Justice Served (15 page)

“Robin I could almost understand,” Erica spat, “but her? She’s nothing like…us.”

“No, she’s nothing like us.” Mitchell’s voice was dangerously soft. Her hands cramped from the effort to keep them at her sides. She wanted to break things. “She’s nothing like Robin, either, is she? And we both know how virtuous and honest Robin was.”

“She made the right decision. You should have too.”

Mitchell’s head snapped up and she had to step back, back from the wrath left unrequited for so long. “I chose an honest life.”

“You
threw away
your life!” Erica laughed, a hollow sound. “God, you always were so damned idealistic.”

Mitchell’s eyes traveled over the pristine uniform, the symbol of all that she had once believed to be good and honorable. She thought about Sandy, a young woman who fought seemingly insurmountable odds just to survive, and who should have been hardened and jaded by the struggle. Sandy’s hands, Sandy’s heart—so tender. She thought of the sweet acceptance she had discovered in Sandy’s arms and met her sister’s furious gaze. “It’s not idealistic when it’s real.”

“What?”

“Never mind.” Remembering Sandy’s touch, Mitchell felt an inexplicable calm lick at the flames of her fury. “You wouldn’t understand.”

Dee Flanagan did not look up from her microscope at the sound of approaching footsteps in the empty lab. It was well after hours; even her lover—a senior crime scene investigation technician—had left for the day. Maggie had gone home to prepare supper, another meal like so many that, more often than not, Dee would miss while caught up in analyzing some tantalizing bit of evidence.

“We’re closed,” the CSI chief growled. “Try back after 7:30 tomorrow morning.”

“Sorry to bother you, Chief,” Sloan said mildly as she slid a single sheet of paper onto the granite counter next to Dee’s right hand. “I just wanted to talk to you about this report.”

Slowly, Dee straightened, granting Sloan a sideways glance. She fixed her gaze on Sloan’s chest. “What’s with the shiny new ID?”

Grimacing, Sloan fingered the laminated badge clipped to the pocket of her faded blue work shirt. “Civilian consultant. Pretty special, huh?”

Dee merely grunted. “You know, it took Frye close to ten years before I let her walk around in here unsupervised.”

Sloan rocked casually back and forth on her boot heels, her thumbs hooked over the front pockets of her jeans. She was a few inches taller and a good twenty pounds heavier than Flanagan, but it didn’t feel that way when the wiry CSI chief had her hackles up. “But
Frye
taught me the rules. Don’t touch anything.”

“Apparently she forgot the one about not interrupting me when I’m processing evidence.” Dee was not smiling.

“Actually, she didn’t. And I wouldn’t have, if I didn’t think this was something you’d be interested in.”

Dee squinted, assessing Sloan, who met her eye to eye. Then she nodded once, apparently liking the unflinching determination in Sloan’s expression. “All right. What’s this all about?”

“The results of a tox screen on the body that was tossed in a dumpster behind Methodist Hospital last night.”

Dee’s posture shifted subtly, like a dog on point catching the scent of its prey. “That report isn’t finished yet. I haven’t sent it out.”

Sloan tipped her head toward the page on the counter. “Interesting reading.”

Her gaze still on Sloan, Dee picked up the sheet and quickly scanned it. A muscle along her jaw bunched, and a sound close to a growl reverberated in her chest. When her eyes rose to Sloan’s again, there was a challenge in their blue depths. Most people would have stepped back, but Sloan did not. “Where did you get this?”

“From your computer.”

Automatically, Dee shot a look over her shoulder at her office. The door was closed, just as she had left it. The lights were out. “Want to tell me how you got past me?”

“I didn’t. I got it from a computer upstairs on the third floor, through the network.”

