3. In Pursuit Of Justice

Rebecca leaned down to unlock the Vette. “Not quite. He put me on a desk. Have you eaten?”

“Uh—lunch.” She was relieved at the idea of a desk assignment and then reminded herself that the reprieve was temporary at best. “Doing what?”

“Feel like Thai?” Rebecca pulled away from the curb and reached for her cell phone at Catherine’s affirming nod. “There’s a menu in the door. Just call out what you want,” she added, punching in numbers from memory. She relayed the order, then drove in silence a few blocks, watching the traffic, the people on the sidewalks, the city teeming with life. Finally, she said grimly, her jaw tight, “I’m not entirely sure what I’m supposed to be doing. I’ll find out in the morning. It’s a task force to ferret out the important players in an interstate porn ring. Maybe even an international one, apparently. I don’t have the details yet. It’s need to know bullshit, which means that probably no one knows anything.”

“Why a task force?”

Rebecca shrugged. “To make the job twice as complicated and three times slower. The feds are involved, but they can’t really operate effectively on a local level. They’re bureaucrats—they don’t have any street contacts.”

“But you do,” Catherine said slowly. No wonder she’s not more upset.

“Yes.” Rebecca smiled for the first time. “I do.”

“How come I get the feeling that this isn’t such a desk job after all?”

Rebecca pulled to the curb and turned on the seat, stretching her arm behind Catherine’s shoulders, her fingertips resting on the bare skin at the base of her neck. “It’s the fastest way for me to get back to work. I don’t have much choice. And I do know this territory. Four months ago, Jeff and I busted two prostitution houses that were dealing children. We bagged a handful of low-level organized crime members, but we knew at the time it was just the tip of the iceberg. We were never able to figure a way inside the network, and then the Blake thing sidetracked us. Maybe this internet angle will give us a break.”

Catherine listened to her talk about her partner Jeff Cruz as if he were still alive. Of course, he had only been dead a few days before Rebecca herself had been shot, and the two intervening months had an aura of unreality about it. Time and events had been suspended while the detective struggled to survive and then heal. It was no wonder that Rebecca hadn’t really assimilated the hard truth of his death. What in god’s name was the police psychologist thinking to let her work? “What internet angle?” Catherine asked, trying unsuccessfully to quell her anger. She couldn’t believe that Rebecca’s superiors didn’t know that this was a tacit approval for her to go back to street duty.

“The feds brought a couple of civilian computer hotshots on board, at least that’s what I think they are. They’re going to try to contact some of these characters on the Internet.”

“Why civilians? That seems unusual.”

“It would be if it were any other kind of case, but we sure don’t have anyone with the technical know how.” She thought about the conversation she’d had with the computer consultant, Sloan, earlier that afternoon. It had shed a little light on the situation, but she knew damn well there was more that the woman hadn’t told her. “Apparently there are so many problems on the national level with corporate and even military breakins by hackers that the feds are stretched thin enough to see through. They’re recruiting college kids to fill in the gaps.”

Rebecca pushed open the car door and caught her breath as a sharp twinge knifed down her left arm. “Let me run in and get dinner.” Carefully, she slid the rest of the way out and straightened up. The pain was gone.

Catherine watched her cross the sidewalk, wondering if the detective really thought she hadn’t noticed her quickly suppressed grimace of pain. When Rebecca returned, by unspoken agreement they avoided further talk of her new assignment, letting casual conversation and easy silences dissipate the vestiges of tension.

“I’ll get plates,” Catherine said as she dropped her briefcase by the door, and Rebecca carried the take out toward the coffee table in front of the sofa. Walking into the kitchen she called, “Want soda?”

“Just water is fine,” Rebecca answered, settling wearily on the couch. She glanced at her watch, amazed to see that it was only ten-twenty. Leaning back, she closed her eyes and absently rubbed the ache in her chest.

A minute later Catherine returned, balancing plates, silverware and napkins. She stopped a few feet from the sofa and quietly set the items on the table. Carefully, she lifted a light throw she kept on the back of the nearby chair and spread it out over the slumbering woman. She could wake her, but Rebecca was already deeply asleep. If she awakened before dawn, she would come to the bed. If she didn’t, Catherine would sleep well knowing that for tonight at least, she was safe. That thought comforted her, but there was a dull ache of loneliness in her heart as turned off the light and made her way by the dim light of the moon through the quiet apartment toward the bedroom.

