Justice Served Part 17

Rebecca studied Sloan, who had a faint frown line between her brows. "What do you think?"

"I suppose it's possible that Hogan tripped onto something illegal on the docks that got him killed. Stolen cars coming in by boat, a drug shipment, wholesale-container thefts-there's a lot of merchandise moving on those docks every day. It's not that dif cult to divert a tractor-trailer full of electronics or other pricey commodities to a warehouse somewhere. One 'misplaced' shipment among hundreds every day is going to take a while to catch anyone's attention."

"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 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 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," Mitch.e.l.l 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 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," Mitch.e.l.l said.

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

"Son of a b.i.t.c.h," Watts whispered. He suddenly sat up straighter, his palms at on the tabletop, his attention riveted to Rebecca. "Can we pick up the slimy little b.a.s.t.a.r.d? 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 circ.u.mstantial. 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 of ce and the forensics lab-back to him.

Give me enough time, I'll nd you a dozen."

"It still doesn't prove that he personally is responsible."

"Then maybe we should pay him a visit," Sloan said atly.

"And...ask."

Mitch.e.l.l shifted subtly in her seat, then said, "What we need is corroborative evidence. Maybe Jason and I can 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 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 p.o.r.n sites. If nothing else, we can squeeze him with that."

"Do it," Rebecca said. "Today."

"Yes, ma'am," Mitch.e.l.l said, her voice tight with antic.i.p.ation.

"I've got street sources looking for other girls who've been hired for the p.o.r.n shoots," Rebecca went on. "We'll show his picture around.

Maybe he likes to sample the merchandise."

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

"Watts and I," Rebecca 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 nally replied.

"That's not the answer I was looking for."

Sloan angled her head and smiled at Rebecca humorlessly. "What * 120 *

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 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 rst time, anger 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. "f.u.c.k. 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 a.s.s 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 of 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 Of 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 of cer eyed Rebecca laconically. "Uh-huh. Sure."

Taking his time, he half turned back into the tiny booth, pushed a b.u.t.ton 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 f.u.c.king 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 atbed cars and shipped up and down the East Coast. The workday was in full swing on the docks, and a mult.i.tude 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 * 123 *

RADCLY fFE car with a forklift or-worse yet-dump a couple of tons of metal on top of it.

"Well, we could go for typecasting," Watts suggested helpfully.

"You could be the bad cop, and I'll be the good cop."

Rebecca icked him a glance, and he looked back, perfectly straight-faced. She grinned. "What's your next idea."

"Why not tell this guy we're just following up on the homicide investigation because Horton and Marks ran out of steam. Since Jeff was one of ours, that would make sense."

"Yeah. And we just came across these notes and are tying off loose ends. That plays." Rebecca pulled into a s.p.a.ce in a small employee lot in front of an eight-foot chain-link fence that ran parallel to the water as far as the eye could see in both directions. Beyond it, sheet-metal-covered warehouses as big as airplane hangars lined the waterfront.

"Guess we go on foot from here."

"Christ, it looks like it's a mile away." Watts lit a cigarette the instant he stepped from the car.

"At least you'll get some exercise."

"Yeah, yeah."

Rebecca watched as a decktop crane on an enormous cargo ship pivoted over the water with a container as big as a Cape Cod cottage swinging from its ma.s.sive arm. With surprising precision, the operator lowered the loaded storage crate onto the dock at the end of a row of a dozen others exactly like it.

"It's amazing how they can keep track of anything here. All these cargo ships, hundreds of containers." Rebecca shook her head. "What a perfect way to smuggle contraband."

"Special delivery, right to your door," Watts agreed.

Pointing to one of half a dozen identical buildings distinguished only by six-foot red letters painted on the front of each one, Rebecca said, "This way."

After they stopped a harried dockworker to ask where the of ce was, they were directed to a side door leading into the warehouse. Once inside, they followed an unadorned corridor lit by bare uorescent tubes dangling on chains toward the interior of the building. Just before the pa.s.sageway opened into a cavernous s.p.a.ce lled with pallets of boxes and more containers, they found the of ce. The door was open, and Rebecca and Watts stepped inside.

* 124 *

Justice Served The top half of one wall of the twenty-by-twenty-foot room was gla.s.s, affording anyone inside a view of the interior of the warehouse beyond. File cabinets lined the opposite wall, a metal desk sat in the center of the room, and a small TV stand in one corner held a water-stained coffee machine. A single monitor displaying a view of the dock immediately in front of the building was mounted high in one corner opposite the desk. An African American woman in a spotless uniform sat behind the desk.

She studied them with an expression of curious interest. "Can I help you two?"

"Captain Reiser?" Rebecca asked.

"That's right."