“Let’s go talk.” Without waiting for a response, Dee led the way between the lab benches to her office. She opened the door and flicked on the light, illuminating a small room made even more claustrophobic by the piles of journals, file folders, specimen containers, and evidence bags piled on every available surface. Her desk, an old-fashioned wooden affair covered with scratches and dents, was surprisingly orderly despite the stacks of paperwork. Waving in the direction of a stool, Dee said, “Have a seat. Then explain.”

As she shifted manila folders and a plaster model of a shoeprint from the nearest backless stool, Sloan said, “I have sysop privileges.”

“Meaning you can snoop around.” Dee tilted back in the wooden captain’s chair, her hands hanging loosely over the arms. To a casual observer she would have appeared relaxed, except for the piercing focus in her eyes. It was the calm readiness of a sniper lying utterly still but ready to deliver death in an instant.

“Essentially, yes. I’m familiar with your system, of course, because I worked down here a week or so ago. But then, I was trying to get
into
the main system. Today, I reversed the process.”

“Why?”

Sloan shrugged. “Curiosity. Plus, your department is the epicenter of evidence for the entire police department. The autopsy reports, the trace analyses, the tox screens, ballistics—everything the detectives rely upon to make a case passes through here. If I wanted to influence the outcome of an investigation, this is where I’d start.”

“And you pilfered that report from my hard drive.”

“I did. Yes.”

Dee didn’t move a muscle, but her voice had dropped dangerously low. “You should’ve asked.”

Sloan’s voice was steady, her expression unperturbed. “I don’t have to. That’s the point. I own the system now.”

The two women stared at one another until, finally, Dee smiled. “Now I know why you play on Frye’s team. But I’d bet you don’t play unless you want to.”

“Ordinarily, you’d be right.” Sloan lifted a shoulder. “Right now, I’m Frye’s.”

“I’m impressed. So—what’s your point, besides that?”

Sloan grinned. “Can I tell Frye you said that? About being impressed?”

“I’ll deny it.”

“Thought you might.”

“Do I have a problem down here?” The humor had fled from Dee’s eyes, leaving them glacially cold.

“You do. Since I was already looking around, I discovered that I’m not the only one who’s accessed your computer with sysop privileges. Except, of course, that shouldn’t be
possible
, because until today, the network wasn’t set up to allow that.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning you’ve been hacked. And by someone who’s good at it.” Sloan leaned forward, her elbows on her knees, her hands clasped. There was an edge of excitement, verging on respect, in her voice. “My guess is someone sent a Phatbot—”

“A factbot?”

“No—Phatbot.” Sloan spelled it, then continued, “a form of Trojan horse—a bit of malicious code that’s tacked onto something that appears harmless. An e-mail, a doc file, an image. The kinds of things that you open and review dozens of times every day.”

“I know what they are—but what exactly do they
do?
”

Sloan raised her hands and let them fall. “Just about anything the intruder wants. If a computer is infected, a remote attacker will have access to all the files and programs. They can copy data, alter data, insert data. Pretty much have the run of the house.”

“Jesus Christ,” Dee said in a strangled whisper.

“When you and I talked about this before, all I could do at the time was patch a quick fix onto your system. Beef up your firewalls. Now, with unrestricted access to the network, I can do something
real
about it.”

“I need to protect the evidence.” Dee bolted up so quickly that the chair spun back against the wall. “Christ.” She leaned forward on her desk and fixed Sloan with a fierce stare. “You need to fix this
now
.”

“I will. What we’re going to do is follow the bread crumbs back to the source. The advantage I have now that I didn’t have a week ago is that I’ve eliminated a number of potential sources and narrowed down the field of possible suspects. I’m going to insert a bit of code of my own into your operating system and see if we can’t catch the mole in our trap.”

“Is there some way for you to tell if something has been…tampered with?”

Sloan grinned. “You know what they say in this business—it’s almost impossible to commit the perfect crime.”

*

The instant Sandy stepped off the elevator into the darkened loft, she sensed her in the shadows. Waiting.

“Dell?”

“Here.”