JT Sloan leaned against the window’s edge in the large darkened loft, staring into a night only faintly illuminated by the glow from ships moving slowly on the wide expanse of river a few hundred yards below. Off to the left, the huge steel bridge arced over the water, its towering arches outlined with rows of small blue lights. She’d stood in the same spot countless times before, but the melancholy that had been her companion then was gone. The muted sounds of the elevator ascending in the background brought a smile to her lips. She walked to the long bar-like counter that separated the loft living space from a sleek, efficient modern kitchen, turned on a few recessed track lights, and poured from a bottle of Merlot she had opened earlier to allow it to breathe. On her way to the door, she set the wine glasses and a cutting board with crackers and cheese on the low stone coffee table that fronted a leather sofa in the sitting area. She slid the heavy double door back on soundless tracks just as the blond in the hallway outside approached.

“Hello,” Michael said, her full mouth curving into a soft smile.

“Hey.” Stepping forward, Sloan slid her arm around the slender woman’s waist and pulled her close to kiss her. She’d only intended to say hello, but the touch of her, the faint hint of her perfume, settled the lingering uneasiness in her stomach that had been plaguing her all afternoon, and she brought her other hand under the hair at the back of Michael’s neck, caressing the smooth skin while she explored her mouth. Finally she lifted her lips a whisper and murmured, “Welcome home.”

“Yes,” Michael said softly. “It certainly is.” She leaned back in Sloan’s arms and studied her intently. “Are you all right?”

Sloan smiled ruefully. “Just missing you.”

“Uh huh. And as smooth as ever.” Michael reached for her hand and gave it a tug. “Come on, let’s take this inside.”

Sloan grabbed one of the suitcases and followed. Inside the door, Michael kicked off her heels, shed her suit jacket to the back of a chrome and leather Breuer chair, and pulled her silk blouse from the waistband of her skirt.

“Tired?” Sloan asked, resting her palm against the small of Michael’s back, under the fabric, on her skin. It was always like this when she’d been gone. She had to keep touching her, just to be sure. That she was back, that she wasn’t a dream.

“Yes,” Michel replied. She found Sloan’s hand again and drew her around to the sofa. When they were settled, she reached for the wine. “This is wonderful. Just one of the many reasons that I love you.”

“How was Detroit?”

Michael groaned. “Hot and smoky. Four days felt like a month.”

“And the meetings?”

“They went well.” Michael sipped the full-bodied red wine and sighed. “A decade ago, the catch word was image. Image was everything. Now, thank god, innovation is everything. Daimler-Chrysler has a new team of design consultants and I have a lot of work to do.”

“Congratulations.”

Michael smiled. “Thanks.”

“Are you going to have to go back?” Sloan tried to keep her tone casual, but she hated it when Michael traveled, which as head of her own company, Innova Design Consultants, she did frequently. She just plain old missed her. Nothing felt quite right, no matter how busy her days might be, when at the end of the night Michael wasn’t beside her in bed.

“Not often,” Michael answered, glancing at Sloan quickly. She lifted a hand, ran her fingers lightly along the edge of her jaw. “Danny will do that. He likes to travel. I don’t.” Michael hooked her fingers under the collar of Sloan’s T-shirt and pulled until the other woman was leaning toward her, then kissed her. “I don’t like being away from you either.”

“I know that. Sorry.”

Then, patting her lap with her free hand, Michael said, “Stretch out, put your head down here, and tell me what’s going on.”

Sloan considered protesting, but she knew it would do no good. Michael read her too well. Besides, she wanted to talk. She just hadn’t quite gotten used to doing it, even after a year of never being disappointed. With a grateful sigh, she turned and laid her head in Michael’s lap and closed her eyes.

“So,” Michael asked, running strands of thick dark hair through her fingers, “talk. You’re edgy and something is not right.”

“I took that job with Justice.”

Michael stiffened, her hand stilling on Sloan’s cheek. “When?”

“Two day ago.” Sloan opened her eyes, reached into the back pocket of her jeans, and removed a thin black leather case. She held it up, allowing it to fall open. “I’m an official civilian consultant, ID badge and all.”

“What about Jason?”

“Him, too.”

Michael considered the night she’d sat on this couch for the first time, a little over a year before, and listened to Sloan’s tale of Justice and the injustices done in the name of patriotism and honor and national security. She remembered every anguished word, and every tremor of pain in Sloan’s body, and now her own anger at the memory threatened to make her voice harsh. Tenderly, still stroking her lover’s face, she took a deep breath and asked quietly, “What about everything that happened before?”

