In Pursuit of Justice (27 page)

“Don’t worry,” Sloan murmured when Michael finally released her. “I promise to be at least one hundred percent anytime it’s required.” As she spoke, she lifted her hands until she cradled the undersurface of Michael’s breasts, rubbing her thumbs deliberately back and forth across the peaks of the hardened nipples.

Michael drew a sharp breath, catching her lower lip between her teeth. She arched her back, pressing her breasts harder into her lover’s palms. “I think your services might be needed soon.”

“Really? How soon?”

“I’ll let you know.” As her lids fluttered closed, Michael ran her hand slowly down her own torso until her fingers rested between her legs. Already hard and wet. “Mmm, shouldn’t be long.”

“Don’t hurry,” Sloan managed through a throat tight with desire. “You know how much I love to watch.”

“I know,” Michael whispered back, eyes still closed, listening to Sloan’s breathing quicken, feeling the abdominal muscles beneath her thighs ripple spasmodically, sensing the hot gaze upon her skin. Very carefully, not wanting to lose control, she teased her lover as she teased herself. “Ah…God, lover.”

Sloan continued to work Michael’s nipples, eyes fixed on the slow indolent motion of her lover’s hand as she stroked herself, loving the exquisite torture of watching Michael’s passion rise. “Baby, you’re so beautiful.”

Michael’s eyes opened, their blue depths virtually eclipsed by the dark shadows of desire. She watched Sloan watch her, nearly slipping over the edge when she saw the hunger in her face. “Do you want me to stop?” she asked haltingly, her hips thrusting into her hand of their own volition now.

“Not yet,” Sloan ordered, arching her pelvis, forcing Michael’s fingers to caress them both. “Just don’t…come.”

Michael laughed shakily, her stomach muscles tensing with the first warning contractions. “Then…I should stop…now.” She thought she could hold back, barely, if she stopped soon. Very soon.

“No,” Sloan growled, her voice savage, her expression wild. Knowing how close Michael was, knowing how much she must want to let go, was making her crazy. Michael was leaning hard into Sloan’s hands now, nipples rock hard against her palms. Entire body shuddering, Michael whimpered softly.

“Easy.”

“Sloan…love…I can’t…can’tstop,” Michael pleaded helplessly, her hand a blur between her thighs.

“Hold on,” Sloan urged, lifting her own hips higher so that the back of Michael’s fingers pressed into her clitoris. Watching Michael nearing orgasm, feeling her hand circling faster as she pleasured herself, was almost enough to get Sloan there, too. The intermittent brush of Michael’s fingers over her clitoris was all she needed. Desperately close, she became the one struggling to wait. “Tell me…when.”

“Oh…now. I’m comingnow…”

Sloan fought not to go off with her, raptly watching the pleasure flow through Michael’s body, her own nerves melting as she began to burn from the inside out. Her arms trembled, supporting Michael’s weight as she convulsed, and her legs twisted as orgasm finally thundered through her. Her shouts were lost in Michael’s cries as they held to one another while pleasure raged.

Moments, eons, later, Sloan managed, “What do you think?”

“A hundred and ten percent,” Michael gasped, still trembling as she lay stretched out on Sloan’s body.

“Hmm,” Sloan grumbled. “Maybe I
am
slipping.”

Michael laughed, pushing sweat-dampened hair from her face. “Any better, lover, and I’d go up in flames.” Leaning up on one arm, she regarded Sloan intently, her expression suddenly serious. “You know, I can cancel this overnight to Boston. I don’t want to be away if something breaks on your case.”

“No—go ahead,” Sloan said, brushing her cheek against the fine hairs on Michael’s arm as she smiled contentedly. “We’re not that close. I’ll pick you up at the airport tomorrow night like we planned.”

“If something happens, will you call me? I’ll come right back.” Michael ran her hand along Sloan’s side, feeling her stiffen. “I know you, Sloan. You’ll want to be in the middle of it. And I want to be here.”

“Just go sew up your deal,” Sloan insisted. “You’ll be back in plenty of time. Promise.”

“Mmm,” Michael said, curling into Sloan’s body and closing her eyes. “I’ll hold you to that.”

*

“Get you coffee?”

Catherine looked up at the dark-haired woman and smiled. “Not unless you want to peel me off the ceiling.”

Sloan laughed as she filled her mug. “There’s some left if you need a boost.”

“Thanks. By the way—do you ever sleep?”

“Now and then. But Michael left town on business this afternoon, so tonight…well, I’d just as soon work.”

“Michael?”

“My lover.”

“Ah.”
Michael.
Odd, I would have bet money…

“What about you? This is the fifth night in a row that you’ve been at it.”

Catherine glanced at her watch. Almost 11:00 p.m. “I’ll call it quits soon.”

“Uh-huh.” Sloan smiled, gave a half wave, and disappeared.

When the conference room door swung open again, Catherine glanced up casually, expecting to see Sloan or Jason. Then, as it never failed to do, her heart rate skyrocketed at the sight of the handsome blond in the pale blue button-down-collar shirt and faded jeans. It was unusual to see Rebecca working in anything other than a well-tailored suit, but it
was
Friday night, and Catherine supposed that when the detective worked the streets well into the early morning hours, she did it in jeans and a leather jacket. The memory of just how good Rebecca looked when dressed that way was quickly replaced by an image of Sandy’s small cozy apartment, complete with the remains of a takeout meal. Impatiently, she set that thought aside. There was work to be done, and musing about Rebecca’s secret life was not going to help. “Hi.”

“You’re working late again,” Rebecca remarked, surveying the pile of computer printouts on the table.
I’ve missed you.