Navigating to the hollow echo of Dell’s voice, Sandy circumvented the furniture in the dark until she reached the sofa in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the Delaware River. Even now, well into the night, lights flickered on the water, ships gliding in and out of the Port of Philadelphia. Dell was hunched in one corner of the broad leather sofa, her injured leg propped on the coffee table. Sandy kicked off her silver, stack-heeled shoes—the ones that matched her shiny, short, patent leather skirt and silver bustier—and curled up beside Mitchell with her legs tucked beneath her. Sandy’s breasts pressed against Mitchell’s right arm as she reached between Mitchell’s thighs to mold her palm to the inside of Mitchell’s leg—high up, but not touching her crotch.

“Where’s the evil twin?”

Mitchell laughed, a short, sharp-edged laugh slivered with pain. “Gone.”

“Gone where?”

“Don’t know. Probably back to DC.”

“She lives there?”

“Stationed there.”

Sandy stroked the inside of Mitchell’s leg rhythmically. “Isn’t that the same thing?”

“Not really. A duty station never really feels like home, no matter how long you’re there.” Mitchell shrugged. “Maybe it’s knowing that you might be deployed elsewhere at any time. You don’t want to get too settled.”

“Sounds like foster care,” Sandy said dryly.

Slowly, Mitchell swiveled her head and looked directly at her girlfriend for the first time. The moonlight reflecting off the leather and silver made her sparkle. “Is that how it was for you?”

“Yeah.”

Mitchell smoothed her fingers down Sandy’s arm and caught the hand between her thighs, covering it with her own. “How long were you—you know, in the system?”

“Look, Dell—”

“How long?” Mitchell asked gently.

“Ten years. Until I was fifteen, and then…I split.”

Three years on the streets. Not many girls survived that long—not without becoming addicts or victims of violence and disease.

“You’re never going back there again,” Mitchell said with lethal conviction, her fingers tightening unconsciously around Sandy’s small hand.

“Where, baby?” Sandy’s voice was gentle, soothing.

“The fucking streets.”

“I work there.”

“You been working tonight?”

Sandy grew very still, and her hand stopped moving against Mitchell’s thigh. “Remember we said no questions you don’t want to know the answer to.”

“You’re all dressed up for work.” Mitchell gave another stilted laugh. “And you know what? I think you look so sexy like that. Jesus.”

“Why is that bad?”

“Because I think about…them looking at you, and it makes me crazy.” Mitchell groaned, nearly a sob. “I don’t want anyone else touching you.”

“What do you want me to do, Dell? Starve because you’ve got a thing about my body?”

Mitchell jerked as if she’d been slapped. “A
thing
for your body? Yeah, that’s it. That’s all I want from you.” When she braced an arm on the sofa and pushed up, struggling to stand on her weak leg, Sandy tugged on the back of her jeans and pulled her back down.

“Look, I’m
sorry
.”
Sandy huffed out a breath. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t…I don’t
want
anybody to touch me except you.”

The tension ebbed from Mitchell’s body in one blessed rush. “I love you.”

“That won’t get me breakfast, Dell.” Sandy’s voice was soft as she spoke.

“Then let
me
buy you breakfast.”

“I’m not talking about just breakfast.”

Mitchell wrapped an arm around Sandy’s shoulders and held her tightly, pressing her lips to the top of Sandy’s head. “Neither am I.”

“I don’t think we better talk about this anymore right now.”

“Making you nervous?”

“Big time.”

“I’m not going to give up, you know,” Mitchell murmured.

“You mean it?” Sandy tried but couldn’t keep the tremor of need from her voice.

“Oh yeah, I mean it.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay, you can bug me about the life…if you want to. Just…not all the time.”

“Where did you go tonight?”

“Nowhere special.” Sandy tugged Mitchell’s T-shirt from her jeans and slid her hand beneath, playing her fingertips along the curve of Mitchell’s ribs. “Just around.”