Shield of Justice (3 page)

She walked to the row of plastic chairs and sat down with another sigh, this one of fatigue. She’d only caught a few hours of sleep the night before and would likely have even fewer tonight. “Anything from the lab yet on the physical evidence from the rape victim?”

“Not much we don’t already know. Preliminary analysis points to the same perp. He’s a secretor—blood type, A-positive. I tried to goose the lab guys for more, but they’re complaining about being swamped with stuff from that apartment fire. They say it looks like it might be arson. The earliest they’ll have the semen analysis will be sometime tomorrow morning. Emergency room docs confirm she was sodomized, though, just like with the first two.”

Rebecca took a deep swallow of her coffee, wincing at the cardboard aftertaste. “Yeah, well, the rest of it fits our guy’s pattern, too. A jogger again. Same time of day—early evening, not yet dark. The location’s no help, though; there’re miles of park along the river. Nothing stands out about this particular place.”

Jeff slumped into the hard seat beside her, shaking his head. “Something’s funny, Reb. The park is
always
crowded—kids on bikes, runners, not to mention cops—and nobody sees nothing. Nobody notices anyone just hanging around or in a hurry to get somewhere. He just comes and goes without a trace.” He laughed sourly at his own joke.

Rebecca shook her head, as frustrated as her partner. “There’s a lot of brush along those trails, Jeff. Once he grabs someone, he can just pull her off into the scrub. Then they’re invisible. Christ, we didn’t even find the first body for three days.”

She had been to her captain twice in the last few weeks, pleading for extra patrols to stake out the dense parkland bordering River Drive, a six-mile stretch of twisting highway along the river that bisected the city. His answer had been the same each time—yes, this was a nasty crime; yes, he cared about catching the son of a bitch; and, no, he couldn’t spare the people to beef up surveillance. They had to do the best they could with what they had, and Rebecca was haunted by the knowledge that it wasn’t enough.

“Well,
he’s
still got to get in and out,” Jeff observed. “He probably parks somewhere and goes in on foot or maybe on a bicycle. Someone has to have seen him. With this warm weather, there’s even more people around.”

“Maybe somebody
did
see something—maybe it was Janet Ryan.”

He sighed deeply, leaned his head back against the rim of the plastic seat, and closed his eyes. “Maybe.”

“There’s something we’re missing, Jeff, I agree with you,” Rebecca mused aloud, not even sure if Jeff was awake. “Serial criminals—rapists, murderers—they follow a pattern. At least a pattern that makes sense to them. We just have to find it.”

“You’re probably right,” Jeff answered, his eyes still closed. “But whatever it is, it isn’t simple. Different days of the week, no set time interval, no physical resemblance between the victims, and nothing symbolic left behind.”

“We should cross-check the victim profiles again. Resubmit the data to VICAP at the FBI, too,” Rebecca said, knowing it had to be done but secretly doubting it would help. The crimes had a random feel to them. “We have three now; maybe we’ll turn up an association we missed the first time. Maybe they all go to the same health club, or the same grocery store, or the same friggin’ dry cleaners. Maybe he knows them. Maybe he stalks them.”

“Maybe,” Jeff murmured again, envisioning the next few days.
More canvassing, more interviews, re-interviews, more computer spreadsheets. Wonderful.
He sat up and checked his watch—almost the witching hour.
Jesus, I’m tired.
“Did you get anything out of the shrink?”

“Still waiting. She’s in there with the witness now.”

Jeff stood and walked to the double doors marked Hospital Personnel Only and craned his neck to see through the small windows. “That her by the first bed?”

Rebecca followed him and glanced inside. The psychiatrist was leaning down, holding the hand of the woman in the bed nearest to the doors. “Yes.”

“Nice,” Cruz remarked absently. “Who’s the other one—blond, early twenties, good body?”

“The roommate, I think. I haven’t had a chance to talk with her yet.” Rebecca didn’t add that she hadn’t had the heart to question the young woman who had arrived to see Janet Ryan. She had been clearly distraught and probably didn’t know anything anyway. There’d be time enough to talk to her once she’d had a chance to see her girlfriend.