“They made nice; all is forgiven.” She said it lightly, but her shoulders were tight against Michael’s thigh.

“I don’t care about them. I care about you. Are you all right to work with them again?”

Sloan turned her face and pressed her cheek against Michael’s breast, brushing her lips over the swell of flesh beneath the sheer fabric. “I’m okay with it. Clark is a straight shooter, and I don’t have any history with him. It feels a little weird right now, but it’s just another job.”

“Is it dangerous?”

“No.” Sloan laughed. “I’ll just be doing some net trolling, looking for sites that are clearing houses for the hard core porn sites and trying to find any that are actually making the stuff. Especially the videos. Jason is going to play net bait and see if he can make contact with anyone that way. The police will be doing the search and seizure part of it—if we ever get that far.”

“You’re sure?” Michael leaned over, kissed her again, and this time her kiss was hungry. “I don’t want you hurt.”

Raising one hand and encircling Michael’s neck, Sloan pulled her down, shifting on the couch until they were lying side by side. As she slid her hand beneath the edge of Michael’s skirt, finding warm soft skin awaiting her, she whispered huskily, “Don’t worry. I’m a cybersleuth. Safest job in the world.”

Michael worked a hand between them, deftly opening the buttons on the denim fly. Moving her hand inside, swiftly rewarded by Sloan’s soft groan and the subtle lift of her hips, she brought her lips to Sloan’s ear. “It had better be. Your services are required right here at home, and I need you all in one piece.”

Sloan meant to answer with something clever, but Michael’s fingers found her and she was lost. It was nearly dawn before she caught her breath again.

CHAPTER NINE

AT 7:24 AM, REBECCA held up her identification to the impersonal eye of the video surveillance camera again and motioned to Watts to do the same.

“What is this, Mission Impossible?” he grumbled. Looking over his shoulder, he added, “Uh oh. Looks like we have a babysitting assignment on top of everything else.”

“That’s not we,” Rebecca reminded him, turning her back to the camera as she followed his gaze. Lowering her voice to avoid being overheard by the audio she felt sure was connected to the camera, she whispered, “You’re just here as an invited guest, remember? Try not to say anything when we get upstairs. If I know the feds, it will all be taped.”

“Hey!” He tried to look offended, but he was aware that Frye was stepping outside of channels to bring him in on this, and he was grateful. He wasn’t foolish enough to think it was because she felt any special friendship for him, but just the fact that she let him ride along was enough for him.

A young uniformed officer approached, her smooth unlined face set in a determined expression. She looked as if she were about to salute when she came to a smart stop in front of them. “Detective Sergeant Frye?” At Rebecca’s nod, she continued, “I’m Dellon Mitchell from the one eight. The duty Sergeant told me I was to report to you here.”

“Did he say why?” Rebecca asked, trying not to allow her annoyance to show. She absolutely did not have time to keep an eye out for a rookie, even though the uniform looked a little older than the usual recent academy graduate. In fact, something about the younger woman looked familiar.

“He just said…” Mitchell hesitated, looking uncomfortable for the first time. Then she squared her shoulders and continued, “He said you would need a clerk, ma’am.”

“Ouch—sounds like you’ve been sat down,” Watts observed with a chuckle. “What did you do, kid? Forget to shine your shoes?”

“No, sir. I –”

“Never mind that, Mitchell,” Rebecca interrupted curtly. “If this is where you’ve been assigned, that’s good enough for now.”

She turned back to the video camera and said in a firm tone, “Philadelphia PD. Three to come up.”

Without the slightest hint of crackle or electronic interference, a male voice said from the invisible speaker, “Good morning, Sergeant. Please come ahead, and welcome aboard.”

They were silent on the ride up, although Watts snorted derisively at the elaborate security measures throughout the building, muttering colorfully about spy games and cop wanna-bes as he peered about. When they exited the elevator directly into a brightly lit, wide-open room that was sectioned off by partial walls of glass and steel and filled with surveillance equipment and computers, he said, “What the hell is this place?”

From their left a man said, “This is the tech center for Sloan Security Services.” Nodding to the group, and giving no sign that he was perplexed by the unexpected presence of Watts, he stretched out a hand toward Rebecca. “Avery Clark. Justice.”

