“That’s what we think too,” Rebecca said. “At least it’s a plausible explanation for why someone would be willing to risk killing two cops.

Protecting an operation as lucrative as that could be worth it.”

“It won’t be all that easy to prove,” Jason remarked. “Tracking those shipments is going to be time-consuming.”

Rebecca gave a feral grin. “I Þ gure there has to be a way to do it by computer.”

Both Sloan’s and Jason’s eyes sparkled. In unison they said,

“Maybe.”

“Let’s get a feel for the situation down there, and then we’ll put some pressure on Port Authority to let us have a look into their system.”

Watts snorted. “That could take some doing. Port Authority cops aren’t always the most cooperative.”

That was, Rebecca knew, an unfortunate fact. More often than not, law enforcement agencies were not terribly forthcoming when it came to sharing intelligence. Sometimes not even about sharing basic operational information. What it came down to was that everyone protected their own turf in an attempt to ensure the longevity of their own positions. “We’ll be…insistent.”

That idea seemed to please Watts, because he grinned and crossed his hands over his belly, a contented man. Rebecca nodded in Sloan’s direction. “Go ahead.”

Sloan gave no sign of tension, other than her Þ sts clenched around the coffee mug, as she spoke in a level, quiet tone. “The network connecting the various departments at Police Plaza and City Hall is lousy with worms and viruses. Someone has been monitoring almost

• 118 •

Justice Served

everything that goes on down there…I can’t say exactly for how long…

but more than a year.”

“That takes sophisticated computer know-how,” Mitchell said.

“You’re right. And I doubt that anyone inside the system could do it. I haven’t seen any sign of that level of internal expertise. I’d say the job was probably shipped out to a hacker who programmed the malicious code on a laptop and then handed that off to someone who worked inside. They carried the laptop into the building, connected it to the network, and let the beasts loose.”

“The Mob has the resources to pull off something like that,” Jason observed.

“They do. On the other hand,” Sloan said as she kept her eyes on Rebecca, “so do the feds. It’s hard to know who your enemies are anymore.”

“Can you Þ nd out who’s behind it?”

“Not directly,” Sloan admitted. “If the programs were encrypted off-site and delivered from a remote location via laptop, the hacker is essentially untraceable.”

Watts groaned.

“But I can trackback to the internal source of the contamination.”

“To whoever logged in to the network and injected the virus into the system,” Mitchell said.

“Right.” Sloan sipped her coffee, careful to keep the tremor from her hand. “George Beecher. The ADA.”

“Son of a bitch,” Watts whispered. He suddenly sat up straighter, his palms ß at on the tabletop, his attention riveted to Rebecca. “Can we pick up the slimy little bastard? I’d like to get him alone in a room.”

“Sloan?” Rebecca countered. “Is there enough for a warrant?”

Sloan shook her head. “Right now, all I can do is show that his computer was the source point for the intrusion. His attorneys would simply argue that that kind of evidence is circumstantial. Anyone could’ve logged on to his computer when he wasn’t around and uploaded the malicious code.”

“Are we even sure it’s him?” Rebecca asked, all too aware that Sloan was barely able to be objective, given the situation. She wasn’t surprised when Sloan stiffened, her eyes growing cool.

“I’ve now tracked two intrusions from two different network

• 119 •

RADCLY fFE

points—Captain Henry’s ofÞ ce and the forensics lab—back to him.

Give me enough time, I’ll Þ nd you a dozen.”

“It still doesn’t prove that he personally is responsible.”

“Then maybe we should pay him a visit,” Sloan said ß atly.

“And…ask.”

Mitchell shifted subtly in her seat, then said, “What we need is corroborative evidence. Maybe Jason and I can Þ nd some connection in Beecher’s personal data that will strengthen our case.” She gave Jason a questioning look. “What if we really hit him hard—dig down another layer. If it’s him, we’ll Þ nd hidden bank accounts somewhere. Real estate transactions. Stocks. Unaccounted-for expenditures. Something.”

“We can phish him too,” Jason thought aloud. “See if we can get him to bite on a fake request for credit card information from one of the Internet video porn sites. If nothing else, we can squeeze him with that.”

“Do it,” Rebecca said. “Today.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Mitchell said, her voice tight with anticipation.

“I’ve got street sources looking for other girls who’ve been hired for the porn shoots,” Rebecca went on. “We’ll show his picture around.

Maybe he likes to sample the merchandise.”

Mitchell stared straight ahead, her posture rigid. Rebecca saw the reaction but noted with satisfaction that this time Mitchell kept her temper in check. It took effort, and Rebecca gave her points for it.

