“So what’s the rush to go to the DA? You know they’re going to be running with a skeleton staff, and finding a judge to sign off on a warrant is always tricky on a weekend. Plus, it usually pisses off the judge to get paged during a golf game and that doesn’t help matters.”

“It’s possible that we’re going to have contact tonight or tomorrow night with one of these Internet guys dealing with the live video broadcasts. We’re going to need to bring him in for questioning, go through his place looking for a verification of child porn, and confiscate all of his electronic equipment. I’d like to have a warrant to cover that.”

“Which means we’re gonna need the crime scene techs, too,” Watts added. “That’s a lot of over time and it will help to have the DA on board to back us up with that.”

“Thank you, Detective,” Henry said dryly. “I’m well aware how the fiscal distribution of my division works.”

Rebecca squelched a smile, but she knew that Watts had made a good point. Administrators like Henry, even the ones who had once been good cops like he had been, were highly motivated by the bottom line, which was usually financial. The more paperwork he had to back up his allocation of funds and manpower, the better it would be.

He pushed back in his chair and sighed. “Okay, put the paperwork on my desk and I’ll make some calls.”

“Thank you, sir,” Rebecca said, beginning to rise.

“You stay, Frye.”

Watts hesitated for a second, glancing quickly from Frye to Captain Henry, and then left the room when it became apparent that no one was going to say anything until he did.

When Watts had closed the door behind him, Henry said, “How actively are you involved in this investigation?”

“Just gathering the information as it comes in.”

“I still haven’t seen anything on you from Whitaker.”

“I’ll see that he gets it to you.”

“See that you do, Sergeant.”

“Absolutely, Captain.”

Once outside his office, she glanced at her watch and decided that Whitaker probably wasn’t available on a Saturday afternoon. Monday would be in plenty of time.

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

“WHAT ARE YOU thinking about?”

“Hmm? Oh,” Rebecca exclaimed with a wry smile. “I was thinking how nice it was not to be thinking about anything.”

They were walking hand-in-hand through the narrow streets of Old City on First Saturday, a monthly event where artisans of all persuasions displayed their wares on the sidewalks for passersby to peruse, musicians played in alcoves and on street corners, and the many bistros and cafes served drinks or cappuccino at tiny tables lining the walkways. It had a certain Mardi Gras flavor with the historical charm that made Philadelphia famous. They’d had dinner at a small, intimate restaurant and then had taken to the streets along with scores of others to luxuriate in the still warm September evening.

“You might have been thinking that five minutes ago,” Catherine said with a faint laugh, “but now you have that look of complete and utter detachment that spells cop mode.”

Rebecca blushed, an occurrence so rare for her that it was nearly reportable. It was true, she had been thinking about the case, and she had no idea that it showed so plainly. All she’d wanted when the evening had begun was to somehow let Catherine know how crazy in love with her she was, and now, not three hours later, here she was obsessing about the job again. Jesus. “I’m sorry,” she said quickly, “I was just—”

“Don’t apologize. I have to admit that I’ve been wondering myself what was happening with Sloan and Jason. This waiting for something to break can get very wearing.”

“Really?” Rebecca was pleasantly surprised. It hadn’t occurred to her that Catherine could become as absorbed in a case as she, although she certainly should have realized that after their experience with Raymond Blake. Then, Catherine had been as persistent as any obsessive detective in bringing him to justice. “You know, we’re just around the corner—”

“I was just thinking the same thing.” Catherine stopped walking and regarded Rebecca with an eager glint in her eyes, then glanced at her watch. “It is after nine on a Saturday night. Think anyone is still around?”

“Can’t hurt to see.”

Ten minutes later, Jason’s now familiar voice said from the speaker above the door, “Come on up. Might as well have a party.”

When they had ascended the elevator and disembarked on the third floor, they discovered Jason and Mitchell in their now familiar poses, hunched over the monitors and murmuring conspiratorially.

Rebecca regarded Mitchell impassively when the young officer turned at the sound of footsteps. Mitchell gazed back, a faint hint of challenge in her eyes. It was the first time Rebecca had ever seen her anything but appropriately respectful. “Mitchell,” she said with a perfunctory nod.

“Detective,” Mitchell said stiffly.