“Rebecca Frye,” she replied, assessing him quickly. Standard government issue—somewhere between thirty-five and forty, brown hair, dark steel-framed glasses, conservative hair cut, well-tailored but conventional suit, dark tie, white shirt. Wedding ring, hip holster, sharp eyes. And he’d been briefed. He didn’t make the mistake of thinking that Watts was in charge, but had addressed himself to Rebecca. She gestured to the others with her. “Detective Watts and Officer Mitchell.”

“Detective, Officer,” he added as he shook both their hands, then turned, saying, “The briefing’s down the hall. Coffee and such there, too.”

“Very fancy,” Watts observed dryly.

Rebecca said nothing. It was Clark’s show.

The conference room was in the corner of the third floor, walled on two sides in floor to ceiling glass and outfitted with sleek Bauhaus furniture. The occupants who awaited them looked right at home in the high-tech, urban surroundings. Rebecca nodded to the civilians she’d met the day before. As previously, Sloan appeared deceptively casual at first glance, in jeans again, this time with a white oxford shirt, sleeves rolled up, and ankle-high leather boots. But her eyes were lasers, scanning everything, on high alert. The amazingly handsome man at her side gave off a lazy aura of insouciance, but Rebecca had no doubt that he was just as sharp. Interesting pair. Watts gave them both a suspicious nod when introduced, and then they all filed past a counter in the corner for drinks and food and eventually migrated to seats around the granite-topped table.

Clark walked to the head of the table and set a cup of coffee on the smooth surface. Smiling, he looked at the group. “Everybody get coffee, something to eat?”

There were a few grunts and one clear, Yes, sir. Watts gave Mitchell a look that suggested she needn’t be so polite.

“So.” He sipped his coffee. Suddenly his smile disappeared. “This is what we know. Six weeks ago an international web-monitoring group called the Action Coalition Against the Exploitation of Children, whose members surf the Internet looking for child pornography activity of any kind, alerted us to a number of references concerning a real-time child sex ring operating, and apparently broadcasting, from this area.”

“How’d the watch-dog group pick up on it?” Sloan asked.

“Chat rooms. Unfortunately, nothing too specific—just enough for them to realize there was a live feed somewhere in the Northeast. As you may know, most of the organized distribution of sex material on the internet occurs through private bulletin boards, and they’re all carefully screened, password controlled, and often encrypted. If you aren’t a member, you don’t have access.”

“Whoa—” Watts interrupted, ignoring the swift look from Rebecca implying that he shut up. “You want to translate that? I still can’t figure out how to put the paper in the fax machine.”

Clark regarded him expressionlessly. He’d had plenty of experience dealing with local law enforcement, and he was used to the obstacles, resistance and outright obstructionism that was almost ritual. This guy had the look of old-school hard ass written all over him. “There are two kinds of internet pornography activity. The most wide spread is the kind of stuff that anyone can find easily—chat rooms, mostly. People meet there, try to connect for sex, and even try to set up f-to-f—“

“Huh?” Watts asked, looking dazed. This time it wasn’t an act.

“Face to face,” Jason remarked quietly. “In person.”

“Right—sorry,” Clark added. “Real life assignations—dates for sex. Nothing wrong with that, unless it happens to be an adult looking to hook up with a minor. That’s where we come in.” He glanced at the expressions of the individuals seated around the table. Everyone was alert, watching him, waiting with more than a hint of reservation. He was used to being viewed with suspicion by the locals—hell, not even the locals always—sometimes by other federal agents. Unperturbed, he continued, “At any rate, those kinds of open channels usually prevent file trading, so guys who want pics, and most serious pedophiles do, usually trade privately after they initially connect in a chat room. Until the last ten years, kiddie porn was pretty much limited to still pics and homemade videos. Distribution was via the good old US Mail, and it was geographically restricted to interstate distribution as opposed to internationally. Getting tapes through Customs is tricky, although a lot easier in Europe than here.”

“I thought we were expecting someone from Customs,” Rebecca asked quietly when he paused. The young officer, Mitchell, who was sitting to her right, was taking notes on one of a stack of pads that had been scattered over the wide stone surface. Sloan and McBride looked quietly intent, but she had a feeling that none of this was news to them. It shouldn’t be, if the Internet was their street and they were any good at what they did.

“I told them we’d keep them informed if it looked like we were going to move into their territory,” Clark replied casually. “They’ve got their hands full with the terrorists.”

