In Pursuit of Justice Page 2

  “No, I’m fine. I’ve been drinking coffee all day.”

  “You look tired, Catherine,” the chief of psychiatry said kindly, thinking to herself that the woman across from her looked more than tired. She’d lost weight; there were new stress lines around her green eyes and a few more wisps of early gray in her hair. “Even considering the fact that it is Friday evening, with your clinical load and the recent events, you have every right to be weary.”

  “I am. That’s why I’m here…in part.”

  “From the beginning, then,” Hazel urged, settling back and looking for all the world as if she had nothing better to do than to listen indefinitely to her younger colleague.

  “I’m not sleeping.” They were in Hazel’s private home office, and the warm comfortable atmosphere was a welcome relief from the too bright, too impersonal spaces of the university clinic. Still, Catherine found it difficult to relax as she leaned forward, her clasped hands on her knees, her fingers intertwined to hide the faint tremor. “I think I have post—”

  “Let’s wait before we worry about the diagnosis, shall we? Just tell me what’s happening.”

  “Of course.” Catherine smiled ruefully and ran a hand through her collar-length auburn hair, then regarded her friend and mentor apologetically. At sixty, Hazel was fit and vigorous, her quick blue eyes catching every nuance of expression, and she allowed nothing of consequence to pass without comment. “Is there anything worse than a physician as a patient?”

  “Not many I can think of right offhand.”

  “This is hard…”

  “Being a psychiatrist doesn’t make it any easier. That’s for television programs. Maybe I can help. This isn’t about work, I take it? You would have come to the cafeteria for that.”

  Catherine smiled. When she needed a curbside consult, or just assurance that she was following the right clinical course in a difficult case, she sought out Hazel’s advice during the chief’s morning ritual of coffee and danish in the hospital cafeteria. “No. It’s not work. It’s the shooting.”

  “What about the shooting?”

  “My…part in it.”

  Hazel regarded her steadily. “What part was that?”

  “I insisted on going to meet him,” Catherine said slowly, looking beyond Hazel’s face into the past. “Rebecca didn’t want me to go, practically begged me not to get involved. But I wanted to. I wanted to. I thought I could stop him.” She brought tormented eyes to meet Hazel’s. “My arrogance almost got her killed.”

  “Why aren’t you sleeping?” Hazel asked, choosing not to comment but to let her talk. She had known Catherine since the younger psychiatrist was a resident, and she considered them friends as well as colleagues. What Catherine needed was for her to listen, not to point out the obvious fallacy in her reasoning. Reason carried very little weight where the emotions were concerned.

  “I dream,” Catherine replied, her voice choking. “I…feel him. He’s hurting me, and I want Rebecca to come. I want her to make him stop. I want her to kill him.”

  “Go on.”

  “I’m so cold. He’s torn my blouse.” She shivered, rubbing her arms unconsciously. “I call out for her, and she comes for me. I’m so glad, so relieved. And then he shoots, and she’s bleeding. She’s bleeding and there’s so much blood…oh God, there’s so much blood…”

  Catherine pushed back in her chair, as if pushing away the images, breathing rapidly, struggling to erase the vivid memories. “It was my fault.”

  “No, Catherine,” Hazel said firmly. “It was the fault of the man who pulled the trigger, and I suspect you know that. I’ll wager that’s not much help, though, is it?”

  “Not at the moment, no.”

  “I know. We’re going to need more time than we have tonight to talk about why you feel that you’re to blame. What I’m more interested in right now is a quick fix so you can get some rest.”

  Catherine smiled. “Such heresy.”

  “Fortunately, no one will ever know,” Hazel replied with a grin. “How do you feel about medication?”

  “I’d rather hold off for now.” Catherine blew out a breath. “I was hoping it would be better when she was better. But it isn’t. It’s worse.”

  “How is she?”

  “Recovering well. Chomping at the bit to get back to work.”

  “How is she sleeping?”

  “So far, she seems fine. She’s so focused on getting back to work that I don’t think she’s allowed anything else to really register consciously. Not Jeff Cruz’s death, not even the fact that she almost died.”

  “She intends to resume active duty?” Hazel asked noncommittally, watching Catherine carefully, knowing that ultimately her friend would have to deal with how her lover dealt, or didn’t deal, with these issues.

  “Yes. The minute she’s able.”

  “And there’s no possibility she would change her mind…if you asked?”

  “No, and I couldn’t ask her. She loves being a cop. It’s more than a job; it’s who she is.”

  “So, she’ll be on the streets again soon.”

  “Yes.”

  “And how do you feel about that?”

  Catherine stared at her friend. Finally she admitted, “It terrifies me.”

  “I should think it would. I don’t need to tell you about the fear that every partner of someone in a life-threatening occupation lives with on a daily basis. And you have not only that general anxiety with which to contend, you also have the actual experience of seeing her almost die in the course of doing her job.” She shrugged. “You need to give yourself a break.”

  “That’s it? That’s your medical opinion?” Despite herself, Catherine was smiling.

