“How many of Jason’s chats do we have recorded, Mitchell? Logged in somewhere.”

“All of them,” the young officer replied immediately. That had been part of her assignment, and she was very thorough.

“That’s what I figured.” Rebecca rolled her shoulders, then faced Sloan, whose eyes had grown hard. “Jason could be in trouble if he’s been soliciting sex from minors on the internet, even in the course of an investigation. And these transcripts need to go into anything I take to the DA for a warrant.”

“Soliciting sex?” Sloan said, her surprise evident.

“The interaction mentioned here with HotChic13,” Rebecca clarified, waving the last page. “Is that recorded somewhere also?”

“Yep.” Sloan’s grin reappeared. “Every red hot word.”

“Well then—”

“Except,” Sloan added, “I’m HotChic13,”

Mitchell coughed. “Uh, and I’m PhillyFilly11. BigMac10’s other cybersex partner.”

Catherine laughed. Rebecca fixed Mitchell with a hard stare. “Redefining your assignment, Officer?”

“No, ma’am. Just—expanding it.”

Sloan looked for a moment as if she were going to come to Mitchell’s defense, then though better of it. You didn’t get between a superior officer and an underling. Not and keep the superior officer as an ally, or a friend.

“Just remember you’re a cop, Mitchell. Accountability is part of the job.”

Sloan smothered a smile. She was willing to bet there were a dozen things a day that Frye never reported and would deny any knowledge of. But she appreciated her keeping her rookie on the straight path. “We’ll desist using her, Sergeant, if you think it’s a problem.”

“No,” Rebecca responded. “Go ahead as you’ve been. But she doesn’t make contact with anyone else.”

“Roger,” Sloan said with a half-smile. “So,” she continued, turning to Catherine. “You think this LongJohn guy’s our best bet so far?”

“It certainly looks as if he’s pumping Jason for the right kinds of information.”

“Should we be a little more aggressive with him then?” Sloan asked. “Lead him a little?”

Catherine nodded thoughtfully. “Try to run into him tonight. I’d think it would be understandable if Ja…BigMac were curious after their last exchange and asked about real life opportunities.”

“Can you stay for a while and monitor the chats in case we get a hit?” Sloan inquired of the psychiatrist.

“Certainly.”

“Good. I’ll advise Jason of the plan so he can start trawling that board.”

Sloan left with Mitchell close behind. Catherine regarded Rebecca with a soft smile.

“You like Mitchell, don’t you?”

“Why do you say that,” Rebecca replied, an eyebrow arched in surprise.

“You’re hard on people you like.”

Rebecca winced. “On you, too?”

“No,” Catherine moved closer and rested her hand on Rebecca’s arm. “I didn’t mean it that way.”

“I’ve missed you,” Rebecca confessed, feeling her entire body sway toward Catherine like a flower to sunlight. “Can I take you home later?” At Catherine’s look of hesitation, she added quickly, “I’ll just drive you home. I won’t stay or—”

“Oh, Rebecca,” Catherine said quietly, a too familiar note of sadness in her voice. “Don’t you know how much I’ve missed you, too? Do you think I don’t want you?”

“I just didn’t want you to think I meant…that all I wanted…” Rebecca swore sharply, then leaned the last few inches and kissed her gently. After a very long minute, she lifted her mouth away and murmured, “It’s not just about sex. That’s all I meant.”

“Are you going out tonight?” Catherine asked, stepping back so she could think clearly.

“I’ll be back in a few hours.”

“I’ll be here.”

Rebecca waited across the street from the all night Gateway Diner on the corner of 13th and Locust. The early September night was chilly, and she hunched her shoulders inside her worn leather jacket. Secluded in the shadows beneath the awning of a shoe repair store, she watched the parade going in and out through the revolving doors. Some were bar patrons who had left the neighborhood watering holes in search of something to eat before wending their way home; some were prostitutes of both genders taking a break from working the streets or just socializing with friends, and some were merely lonely people with nowhere else to be and no one waiting for them to be there. At 1:15, as Sandy’s message had said, the young blond approached walking north on 13th and, a moment later, she joined Rebecca in the shadows.

“Hey,” Sandy said. Dressed in a short black leather skirt, open-toed high heeled sandals, a pale scoop neck top that outlined her high firm breasts, and a thin jacket that clearly wasn’t providing any warmth, she shivered visibly and wrapped her arms around herself as if to ward off the night.

