“I’m not inquiring because I’m faulting your procedures, Detective,” he continued. “I’m wondering why a seasoned detective would walk into a situation where the risk was so high.”

“I felt that the hostage was in immediate danger of execution.”

“Dr. Rawlings.”

“Yes.” Catherine. The bastard had struck her, torn her blouse open, bound her hands. He hadn’t had enough time yet to do anything else to her, but I knew what he intended to do. I remembered his voice on the tape, describing it in detail, and I wanted to kill him then. I can still hear his voice. Sitting there, recalling his smooth, intimate tone as he’d talked about fucking her lover, she had to concentrate not to clench her fists.

“Detective,” Rand Whitaker asked softly, “did you walk into that room intending to trade yourself for the hostage?”

Rebecca met his eyes, her cool blue eyes unwavering. Very clearly she replied, “No.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

AT NINE-FORTY, Catherine stepped out onto the sidewalk in front of a building that had once been a gracious four story Victorian before it had had been purchased by the University and converted to offices. It was dark, the night was cool; summer was dying. A shadow moved from beneath a tree nearby, and she stiffened.

“It’s me. I’m sorry.”

“Rebecca,” Catherine said with a soft sigh. She held out her hand. “How long have you been here?”

“Not long—fifteen minutes, maybe. Joyce said that you had an eight-thirty so I figured you’d be done about now.” She linked the fingers of her left hand through Catherine’s. She was right-handed and needed to keep her gun hand free on the street.

“You could have waited inside.”

“I didn’t want to run into a patient. Besides, it’s nice out here.” They began to walk. “Drive you home?”

“Mmm, yes. My car’s in the parking garage. I can leave it if you bring me in tomorrow. Can you stay tonight?” It was hard needing to ask, but this was new territory for both of them. She didn’t want to make assumptions.

“I’ll need to go early. There’s a meeting in the morning.”

“Ah—you’ve seen your Captain.” She’d known it would be soon, but did it have to be this fast? Of course, there were some things that the police always did quickly. They worked nonstop when a case was new and the blood was still fresh; they interrogated people before the tears had dried and they were emotionally the most vulnerable; they buried their dead and moved on before the ground was cold. At least they tried to, until something inside them broke or turned to stone. She thought about her new patient, the young officer who was trying so hard not to acknowledge the pain and terror and abandonment she must have felt walking down that dark alley with no one at her back. Her heart twisted, but her voice was even. “You’re working again?”

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.”