  “In a nutshell, yes. That and the fact that you need to see me on a regular basis for the time being. If your detective intends to go back to work, I suspect there’ll be some things you need to sort out.”

  “Yes. I know,” Catherine said quietly. If she and Rebecca were to have any future together, she would have to accept the fact that every time Rebecca walked out the door, it might be for the last time. She would have to learn to say goodbye, and she wasn’t at all sure that she could.

  Chapter Two

  The next morning, Catherine watched Rebecca pack with a sense of loss. It had taken her by surprise when after breakfast Rebecca had announced that it was time for her to move back to her own apartment “before the super rents it out from under me.” That excuse was so thin Catherine could practically see it hanging in the air between them like a curtain of smoke.

  The news shouldn’t have been unanticipated, because in the last week Rebecca had improved dramatically; nevertheless, Catherine’s first response had been one of disappointment. It was an occupational hazard to ask herself why she should feel abandoned, especially when she was genuinely elated at her lover’s rapid recovery, but it was her nature to be reflective. So, as she leaned against the dresser watching Rebecca carefully fold jeans and T-shirts into a duffle, she struggled for perspective.

  Too many conflicting emotions, that’s all it is. Things will settle down in a week or two. As soon as I get used to the fact that she’s all right, I won’t feel as if my world is teetering on the brink of disaster. She jumped as the sound of the bag’s zipper rasping closed cut sharply through the silence, a knife severing ties with heartless finality.

  “I’ll miss you.”

  Surprised, Rebecca looked up, a crease between her brows. “I’m not planning on going anywhere. But I can’t stay here any longer.”

  Why not? But she knew why not. Her heart might not, but her head did. Too soon. We’ve spent most of our time together in crisis mode, first in the midst of a high-pressure, horrifying case, and then in the aftermath of the shooting. That kind of intensity can push things too quickly. We need time to know one another better. There are far too many secrets still to tell.

  “I don’t want us to end up practically living together by accident,” Rebecca continued, placing
her bag by the bedroom door. You might discover you’ve made a mistake. You might decide I’m not relationship material, just like the others did when they spent enough time with me. Maybe if we’re not so close, you won’t be disappointed.

  The detective slipped on a dark gray blended silk blazer and automatically reached under the left side to adjust her shoulder holster. Of course, it wasn’t there and wouldn’t be until she was no longer on medical leave and had re-qualified on the range. Some rule from the city council about preventing impaired police officers from having access to service weapons. Impaired. Its absence was a constant reminder that she was not herself. At least they hadn’t taken her shield. The weight of the slim leather case in the inner pocket of the jacket was some comfort—small comfort perhaps, but a reassurance that she would be whole again. And soon. Today I start getting my life back.

  “And I especially don’t want it to be because you were taking care of me.”

  “I was hardly taking care of you. You barely tolerated me cooking dinner every night without trying to do the dishes before you could even stand upright. I don’t consider grocery shopping and a few loads of laundry a hardship. Skilled nursing it was not.” Smiling wistfully to herself, Catherine thought about the three weeks she had taken off to spend with Rebecca after her discharge from the hospital and realized that they were some of the most relaxing weeks she’d had in months. Vacations had become a rarity as she tried to juggle private practice with her university teaching responsibilities. While she was at home with Rebecca, they’d watched a dozen movies on DVD, discovered that they shared a passion for screwball comedies, and managed to actually complete the Sunday Times crossword puzzle together—a first time for them both. Solitary and private by nature, she had never shared that much of her life with anyone before, other than her parents, and that had been far in the past. It had been surprisingly easy. “Besides, I liked it, you being here.”

  “So did I,” Rebecca said softly, quickly crossing the bedroom to her side. She lifted Catherine’s chin in her palm, searching her eyes. “I like a whole lot of things about being with you—having dinner with you, unwinding with you, and especially being there when you wake up.” She blew out a breath, searching for the words to explain that she didn’t want to build a relationship on the foundation of her own weakness. Finally she said, “When things are back to normal, I’ll feel as if I deserve you.”

  “What makes you think you don’t already?” Catherine realized even as she asked that Rebecca would only feel worthwhile if she was also a cop. “There isn’t some test you have to pass with me, Rebecca. You don’t have to qualify at anything to be cared about.”

  “I’m no good to anyone like this,” Rebecca said in frustration. “I can barely carry my own suitcase!” Unconsciously, she’d taken a step back, putting distance between them. You’ve only seen me when I was hurting or hurt. First Jeff’s death and then this. I need to be able to give you something. I want to feel as if I deserve you, whether you think it matters or not.

  “It hasn’t even been two months. You just need a little more time.”

  “Yeah, well,” Rebecca said as she reached for her duffle, “it’s time for me to get back to doing what I should be doing.”

  “Meaning what, Rebecca?” Catherine asked, her voice rising sharply. “Putting yourself in the line of fire before you’ve even healed from the last gunshot wound?”

  “What?” Rebecca stopped dead, staring at her, completely perplexed. “You don’t think what happened is normal, do you? It’s a one in a million thing. Most police officers never even have to draw their weapons in the line of duty their entire careers.”