Other than several phone calls and one hurried lunch together in the hospital cafeteria, they hadn’t really had much contact the rest of the week. It was the longest they had been separated since Rebecca moved back to her own apartment, and with each passing day, Rebecca felt more at sea. They still hadn’t talked about what happened at the hospital—and after—and she knew that Catherine was waiting for her to say something, or do something, but she wasn’t certain what that was.

“I can’t believe how much traffic there is on these sites,” Catherine said, indicating the stacks of on-line chat transcripts. “And these are just the ones that Jason thought were interesting.”

“You look tired. You
do
still have a day job, remember.”

Catherine studied her, sensitive to the reservation in her tone. The concern was genuine; she could see it in her eyes. But Rebecca hadn’t touched her when she’d walked into the room, and although she stood within arm’s length now, the emotional distance between them seemed unbridgeable. Not for the first time, she wondered where Rebecca had been spending her nights. “I’m okay. Reading through these is a lot easier than doing an hour or two of therapy.”

“I can only imagine.” Rebecca smiled wryly. “How’s it going?”

“Surprisingly, not too bad,” Catherine said, pushing back in the chair with a sigh. “It occurred to me this morning while I was making rounds that we aren’t the only ones profiling.”

“What do you mean?” Her interest sparked, Rebecca edged a hip onto the corner of the table.

“Well, thus far, Sloan and Jason have been concentrating on finding individuals who fit a certain profile. I’m sure that the computer wizards in the other room will be able to manipulate this information and eventually come up with something concrete. Still, they’ve amassed a tremendous amount of data which could take a long time to analyze.”

“Right,” Rebecca grimaced. “If I think about it too hard, it gives me a headache.”

“Actually, me, too. I think I might be able to add another piece to the puzzle and speed up the process.”

“How?” Rebecca asked and crossed the room to test the heat of the coffeepot with her palm. It was warm and the coffee smelled fresh. She lifted the pot and gestured in Catherine’s direction. “Want some?”

“Thanks, no,” Catherine replied with a shake of her head. “Anyhow, it occurred to me that if someone is making money, presumably a lot of money, producing and selling pornographic movies, as well as broadcasting live videos of child prostitution, they have to have an audience.”

“Well, that’s the point, isn’t it?” Rebecca moved back to Catherine’s side with coffee in hand. “All of these dirtballs that Jason’s been communicating with are the audience members.”

“I’m not arguing that they are all purveyors of child pornography in one form or another. But only a select few—probably
very
few—would actually be in the position to subscribe to this live broadcast that Sloan’s so anxious to get a lead on.”

“Wait a minute,” Rebecca said, an edge of excitement in her voice. “It’s just like any television program—a target audience always has a particular profile. A particular demographic make-up. Is that what you mean?”

“Precisely,” Catherine stated emphatically. “That’s exactly what I mean. Obviously, the
viewers
are going to be men, probably between the ages of twenty-five and fifty. Secondly, they need expensive equipment and high-speed Internet access; that requires a certain income level.”

“Probably single, or at least someone who has a large chunk of private time,” Rebecca interjected, enthusiasm growing.

“So my theory,” Catherine continued, “is that there are probably a number of middlemen recruiting potential subscribers for this…this broadcasting service, for want of a better word. And we should be able to identify them by the questions
they’re
asking.”

“So you’re looking for someone who is trying to find out if Jason—well, the Jason persona—is a single adult male with expendable income who might be interested in something more than still pics or cybersex.”

“You’ve got it. I’m looking for someone who appears to be profiling. What I did was give Mitchell a list of hypothetical questions that these recruiters might ask so she can screen for them. Then we’ll pull the transcripts of anyone who hits fifty percent, and, with luck, I can string all of
that
individual’s chats together and see if the whole picture fits.”

“I don’t know why Clark didn’t get you in on this from the beginning,” Rebecca said with a shake of her head.

A voice from the door responded, “Because we didn’t know what the hell we were doing. And if you repeat that, I’ll deny all knowledge.” Grinning, Sloan nodded to Rebecca as she made her way to the coffeepot again. “How are you doing?”

“Fine.” Rebecca glanced at the woman who entered behind Sloan. “Officer Mitchell. Putting in a little overtime?”

“No, ma’am. I’m here on my own time.”

Rebecca raised an eyebrow. “Any particular reason?”

“Since Dr. Rawlings is here, I thought I could help out with logging identifiers and running probabilities. Seemed like the best use of resources.”

“It’s your dime, Mitchell.” But she made note of it. The kid was quality.

“Any luck with street intel, Frye?” Sloan inquired.

“Maybe. I’ll know better in a couple of hours.” Rebecca glanced in Sloan’s direction, not noticing Mitchell’s body stiffen or her expression darken.

“Here’s something,” Catherine said almost to herself. Every eye in the room turned to her.

“What?” Sloan asked immediately.

Catherine pushed a sheet of paper into the center of the table. “Look here. These are segments of five chats with the same person over the course of the last ten days.”

All conversation stopped as everyone crowded around to read the annotated transcripts.

“Sloan?” Rebecca queried, glancing at the pages. “What’s the background here?”

“Let me see.” She read the notations from the log, which Mitchell had generated with her indexing program, that were printed across the top of each sheet. “These are segments of conversations that took place in a private chat room reached by way of an open bulletin board. The main site is trafficked by kids and adults—no real way to tell anyone’s age because, even when they say, it might not be true. Many pedophiles pretend to be teenagers until they have established a relationship with a kid and, even then, may never reveal their true age.”