Politics , Rebecca thought, but she merely nodded.

“Anyhow,” the Justice agent went on, “with new digital technology, the game has changed. High quality images can be uploaded and transmitted anywhere almost instantaneously. That’s the venue of the other form of trafficking in child pornography—image production and procurement. It’s a much more covert, highly organized, and sophisticated operation. There are bulletin boards that screen members, authenticate identities—or at least aliases, which most subjects use—and limit access to those with passwords or electronic keys. This is where most of the image exchange occurs. And this is where we’ll find a way to break into this network. The Internet is a superhighway running directly right from one bedroom to the next.” He looked pointedly at Sloan. “Internet law enforcement is way behind the perps in terms of expertise. The private sector has a head start on us in terms of the ability to find and infiltrate these sites, but if anyone repeats that, I’ll deny I ever said it.”

Sloan, Rebecca noticed, smiled, but her blue eyes were dark with something unrequited. Old scores, still unsettled? Rebecca’d run a check on both the security consultant and her associate, McBride, the previous afternoon because she was certain that the Justice department hadn’t hired them without cause. Interestingly, she’d drawn blanks on most of her inquiries. Not blanks, exactly. Gaps. Erasures. Missing data. Sloan Security Consultants had filed taxes for the last four years; Sloan and McBride were registered to vote; their credit records were clean; their driver’s licenses unbesmirched; and their pasts a complete cipher. They might have been born four years ago. That had the smell of ex-Agency all over it. If she had to guess, she’d guess Justice. Because both of them looked like the kind of whiz kids the government hired right out of college to do the kinds of things the old guard wasn’t equipped to do. Just like what they were doing now. Rebecca was curious—because she was a cop, because she would be working with them, and because she needed to know who she could trust. Sloan had given her some Intel the day before, and she hadn’t had to. That was a point for her, but it was too soon to tell how far that cooperation would extend. Traditionally, local and federal officers didn’t mesh well. And now Sloan was technically neither. Rebecca flicked her gaze back to Clark.

“Why involve us at this stage?” she asked. “It could take months before you get a solid lead.” Unless there’s something you’re not telling us. And there always is.

Clark nodded. “Because we want to cover every contingency. I don’t need to tell you that child prostitution and child pornography go hand in hand. Once someone has access to kids for sale, they usually take the next step toward photographing the sex and selling that, too. You busted up a couple of kiddie rackets not long ago, didn’t you?”

“Small time houses—no big connections. At least none that we could find then.”

“We’re betting that they’re there. It’s another place to look. With those cases and the info from the watch dog groups that I’ll be giving to Sloan and McBride, we’ve already narrowed the search and cut out weeks of web trawling. If you dig around in the background of the guys you busted; talk to your contacts—” he stopped, grinned disarmingly. “Sorry. You know what to do without me spelling it out.”

“Sure,” Rebecca replied dryly while across from her Watts huffed. She shot him another look.

“Let me wrap this up then,” Clark added smoothly, ignoring Watts. “A few big busts have been made in the last five years. Two international clubs—the Wonderland Club and the Orchid Club—each with network members in the United States, Australia, Canada and Europe, were infiltrated by members of various police agencies. There were several hundred arrests and thousands of images and videos confiscated. The problem with this approach is that it’s hit or miss, and even when you make an arrest, it’s only hitting the bottom of the food chain. Pedophiles watching porn in the safety of their own homes. If it weren’t for the fact that the material featured kids, it probably wouldn’t even be illegal.” His expression became starkly predatory, and for the first time, his charming mask slipped. “We’re not after the guy looking at dirty pictures in his bathroom. We’re after the businessmen who are sitting around a boardroom just like this one right now planning on how to make even more money off the sale of children. What want to know who’s behind it, how they’re getting the kids, and where they’re broadcasting their real time images from.”

Business men. A nice word for organized crime , Rebecca thought. So why am I here and not someone from the OC division? This doesn’t add up. She knew, however, that that was not the kind of question you asked. Like a lawyer who was taught never to ask a question they didn’t know the answer to, a cop knew never to let on that there was something they didn’t know.

“Technically any information which leads to an arrest needs to be documented and a chain of evidence recorded. The detectives should make out contact reports recording any Intel from informants, per usual. Officer Mitchell can take care of organizing that. In addition, a log of all internet activity, any leads generated by that route, and any street follow-up instituted needs to be charted.”