossible to ignore. Michael merely smiled.

“You
are
feeling better. It’s amazing what a normal MRI will do for some people.” Ali laughed. “Usually, my position is if you feel like it, then it’s safe to do it. I wouldn’t get too vigorous the first time or so, and if you experience a headache as you approach orgasm, slow down. Maybe stop and the rest for a while.”

“Is it dangerous after this kind of…accident?” Sloan took Michael’s hand, her attention directed at the surgeon.

“Not ordinarily, no. Remember, though, there are fluctuations in blood pressure during sex and right now, Michael’s brain is a little sensitive to sudden changes.”

“Don’t worry, darling,” Michael teased softly, “I wasn’t thinking about it for tonight.”

“Darn.” Sloan grinned and hid her relief. The thought of anything harming Michael, even making love, terrified her.

Ali handed Sloan a card. “My office number. Call and make a follow-up appointment for a week.” She sketched a wave and followed Sarah to the door. “I’ll take care of the discharge orders now.”

Alone, Sloan crouched by Michael’s chair. “You sure you’re ready? Because you—”

Michael slipped her fingers into the back of Sloan’s hair and stroked her neck. “I want to go home. I want to sleep next to you tonight. I need that.”

Sloan closed her eyes. “So do I.”

“Are you comfortable? Do you need anything?”

“I’m perfect.” Michael had been home twenty minutes, and Sloan hadn’t stopped fussing for a second. She patted the sofa beside her. “Come sit here, love.”

Sloan settled carefully onto the far end of the couch, afraid that the motion would somehow hurt Michael. “Doctor Torveau said bedrest, and we’re already cheating by letting you camp out in the living room instead of in the bedroom. I want you to be able to sleep.”

“I will.” Michael shifted. “Especially if you lie down here next to me.”

Sloan hesitated.

“I’m not going to break.” Michael’s voice was soothing, her eyes tender. “Please, love. I miss you.”

That was all it took. Sloan could no more
not
answer that call than she could stop her heart from beating. Slowly, she eased herself down until she was on her side facing her lover, her head resting against Michael’s shoulder. “Okay?”

“Mmm.” Sighing, Michael rested her cheek against the top of Sloan’s head and stroked her face. “Now will you tell me what happened?”

Michael’s request was delivered so quietly that at first the words did not penetrate Sloan’s consciousness. “Michael, Doctor Torveau said—”

“I hate this. The way I feel—like something is missing.” Michael’s fingers trembled as she continued to caress Sloan’s face.

The anguish in her voice was more than Sloan could bear. “You were hit by a car, out in front of the house.”

“I can’t remember.”

“Michael. Baby.” Sloan’s voice was nearly pleading. “You just got home. You’re supposed to be resting. We can talk about this tomorrow.”

“Promise?”

“I will. I promise.” Sloan nuzzled her face against Michael’s neck, needing to feel the heat of her skin and the rush of blood through the vessels, so vital, so alive. Her voice was hoarse as she whispered, “I love you so much.”

“I’m here. Right here.” Michael pressed against Sloan’s body, drawing solace from her nearness even as she offered Sloan the comfort of her embrace.

———

When Sarah walked into the living area of the loft from the guest bedroom at the far end, she discovered the two lovers asleep in one another’s arms. The ringing of the phone shattered the silence, and she grabbed it, hoping they would not awaken. “Sloan and Lassiter residence.”

Silence. “Hello?”

“Sarah?”

“Jasmine?” Puzzled, Sarah mentally flipped through the calendar in her mind. “Where are you?”

“Downstairs.”

“Why? You don’t have a show tonight, do you?” Sarah glanced over at the couch where Sloan had shifted to a sitting position, leaning with elbows on knees, her head in her hands. “Sloan’s awake now…What? When?...What kind of meeting? With the police?...You’d better come up.”

Sloan crossed to the huge double metal doors, entered the cod eon the keypad, and the doors slid soundlessly open. Just beyond, a woman stood waiting.

Although older than Sandy, she bore her a resemblance in some ways. Her layered hair was dark where Sandy’s was blond and slightly longer, but she was lithe and sensuous like Sandy. Her skin tight black pants, body-hugging lycra top, and scarlet silk blouse left open and tied casually at her narrow waist exuded an aura of confident sensuality. Her make-up was understated but artfully applied, subtly accentuating the sweep of arched cheekbones and the curve of her full lips. She might have been a high-priced call girl or a runway model.

“Hello, sexy.” Jasmine kissed Sloan on the mouth. “You look like road kill.”

“Thanks.” Hastily, Sloan cautioned, “Michael’s asleep.”

Jasmine stepped around her and kissed Sarah’s cheek almost shyly. “Hi.”

“Hi yourself,” Sarah replied, her tone subdued. Briefly, she touched Jasmine’s hand. “New slacks?”

“Mmm. This afternoon.”

“Nice.” Sarah gestured with her head. “Let’s go into the bedroom, and you can tell where you intend to wear them.” She gave Sloan a hard look. “And just what you two are getting yourselves into.”

———

Rebecca and Watts stepped into the elevator when a voice from behind called, “Hey, hold that, will you?”

Rebecca braced the door with a hand and turned. Sandy hurried toward the elevator.

“Hi, Sandy.”

Sandy grunted a greeting and pointedly ignored Watts. When the elevator stopped, Rebecca led the way down the hall to the conference room.

“Hey,” Sloan said as the group filed in.

“Sloan,” Rebecca acknowledged, studying the dark-haired woman by Sloan’s side. She was certain they hadn’t met, but the stranger seemed familiar nonetheless.

“Yo,” Watts said, eyeing the woman, too. Sandy sat beside him, pointedly not looking at Mitchell, who took the seat across from her.

“Jasmine, this is Sergeant Frye, Detective Watts, and Sandy.” As they all nodded, Sloan continued, “Jasmine works at the Troc, and she knows some of the regulars at Ziggies.”

“Uh…doin’ what, exactly?” Watts asked, his gaze dropping from Jasmine’s face to her breasts and lingering a moment.

“I’m a singer,” Jasmine replied, her voice whiskey warm.

Watts glanced at Rebecca, who continued to study Jasmine intently. Watts shifted in his chair, almost as uneasy at Rebecca’s silence as he was with the way Jasmine’s voice made his blood race. He didn’t usually go for hookers, but Jesus, she was something.

Abruptly, Rebecca stood. “Excuse me a moment, Miss…”

“Just Jasmine.” She nearly purred the words.

Rebecca smiled, then glanced at the blond beside her. “Sandy?”

Sandy rose, pretending not to notice the hard stare that Dell threw her way, and followed Rebecca to the far end of the room.