“You’re gonna have to start covering up if you don’t want to freeze your assets off,” Rebecca remarked.

“If they can’t see it, they don’t buy it,” Sandy rejoined.

Rebecca glanced out into the street, knowing that the occupants of the cars slowly crawling by were cruising the sidewalks for hookers or hustlers, looking for a few minutes of company. “Did you ever think of getting into another line of work?”

“Yeah. Except no one seems to be hiring nuclear physicists at the moment. You know, space travel ain’t what it used to be.”

“There are programs available,” Rebecca said quietly. “Places you could get job training or-”

“Frye, if you keep on with this social work talk you’re really gonna scare me. Now do you want the information I’ve got for you, or not?” Sandy had no intention of discussing her choices with the tall blond cop. For one thing, it was none of her business. For another, the quiet concern in Frye’s voice bothered her and she didn’t want to think about exactly why. When people cared about you, they ended up owning a little piece of you. She didn’t want anyone to have even the smallest hold on her. Because then she was vulnerable.

Rebecca blew out a breath and rolled her shoulders, wondering what the hell she was trying to do. Sandy had probably been a runaway, most likely running from abuse, like the majority of young kids on the streets. Not all of them, she reminded herself, thinking of Anthony DeCarlo’s teenage daughter who had left home to punish her parents—an act of adolescent rebellion that had almost cost her life. But most of them arrived on buses or made their way into the city by hitchhiking, only to end up sleeping ten to a room and selling themselves in one way or another for a meal, or drugs, or merely some human connection. Sandy had made a choice for survival, and she had used her wits and whatever else she had to make that happen. As far as Rebecca knew, the young woman wasn’t using drugs and she wasn’t selling herself at truck stops or under bridges in the underbelly of the city. She had a decent apartment and it looked like she was eating well and taking care of herself. If she was using her body to make a life for herself, there were worse things she could’ve done. And no matter what she was doing, Sandy was a source of information and that was all. Rebecca finally replied, “Yeah, tell me what you’ve got.”

“Let’s go somewhere and get a drink. I’m freezing out here.”

A few minutes later they were seated at a back table in the Two Four Club, an after hours place that catered to a mixed clientele whose only common bond was that they didn’t want to go home until they had no other choice. Rebecca walked to the bar and asked for a cup of coffee for herself and a beer for Sandy. The bartender grimaced at her request, but poured lethal looking liquid into a styrofoam cup and passed it to her across the bar. She carried the cup and Sandy’s bottled beer back to the table, then fished four folded twenties out of her jeans and put them underneath Sandy’s beer bottle.

“I know a girl who made some movies.” Sandy deftly extracted the bills and slid them into a pocket under the waistband of her skirt.

“Name. When and where. Details. “

Sandy shook her head. “First of all, who she is isn’t going to help you and I’m not telling you. I know what she knows. Take it or leave it.”

“Give me what you got.” Pressing wouldn’t help. Sandy was unyielding about protecting her friends.

“She says she and two other girls had sex with three or four guys.”

“And that’s news?”

“Well, it is when somebody’s filming it for some kind of live TV.”

“What do you mean by live?” Rebecca’s pulse quickened.

“She says one guy told them that everything they said and did was going to be viewed just like prime time television right when it was happening, so to be careful not to use their own names.” Sandy sipped her beer, then continued with an expression of loathing on her face. “And to make sure they, you know, spoke up.”

“Why?” Rebecca asked.

“He gave them a…what do you call it…script to look over before they started filming. But apparently it wasn’t much, just a list of things to say, you now…the usual…”

“Give me a for instance.”

“The things guys like to hear. Oh baby, you’re so big. It feels so good. Don’t hurt me. Hurt me. Don’t come in my mouth. Come all over me.” Sandy looked past Rebecca at some vision only she could see. “That kind of thing.”

“Did your friend say who they were, describe the men in any way to you?”

Sandy shook her head again. “No names. She went along as a substitute for some chick who usually did it but couldn’t make it because her boyfriend’d put her in the hospital. Says she didn’t even know the other girls she was with very well.”

“How old were they?” Rebecca asked quietly. Under the table, her hands were balled into fists and she ignored the desire to break something.

“13, 15 and 16. But they all look about 12, especially if they dress for the part.”