Jeff looked at his watch again and groaned. “Shit. Shelley’s gonna have my balls if I don’t get home before dawn again tonight.”

They’d officially been off duty six hours ago, even though neither of them watched the clock when they were working a fresh scene. Still, he knew if he waited for his partner to call it a night, he’d never get to bed. She didn’t seem to notice how late they worked, and she never seemed to have anywhere else to be except at work. If he kept her kind of hours, his wife
would
kick his ass.

Rebecca stretched, trying to ignore how tired she was. “Why don’t you go ahead? I want to see what the shrink gets, but there’s no sense in us both sitting around. You can write up what we’ve got so far in the morning…deal?”

Jeff grinned happily, all vestiges of fatigue gone. He wished for the thousandth time that he was as tall as his good-looking partner. He never let on that it bothered him that she was an inch or two taller, and he couldn’t help noticing the admiring glances she got, from men
and
women. She never seemed to notice, though. Oh, well, his wife thought his body was spectacular, so what the hell. He thumped her affectionately on the arm again and sprinted for the elevator before something else turned up to delay them. “I got the best part of this deal,” he added over his shoulder.

Rebecca didn’t doubt it. There was no one waiting for her at home, and there hadn’t been for a long time. She had forgotten what it felt like to open her door to anything other than the cold welcome of her empty apartment, and she didn’t want to remember now. She sat back down, closed her eyes on the thought, and adjusted her long frame into a more comfortable position for the inevitable wait. She fell asleep with the image of Janet Ryan’s battered face in her mind.

Catherine wearily pushed open the doors of the intensive care unit and stepped out into the quiet corridor. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dimness after the bright lights inside, and when she could see again, she noted Rebecca Frye asleep on a visitor chair.

Even in repose, the detective didn’t appear relaxed. Her right hand twitched slightly as it rested against her thigh. Her jacket lay abandoned on the chair beside her. The silk shirt she wore was stretched tight by the slash of a leather weapon harness encircling her shoulders, the muscles of her arms and the swell of firm breasts clearly outlined by the tautly drawn fabric. Catherine’s pulse quickened as her eyes wandered from Rebecca’s chiseled face down the sensuous planes of her body. She smiled slightly at the unbidden physical response, wondering yet again at the body’s remarkable will of its own. She didn’t need to remind herself why they were both there; she simply ignored the pull of her autonomic nervous system.

“Detective,” she called gently as she approached.

Rebecca sat up immediately, rubbing her face briskly with both hands, and looked up at the psychiatrist, who somehow managed to look fresh despite the hour. Rebecca grinned a little sheepishly, taken off guard by the welcoming softness in Catherine’s eyes. “Sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry,” Catherine said with a smile. “I seem to keep waking you up.”

“No problem. I tend to fall asleep wherever I can.”

Catherine laughed. “I know what you mean. When I was a resident, we had a saying, ‘See a chair, sit in it; see a bed, lie in it; see food, eat it.’ And we did exactly that.”

Rebecca stood, stretching to her full six feet. “I’m sorry,” she said again. “I know it’s late, but I have to talk with you. It won’t take too long, but if there’s someone you need to call…”

“No, there isn’t,” Catherine replied without hesitation. She looked at her watch and was surprised to see that it was now officially tomorrow. “But I have no intention of saying one more word to you unless I’m fed first. I missed dinner, and it feels like my last meal was a week ago. Can you wait that long?”

Rebecca regarded the elegant woman before her, sensing the smile in her voice, and felt suddenly energized. She reached for her jacket and slung it over one shoulder.

“Why not? I’m on my own time now, anyhow.”

“Excellent,” Catherine responded, surprised at how much the prospect of dinner with the handsome detective pleased her. She was also surprised at the sudden warmth in the other woman’s eyes that made her heart race. Again. She was rarely this susceptible to appearances, and yet there was something more than just good looks about this woman that attracted her. Perhaps it was the intensity with which the tall, blond detective seemed to do everything, even stride down the hall.