Turning to Jason, Rebecca asked, “Anything?”

“The usual. Saturday night seems to bring out all the perverts. LongJohn hasn’t shown up though. I’m not entirely certain that he will, since we already have a specified meeting time tomorrow night. On the other hand, I want to be here if he does log on.”

Catherine nodded in agreement. “He may very well want to be sure that you’re still interested, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he sends a few more verbal tests in your direction—to verify your authenticity. He’s got to be suspicious that you—BigMac, I should say—might be law enforcement. I would suggest you appear enthusiastic, but don’t probe too overtly for more information.”

“Gotcha.” Jason reached to his right and thumbed through an inch high pile of computer printouts. “These are from the last couple of days, and there might be some other possibles in here.” Glancing at Catherine he said apologetically, “Have you got a few minutes?”

Catherine hesitated, looking at Rebecca, who shrugged infinitesimally. By unspoken agreement, they had thus far kept their personal involvement private from the others in the group, for no other reason than that they both preferred to separate their professional and personal lives whenever possible. “Sure,” Catherine said. “I’ll just take them back to the conference room and go through them.”

As she lifted the pile and turned to leave, Rebecca looked pointedly at Mitchell and said, “Officer, let’s take a walk.”

“Yes ma’am,” Mitchell said and rose instantly.

The two of them headed in the opposite direction from the conference room toward the far end of the vast loft space, finally stopping beneath an expanse of windows that afforded them a view all the way into southern New Jersey. Between them and the industrial center of Camden ran the Delaware River, illuminated by the lights of oil barges and other ships. “Captain Rodriguez called me this afternoon,” Rebecca began without preamble, referring to one of the uniform commanders and Mitchell’s superior. “He told me that all they need is your paperwork cleared up and you’ll be reassigned to street patrol.”

“I don’t want to be reassigned,” she said immediately.

“Is there some problem in house?”

Mitchell glanced at her sideways, surprised by the question. It was rare for detectives to take any interest in uniform officers, and rarer still for them to question the workings of other divisions. Frye was essentially asking her if she had a problem with her superiors or her fellow officers, which was to her knowledge, unheard of. “No ma’am. No problems.”

“Okay.” Rebecca expected no other answer from Mitchell. The young officer was clearly a by-the-book cop, and if she were having problems, she’d keep it to herself like any good cop and try to handle it on her own. Rebecca didn’t intend to push her on it, not now. They had other issues to get clear on. “Then why don’t you want to go back to your regular duty?”

Mitchell squared her shoulders and said directly, “Because I want to stay on this assignment. I like working with Sloan and McBride… and I like working with you.”

Rebecca turned her head and regarded Mitchell steadily. “Every uniform wants the gold shield, at least any uniform worth anything at all.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You’ve got a long ways to go before that, Mitchell.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“But you’ve made a good start.” Rebecca slid her hands into her pockets and rocked slightly on the balls of her feet as she watched the night slide by on the river below. “I’ll see what I can do about keeping you around.”

“Thank you very much,” Mitchell said, trying not to sound as relieved as she felt. Frye was not the type you kissed up to.

“One more thing.”

Mitchell looked at her questioningly. “Yes, ma’am?”

“You want to tell me about you and Sandy Dyer?”

Mitchell’s heart began to race. Suddenly, for the first time since the day she had stood on the parade ground at West Point as a new cadet, she felt her knees shaking. In a clear voice that she willed not to waver, she answered, “No, ma’am, I do not.”

“If you get between me and this investigation, or any other investigation, I’ll have your badge.”

“Understood.”

“Good,” Rebecca said. “We’ll meet here tomorrow afternoon at 4 p.m. to review the details of the operation.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Mitchell said, hoping that the shock didn’t show in her voice. Frye had just invited her along on a high level tactical maneuver. It was more than a dream come true, it was a career making opportunity. And that after asking her about Sandy. How in hell had she known?

“And Mitchell,” Rebecca added as if in afterthought, “never turn your back on the night. You never know who might be watching.”

Catherine reappeared an hour and a half later. Rebecca sat with her feet up on the counter, leaning back in a swivel chair, watching a computer monitor. Jason and Mitchell were busy inputting data into one of their seemingly endless analysis programs.