Shield of Justice (22 page)

“Why?” Rebecca asked, a grin pulling at the corner of her mouth. The light glinting in her eyes was a dangerous mixture of amusement and desire.

“Because it’s the middle of the day, in the middle of the psych ward, and I have to work,” Catherine said emphatically, her voice stronger now that she could breathe again. She lifted a hand to Rebecca’s cheek. “You look exhausted, Detective.”

“I’m okay,” Rebecca assured her.

“I’m sure,” Catherine acknowledged, her fingers lingering on Rebecca’s face a moment longer. “I should go,” she said reluctantly.

“I’ll drive you home later,” Rebecca said quickly. “I’ve got a few hours’ downtime coming, and the lab won’t have anything new today.”

“You can wait, if you do it in one of the on-call rooms, with your eyes closed,” Catherine countered.

Rebecca sighed, aware of fatigue for the first time. “You’re the doctor.”

Rebecca slept during the afternoon in an empty on-call room that the residents used at night. It was after six p.m. when Catherine roused her and close to seven when they reached Catherine’s home. While Catherine went to get changed, Rebecca attached a voice activated recording device to the telephone.

“I’ll have to erase any patient related calls before I can turn the tape over to you,” Catherine reminded her when she walked back into the room and observed Rebecca setting up the machine.

“Just be sure that you call me the second he contacts you. Promise me that,” Rebecca requested, looking over her shoulder at her. For a second, seeing her standing there in loose cotton pants and a faded shirt with the cuffs turned back, the detective forgot what she was doing. Catherine was just so damn…beautiful.

“I will, don’t worry,” Catherine said softly, watching Rebecca’s gaze travel down her body, the blue of her eyes darkening with each second. She flushed as heat spread over her skin.

Reluctantly, Rebecca turned away to finish with the recorder and then walked through the apartment, checking the doors and windows, finally calling the local precinct to arrange for extra patrols to pass through the neighborhood. After that, she had done all she could do. The next move was up to him. Catherine was waiting when she returned to the living room, a question in her eyes.

“I’m sorry. I have to go out for a while. There are people I need to talk to—people I can only find at night. Will you be all right?”

“Yes. Will you?” Catherine replied, walking over to her, but not reaching out and touching. She concentrated instead on silencing her fears—not fear for her own safety, but for this intensely honorable woman. Whenever she saw the gun strapped against Rebecca’s chest, she was reminded of what could happen every time the detective went out into the streets. Rebecca’s world, her reality, was so different than Catherine’s, where the injuries were not of the body but of the heart and spirit. The violence was no greater, perhaps, but its consequences so much more immediate, and so often irreversible. There were no second chances where deadly force was the weapon. The fear was new for Catherine, and something she wasn’t certain she could get used to. Knowing that it was the price she had to pay for allowing Rebecca into her life, into her heart—this kept her from reaching out to her.

They stood, separated by inches, a lifetime of defenses between them. Catherine spoke first. “Can I expect you back tonight?” She placed her hand gently on Rebecca’s arm.

With something very close to relief on her face, Rebecca whispered, “Count on it.”

*

Rebecca found Sandy without any difficulty and was surprised by the lack of the usual protest when she stopped the car beside her.

Instead of complaining, the young prostitute crossed the sidewalk quickly, pulled open the door, and slid into the passenger seat. “Let’s get out of here, okay?” she urged.

Rebecca pulled into the line of traffic and looked at the girl questioningly. “Why so glad to see me?”

Sandy grimaced. “Things are getting really weird out here. All the pimps are uptight because the cops are pulling them in, asking questions about all kinds of shit—kiddie porn, drug rings, the rackets. It makes the guys mean, and they take it out on us.”

Rebecca reacted quickly. “You all right? Is there somebody you need me to talk to?”

“Oh sure,” Sandy said with a snort. “That’s exactly what I need—you hassling the men on my behalf. That ought to shorten my life span.”

Rebecca swerved to the curb and parked, turning in her seat to face the young woman. Sandy was dressed conservatively, for her. Hip-hugger jeans and a blouse tied in the front that exposed an expanse of smooth firm abdomen and navel ring. She was pretty without the makeup that made her eyes look dark and wary. “Just tell me straight out. Is someone giving you a hard time?”

“Nah,” Sandy said with a shrug. “I don’t exactly work for one of the guys. I’m in a group, you know?”

Rebecca knew. Often one of the more experienced women would befriend a few younger ones, teaching them the ropes, giving them advice, often providing them with a place to stay. They, in turn, gave her a part of their earnings with which she paid off the pimps to leave
her
girls alone. It was a loose form of a union, and it kept some of the naïve, fresh-off-the-farm ones off drugs and out of the hands of the pimps who literally and figuratively abused them.

“Okay,” Rebecca said with a nod, pulling back into traffic. “Then what
does
have you so spooked if some pimp isn’t threatening you?”

“The last few days the Vice cops have been pulling in the girls, too, asking everyone about kinky johns and rough trade. It’s making us all nervous. What’s going on?”

Rebecca smiled at the reversal in their positions. Suddenly, she had become the informant. “I don’t know for sure. There may be a loose cannon around—some guy who likes girls in gym shorts and gets rough.”

“How rough?”

“Rough like dead.”

Sandy leaned her head back against the seat and sighed. “Shit, we don’t need this. Got anything on him?”

“Look in the backseat. There’s a sketch of someone who might be him.”

Sandy looked at the police rendering and snorted. “Oh,
him
. I must see ten dudes a night who look like this.”

“Yeah, that’s what I was afraid of,” Rebecca commented grimly. “Like I said before—he’s white, late twenties or early thirties, probably well educated, and won’t seem like a nut case. And, this is important, he may have a gym bag or something like it that he carries clothes in. He likes his women to dress for his pleasure. Skimpy running shorts seem to do it for him.”

