"Do? Oh! You mean for work?"

"Uh-huh." Despite feeling very vulnerable, standing half naked in front of a woman so privileged and sophisticated that Sandy doubted she'd ever even seen the strip at night, Sandy kept her head up and her eyes on Michael's.

"No, she hasn't." Michael's voice held a note of curiosity.

"I'm a prost.i.tute."

"That's something Sloan would consider yours to tell," Michael said gently, her expression holding no trace of censure. She touched Sandy's arm eetingly, then turned toward the kitchen. "Coffee?"

"Oh yeah. Bad." Sandy padded after her, barefoot. Funny, how getting the truth out in the open made her feel better. It mattered what Michael thought-because she liked her, and she knew that Dell did too. But mostly it felt good not to hide.

Michael crossed to the counter along the wall and a.s.sembled the makings for French-press coffee. As she worked, she said, "Is it something you decide? Or just something that happens?"

Sandy settled on a stool at the breakfast bar opposite Michael and hooked her toes over one of the wooden rungs. "A little of both, I guess.

After a while, you run out of choices. Or at least...choices that won't kill you pretty fast."

"Is that how it was for you?" Michael poured boiling water into the coffeepot, set the kettle carefully back on the burner, and turned, her hips resting along the edge of the tiled counter.

If there had been the slightest hint of condescension or even pity in Michael's tone, Sandy might not have answered. But what she heard, * 132 *

Justice Served besides gentle interest, was a subtle sense of caring that what Sandy had to say mattered. Even Dell had not asked. Sandy smiled. "Dell and me...we're pretty into each other, you know?"

Michael nodded, containing a smile. She was glad for the fact that the loft, despite its open design, had well-insulated, private sleeping quarters, because even with the distance between their bedrooms, now and then she heard an ecstatic cry or a desperate groan. "Every time I've seen you two together, I've had the sense that she was crazy about you."

Sandy's face lit up. "Yeah? You think?"

"Oh yeah," Michael said with a grin.

"She's never asked me why I do it."

The seeming non sequitur did not disturb Michael. She reached for the strainer for the French press and pushed the coffee grounds to the bottom of the pot. As she poured steaming, rich coffee into two mugs, she said, "She's probably waiting for you to tell her."

"You asked."

Michael crossed to the breakfast island and handed Sandy the coffee. Edging onto the adjacent stool, she blew on the steam wafting from her mug. "I'm not in love with you."

Sandy sipped the coffee and considered Michael's words. "That changes things, doesn't it."

"Being in love?"

"Uh-huh."

"Oh, yes. It changes everything."

"The only thing I had that was worth anything was my body."

Sandy said it matter-of-factly, without rancor. "I could've traded it for drugs and a place to op-being stoned would've made some things a lot easier...well, at least, I wouldn't have known if they were bad or not." She laughed hollowly. "But I decided I'd rather have the money and maybe a life."

"It looks like you made the right choice." Michael leaned past Sandy for a basket of scones and drew it near. She indicated the pastries to Sandy. "Hungry?"

"Yeah." Sandy helped herself. "Dell doesn't like it."

"I imagine," Michael said quietly. "It must be very dangerous, isn't it?"

* 133 *

RADCLY fFE Sandy shrugged. "Maybe, if you're not careful. I'm careful." She sighed. "But I haven't really been working for a while."

"You quit?"

"I don't know about that," Sandy said hastily. "I mean, I have to make money, so I'm not sure I quit quit. But...it really bothers her.

And...I know what happens sooner or later to everyone in the life."

"Does she know?"

Sandy shook her head.

"How come you haven't told her?"

"Because what if I go back?" Sandy broke off a piece of the scone and nibbled on it. "She'll be...disappointed."

Michael placed her coffee cup carefully on the breakfast bar. She leaned forward, curling her ngers around Sandy's forearm, stroking softly. "She loves you. She won't stop."

Eyes clouded by fears she couldn't voice, Sandy nally said hesitantly, "You know, tomorrow is the ceremony for her promotion thing. It's kind of a big deal."

"Mmm. I know. Are you going?"

Sandy shrugged. "She asked me to."

"Well?"

Sandy squirmed and looked past Michael at nothing in particular.

"I dunno."

"What's stopping you?" Michael persisted, keeping her hand lightly on Sandy's arm.

"I won't t in." She blew out an irritated breath. "You think I can go there and everyone won't know I'm a wh.o.r.e? Jesus, like that should matter to me."

"That's not who you are," Michael said rmly, never raising her voice. "You're not de ned by what you've had to do to survive. Nor by the mistakes that you may have made."

Sandy narrowed her eyes at the note of erce intensity in Michael's cultured tones. She knew that appearances rarely told the whole story; some of the most violent johns were well-dressed, well-spoken men.

Michael seemed like the most together woman Sandy had ever met, but Sandy could still hear the pain in her voice. Something or someone had hurt her badly once.

"I don't have anything to wear."

Michael laughed. "Well, that's something we can easily x."

* 134 *

Justice Served "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Michael stood and slipped her hand into Sandy's, giving her a tug. When Sandy stepped to the oor, Michael wrapped an arm around her waist. "Let's go shopping."

v "You don't say anything unless I ask for your report," Rebecca said with nality.