“There’s a diner up the street,” Rebecca offered as they walked toward the elevators.

“Arnie’s? Not at this hour. My digestive system would never survive,” Catherine exclaimed in mock horror. She hesitated for a moment and then said lightly, “My apartment isn’t far. Could we finish up there? It will just take me a minute to fix something.”

Rebecca was momentarily taken aback by the offer. Then to her surprise she realized that she would like nothing better than to have a late dinner with Catherine Rawlings. Hoping that she sounded casual, she replied, “Sounds fine. Don’t think I could take one more burger anyhow.”

*

The address to which Catherine directed her was in a gentrified section of the city bordering the university area, replete with the requisite coffee bars, small sidewalk cafés, and huge rents. It matched the image Rebecca was forming of this woman—refined but in no way staid.

“I’ll just be a minute. I’ve been in these clothes all day,” Catherine said as she let them in and tossed her briefcase on a small telephone table just inside the door. “The living room’s to your right, and the kitchen is in the back. Help yourself to a drink if you like.”

Catherine’s large first-floor apartment was in a recently renovated brownstone, and the small but well-appointed kitchen opened onto a private rear garden. Rebecca couldn’t see much of the patio through the sliding glass kitchen doors, but the high-ceilinged rooms she had glimpsed through partially open interior doors were tastefully decorated in soothing earth tones and elegant but functional furnishings. She decided she liked the doctor’s style, although it would be hard not to appreciate the understated but obviously expensive surroundings. The atmosphere was warm and welcoming, and Rebecca finally began to unwind.

She wandered into the spacious living room and perused the titles—mostly recent novels and biographies—on the floor-to-ceiling bookcases that lined one wall, noting several she had been meaning to read but kept putting off. Something usually came up at the station that devoured any available spare time. She was reminding herself this was not a social engagement and that she still had work to do when the doctor came through the archway from the kitchen.

“Glass of wine?” Catherine had changed into a loose white cotton blouse over black brushed-silk trousers and carried a bottle in one hand.

“Just seltzer and lime, if you have it,” Rebecca replied, suddenly aware of Catherine as more than just a subject in her case log. She was truly a beautiful woman. Her angular features and prominent cheekbones were softened by flawless skin, framed by wavy, richly highlighted auburn hair, and appeared very nearly perfect. Her wide set, gray-green eyes sparkled with intelligence, and her generous mouth bestowed a human quality that was far more appealing than any artist’s classic rendition. Rebecca found herself really appreciating another woman for the first time in months. She didn’t realize she was staring until Catherine’s full lips parted in a soft, playful smile, breaking her reverie.

“No drinking on duty?”

“No drinking for me any time. At least not for the last four years,” Rebecca said evenly.
Four years, three months, and two days.

“Ah,” Catherine said, hearing the tension in her voice. “I’ll put this back, then.”

“No,” Rebecca countered quickly, allowing herself a genuine smile. “Most of the world still drinks, and honestly, it rarely bothers me now. It would be harder if you didn’t drink just because of me.”

“Well, then,” Catherine responded graciously, “come into the dining room so I can at least feed you.”

*

Rebecca pushed back her chair with a sigh. She had forgotten how pleasant it was to sit down at a table and enjoy a meal. And to enjoy the company of a warm, intelligent woman. “Thank you,” she said. “It was wonderful.”

“Pasta and salad—my specialties,” Catherine replied lightly, unaccountably pleased by the compliment. She felt almost rewarded by the detective’s enjoyment and found that odd. Perhaps it was just a response to that brief flicker of pleasure that had softened the hard edges of Rebecca Frye’s fatigue and given her a younger, carefree look for an instant. “I take it you don’t cook much.”

Rebecca shrugged ruefully. “Never did, and it’s worse now that I live alone. I just don’t think about eating as something to enjoy anymore.” She stopped, suddenly embarrassed.
Christ, Frye, why don’t you tell her all your problems?
“At any rate,” she finished hurriedly, “it was great.”