“That’s it?”

“Afraid so.”

“What do we do if he shows?”

“If you can, don’t work alone; stay in pairs or a group. That way, if he approaches one of you, someone else can call me. Try to get the word out as quickly as you can to everyone in the area. The girl he killed two days ago is the only prostitute we know about. I don’t want there to be another one.”

Sandy looked at the woman beside her, surprised by the vehemence in her voice and the stony set to her features. “Yeah, well, thanks,” was all she said. Too many years on the streets had taught her not to trust what looked like kindness, because there was always a price attached. But she would remember the look on the tall detective’s face, a look that made her feel a little safer.

*

When Rebecca knocked on Catherine’s door a little after midnight, Watts answered. He stepped out onto the small front landing before she could say anything, pulling the door closed behind him.

“She’s all right,” he said quickly, noting the alarm on Rebecca’s face. “Our boy phoned again. She called it in, and I came over. Figured you’d rather have me here than someone she doesn’t know. I was just about to page you, but I wanted to see what the story was first.”

Rebecca took a deep breath and nodded, relief and anger warring with her emotions. “What did he say this time?”

Watts shrugged, his hand on the doorknob. “This dame…excuse me, this
doctor
…is one cool cookie. She insisted on clearing the tape of
unrelated
messages before she’d let me hear it. She should be ready for us now.”

“Thanks, Watts,” she said as she pushed by him and stepped inside.

Catherine was seated in front of a small desk at the far corner of the living room with the tape recorder by her right hand. She was staring out the window and seemed lost in thought.

“Catherine,” Rebecca murmured softly.

She turned at the sound of her name, and a faint smile flickered across her elegant features. “I’m glad you’re back.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here when he phoned,” Rebecca began, drawing close but keeping her hands by her sides, fisted tightly.
God, I want to touch her.

Catherine silenced her with a quick wave of her hand. “It doesn’t matter. You’re here now. Shall we go over this?”

Watts had shuffled in behind Rebecca and was sitting on the couch across the room, his notebook on his knee. Rebecca walked past the seated woman to the window and looked out into the night sky. She didn’t want Catherine to see her face when she heard this. She didn’t trust herself enough.

“Go ahead,” Rebecca said gruffly. She tried to prepare herself, trying to forget that it was Catherine this psycho had chosen to call. She needed to focus; she needed to find some clue to his identity, and now she had his voice—his words—to help her. Still, her stomach clenched when she first heard Catherine’s voice on the tape.

Catherine: Hello?

Male Voice: I’m so glad I found you home, Dr. Rawlings.

Catherine: I’m sorry. Who’s calling, please?

Male Voice:You know me, Doctor. Did you get my flowers this morning?

Catherine: Yes. Why did you send them?

Rebecca listened to his voice, smooth and soft and seductive. Unconsciously, she opened and closed her fists, her eyes narrowing as she tried to ignore his intimate tone. She was surprised at Catherine’s calm responses and then realized she shouldn’t be. As a doctor, she was an expert in the art of interrogation, too—not the aggressive interrogation that Rebecca was used to doing, but the gentle subtle questioning that caused hidden motivations and long-buried secrets to surface. They couldn’t have picked a better contact person in this situation, and that was something she was not happy to consider.

“I’m sorry,” Rebecca said sharply, angry at herself as her concentration wandered. “Could you play that back again?”

Catherine glanced at her, concerned by the brittle tone in her voice and anxious for her loss of focus. She knew that the detective must be struggling for detachment, but she could not help her find it. “Yes, just a minute,” she said steadily, rewinding the tape.

Male Voice: You know me, Doctor. Did you get my flowers this morning?

Catherine: Yes. Why did you send them?

Male Voice: Because I wanted to show you how special you are to me.

Catherine: Why is that? We haven’t met, have we?

Male Voice: I know that you can appreciate the things I’ve accomplished. I know you’ll understand.

Catherine: What will I understand? What have you done?

Male Voice: You know…with the girls. When I fucked them. I was…good with them. They’d never had it so good before. I took a long time with them, too. Do you know how that feels, Dr. Rawlings…to be fucked for a long time? I could show you. I know that you would enjoy it.

Catherine: Tell me about the girls. How did you pick them? Were they special, too?

Male Voice: It’s not hard. They’re everywhere, waiting for me. They’re waiting for me to show them how good it can be. Sometimes they don’t know it, so I just wait for them to come to me.

Catherine: Where do you wait?

Male Voice: They think they know where…the police. But they don’t know
anything
. The next time it will be very special. I am powerful…my cock is powerful. Maybe next time you’d like to feel it, Dr. Rawlings. Would you like to feel my power inside you…would you?

Catherine: How will I recognize you?

Male Voice: You’ll know, Doctor. It won’t be long.

“Jesus Christ,” Watts breathed as the tape clicked off. “What a fucking nutcase.”

“Not exactly a clinical diagnosis, Detective, but fairly accurate,” Catherine replied grimly. Rebecca had not spoken, and Catherine wanted desperately to go to her. She could see from across the room that Rebecca’s spine was rigid and the hand that rested against the window frame was closed into a fist so tightly her fingers were white.

Drawing a slow, deep breath, the psychiatrist forced herself to think objectively. “He’s delusional, but not fragmenting yet. He was still careful not to reveal too much to me, but the very fact that he contacted me at all suggests that he’s lost any sense of vulnerability. He doesn’t think anyone can detect him or stop him. His hold on reality is slipping, which means he will become less and less predictable.”

“And more and more dangerous,” Watts commented in disgust. “Damn, I hate the friggin’ loonies.”

At last, Rebecca turned, keeping her gaze on Watts. “Did we get a trace?”