Sloan snarled.

"Or you don't sit in."

"Okay, okay," Sloan muttered. "Jesus."

Watts, looking pleased, said nothing as the three of them walked through the detective squad room toward Captain Henry's of ce.

Sloan eyed him dangerously. "You have something to say?"

His grin broadening, Watts held up his hands in surrender. "Not me."

The fact that Rebecca pushed open the door to Henry's of ce forestalled Sloan's retort. Sloan looked past her to the men in the room and stiffened. Henry sat in his customary place behind his broad desk.

Avery Clark, clad in the federal agent's requisite uniform of dark suit, pale blue shirt, and rep tie, leaned against the le cabinets a few feet from Henry's desk with his arms crossed over his chest. His gaze ickered over each of the new arrivals as they entered the room, his expression registering nothing.

"Have a seat," Henry said, indicating the mismatched, armless chairs fronting his desk.

Rebecca and Watts complied, but Sloan moved to the wall opposite Clark and rested an elbow on top of a small watercooler. From there, she could look directly at Clark, which she did. She'd learned long ago never to give eld advantage to an adversary, and she wasn't at all convinced that Clark was on their team.

"You've had some developments in the case, Lieutenant?" Henry asked of Rebecca.

"In one aspect of the case, yes, sir. We believe we've identi ed the source of the leak in the department. We also think the same individual was involved in the attempt on Sloan's life."

Henry's eyes glinted. "Let's hear it."

* 135 *

RADCLY fFE "Sloan?" Rebecca requested.

Still leaning against the watercooler, Sloan reviewed their investigation, starting with the premise that only those people who'd had advance knowledge of the plan to trap one of the midlevel Internet p.o.r.n distributors could have ngered her for execution. She described the process by which they'd eliminated the suspects, conveniently leaving out the fact that Henry had been one of them.

"A few days ago, I found several computer traces that led back to Beecher as the likely source of the network intrusions. In all likelihood, someone is accessing his computer regularly from a remote location and using it as the portal into the entire law enforcement system. Your les are open books."

Looking as if he had been carved from stone, Henry angled his body toward Clark. "We'll need to go right to the district attorney, seeing that Beecher's one of hers. This is going to be very messy."

"Computer evidence alone often isn't enough to convince a DA to bring charges." Clark spoke softly, his posture relaxed. He didn't look at Sloan when he spoke but directed his comments to Henry as if they were alone in the room.

Sloan stiffened and took a step forward. "How did I know you-"

"Sir," Rebecca interjected, cutting off Sloan in midsentence, "we're in the process of gathering further doc.u.mentation of Beecher's involvement in the Internet p.o.r.nography operation."

Watts cast her a sidelong glance, but said nothing.

"We only wanted to bring you up to speed on these developments in case things move quickly and we need a warrant." Glancing at Clark and then back to Henry, she added, "Appreciating, sir, that this situation could be...delicate."

Everyone in the room knew that only Clark was immune from the politics of this situation and that Henry was likely to be the messenger rst in line to be shot.

"And I appreciate your concern, Lieutenant," Henry said dryly.

He turned to Sloan. "How solid is your evidence?"

"Rock," Sloan said atly.

"Good." Henry nodded as if pleased before addressing Rebecca.

"I'll give you the weekend to put together a package I can take to-"

* 136 *

Justice Served "I'm not so sure we want to take Beecher out of the picture," Clark interjected quietly.

"Why aren't I surprised," Sloan snapped.

"I'm not saying not to take him," Clark said. "But for now, he's our best chance of discovering who's really behind this. He's obviously not working solo."

"So we bring him in and sweat him," Watts suggested. "A guy like that, not used to rough handling? Verbally...I mean," he said with a sly smile. "And he'll tell us everything he knows."

"You're probably right, detective." Clark spoke with the merest hint of condescension. "But what about what he doesn't know? Once we have him, whoever is running him will start covering their tracks. If we somehow lose that connection, all we have is a dirty ADA. Small fry."

"Who was involved in a murder attempt that was almost successful," Sloan said through gritted teeth. "Beecher needs to go down for that."

"That and a lot more, Sloan." Clark nally met her gaze squarely, and for the rst time, his voice had lost its friendly edge too. "Have you forgotten how it works?"

Sloan quivered with the effort to contain her temper. "You know I haven't."

"Then make the case and set your personal issues aside."

"My personal issues are still struggling to recover from the hit-and-run." Sloan's voice was ice.

When Sloan took another step in Clark's direction, Rebecca bolted up, blocking Sloan's path. "That's exactly what we plan to do, Captain.

Nail this down tight. We've got Mr. McBride, our other computer consultant, and Detective Mitch.e.l.l working on additional evidence tying Beecher to the p.o.r.nography operation. Watts and I have been tailing him, but we could use some extra help on that."

"Done. I'll a.s.sign twenty-four-hour coverage."

"We'll need photos," Clark said, his tone calm and even again.

For the rst time, Henry looked annoyed. "We do know how to run surveillance in Philadelphia, Agent Clark."