“Watts and I,” Rebecca Þ nished, “will ride down to the docks today and see if we can get a line on what Hogan was chasing down there. Tonight, we’ll take shifts watching Beecher. Sooner or later he’ll misstep.” Rebecca rose, indicating the meeting was over. Turning to Sloan, she said quietly, “Let’s take a walk.”

Wordlessly, Sloan followed her to the elevator. Once inside, Rebecca leaned a shoulder against the wall and slid her hands into her trouser pockets. “Are you going to be able to handle this Beecher situation?”

The elevator doors glided open, and they walked across the garage to the street door. Sloan hit the exit bar with her hip, and the two of them stepped out into bright, cold October sunshine.

“It depends on what happens, I guess,” Sloan Þ nally replied.

“That’s not the answer I was looking for.”

Sloan angled her head and smiled at Rebecca humorlessly. “What

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Justice Served

did you expect me to say? That it would be all right with me if he goes free or cuts a deal? Even if we can Þ nd enough evidence to nail him?”

She wore only an oxford shirt and jeans with no jacket, but the wind did not seem to bother her. “If he walks, you’d best look the other way.”

“You know I won’t.”

“Then I’ll just make sure there’s nothing for you to see.”

“Make sure there’s nothing for me to even think about.” Rebecca stopped walking and put her hand on Sloan’s shoulder. They very rarely touched, and it wasn’t a comforting or even a particularly friendly gesture. But it was an honest one. She squeezed slowly and turned Sloan to face her in the middle of the sidewalk. “I know what you’re feeling.”

“I know that you do,” Sloan said, not resisting the hand that restrained her. “But when someone threatened your lover, you blew his heart out.”

“I’m a cop. I had no choice.”

“We’ll never know that for sure, will we?”

“You know, if you go after this guy on your own, Michael will know.”

For the Þ rst time, anger ß ared in Sloan’s eyes. “You don’t talk to Michael about this.”

“I won’t have to, Sloan.” Rebecca’s tone was level and mild.

“She’ll know. Because…they always do. The women who love us.”

Sloan stood very still, her gaze unwavering. Then, her muscles eased and a genuine smile appeared. “Fuck. They do, don’t they.”

“Yep.” Rebecca dropped her hand and rolled her shoulders, relaxing as she watched Sloan reach a decision. “I promise you this. If it’s him, we’ll get him. We’ll get him now, or tomorrow, or next month.

But he won’t get away with it. You have my word.”

“All right.” Sloan shivered. “So are you done with the interrogation, Lieutenant? Because I’m freezing my ass off out here.”

Laughing, Rebecca gripped Sloan’s shoulder, in camaraderie this time, as they turned to head back. Sloan would keep her word, for Michael.

• 121 •

• 122 •

Justice Served

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Rebecca drove south on Delaware Avenue deep into South Philadelphia. The Walt Whitman Bridge to New Jersey

loomed overhead—a huge blue spiderweb, the shadows of vehicles traversing the central span like so many prey struggling to escape. Rush hour was nearly over, and it took less than ten minutes to reach the main gates of the Port of Philadelphia. Rebecca slowed and extended her ID

out the window at the security booth, a four-by-four-foot kiosk with a wooden gate and a single, bored-looking Port Authority ofÞ cer inside.

He ignored them for a full thirty seconds before leaning out and squinting at Rebecca’s badge. “Yeah?”

“Philadelphia police. We’re looking for OfÞ cer…Reiser.”

“That would be Captain Reiser. Building C, all the way in the back. The captain know you’re coming?”

“No. It’s a social call.”

The grizzled ofÞ cer eyed Rebecca laconically. “Uh-huh. Sure.”

Taking his time, he half turned back into the tiny booth, pushed a button that powered the motor to raise the barrier arm, and gave Rebecca a perfunctory nod. “Have a nice day.”

Rebecca proceeded into the complex as Watts muttered, “You have a nice fucking day too. Moron.”

“How do you think we should play this?” Rebecca asked, maneuvering cautiously between rows of gigantic containers that had been off-loaded from ships that morning and awaited transport to the adjoining railroad yard. There they would be stacked on ß atbed cars and shipped up and down the East Coast. The workday was in full swing on the docks, and a multitude of orange forklifts, their front-loaders raised and extended, scurried about like so many ants in a hill. Rebecca began to wish she had driven a department vehicle and not her ’Vette. The last thing she wanted was for one of these teamsters to spear the side of her