  “I don’t care if it’s ‘one in a million’ when it’s you,” Catherine replied softly, unable to keep the tears from her voice. “You’re the only one I care about.”

  Rebecca’s frustration at her own sense of helplessness disappeared in the face of Catherine’s clear distress. “Hey,” she said gently, moving quickly back to her and slipping firm arms around her waist. “Are we fighting?”

  “No,” Catherine sighed, leaning her cheek against Rebecca’s chest. “We’re obsessing.”

  “Uh-uh…cops don’t obsess. We just act.” There was a playful tone in her voice, but on some very basic level, she meant it. What she did, she did by instinct and reflex. Part of it was training and part of it was just her. When you stopped to think, you got yourself—or someone else—killed. Unfortunately, it probably wasn’t the best approach to relationships, but it had never mattered so much before. “Cops don’t go in too much for self-analysis. Nothing worse than second-guessing yourself out on the street.”

  Catherine snorted. “Don’t think I haven’t heard that before—from every cop I’ve ever talked to.”

  “Well then, see? It must be true.”

  “Detective?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Shut up.” And then Catherine kissed her, forgetting for the moment that her detective was still healing, forgetting that she was worried about her safety, and even forgetting that she was angry—so angry—for her risking her life with no thought to how Catherine would survive the loss. She kissed her hard, enjoying the feel of those familiar arms tightening around her, thighs pressing close, hands claiming flesh. She kissed her until her own breath fled and her trembling legs threatened to desert her. “Much better,” she finally murmured.

  “Yeah. I’ll pick you up at 7:00 for dinner,” Rebecca said, her voice low and throaty. Another minute of that and she could forget the gym, because she wouldn’t be able to walk.

  “Yes.”

  As the door closed, Catherine listened to Rebecca’s footsteps fading to silence. A silence so deep she thought she might drown in it.

  *

  “Well, well, well…will you just look at what’s arrived to brighten the mornin’,” a voice bearing a hint of Ireland crooned in her ear. “And looking mighty fine as ever.”

  Rebecca finished the upward motion of her arms, deposited the barbell on the cleats, and turned her head on the slant board to eye the redhead kneeling by her side. Sparkling sea-foam eyes, faintly frizzy shoulder-length red hair pulled back in a haphazard ponytail, a dusting of freckles across pale skin. And a smile to light the darkest night. “Flanagan know you’re loose?”

  “Oh, no,” Maggie Collins, the senior crime scene technician, whispered conspiratorially. “The general is mighty busy combing through a raccoon coat with a magnifying glass lookin’ for dandruff and whatnot. She didn’t see me sneaking away on my lunch break.”

  “She gives you a lunch break now?” Rebecca asked, sitting up on the end of the weight bench and toweling off. Her navy blue T-shirt with the police logo on the left chest was soaked through, as were her sweatpants, and she’d only been working out for fifteen minutes.

  “Aye. Something about human rights requirements in the workplace.”

  “Huh. Amazing. What’s she trying to find—DNA from the shed scalp skin?”

  “That or from a hair follicle that isn’t too desiccated to type.” Maggie offered the detective her unopened plastic bottle of water. Frye was shaking, and she looked like she’d dropped twenty pounds off a frame that had always been lean. Her blue eyes were still the same, though—sparkling chips of ice, hard and penetrating. If anything, she looked more austerely handsome than before her injury, but Maggie sensed she was hurting. “Here—it won’t be doin’ you any good to get dehydrated before you’ve had a decent workout.”

  “Thanks.” Rebecca took a long pull before asking, “What’s new in the body shop?” She was referring to the crime scene investigations unit, or CSI, which was headed by Dee Flanagan, Maggie’s lover. It was not just the morgue—which, strictly speaking, was the purview of Andy Corcoran, the medical examiner—but rather an extensive evidence analysis lab that examined all physical material collected at a crime scene and from the bodies involved. What Flanagan and her techs turned up was often instrumental in pointing the detectives in the right direction to
solve a crime and virtually essential for proving a case in court. Means, motive, and opportunity were no longer enough for a conviction. You needed cold, scientific evidence—prints, ballistics, chemistry, DNA, serology, toxicology—and anything else that would link a suspect to a crime.

  “Oh, every day it’s a surprise. People keep inventing new and different ways to kill themselves and others. We’ve been missin’ your company, though.”

  “Oh, I’ll bet.” Rebecca laughed. Dee Flanagan made it no secret that she didn’t like cops in her lab, “bothering her techs and messing with evidence,” as she so scathingly remarked, and she suffered their presence with very little patience. Like any good cop, Rebecca made it a point to review the forensic evidence herself, despite Flanagan’s protests. “I’m sure she’s been happy to have one less person bothering her.”

  “No,” Maggie said softly, smiling a fond smile that Rebecca had seen before when Dee was the topic of conversation. “You she’s been missin’.”

  “I’ll stop down in a day or two. As soon as I get back to work.”

  “You’re coming back soon, then?” Maggie tried to hide her surprise. Many officers injured a lot less severely than Rebecca took advantage of the disability premiums for as long as possible. But then she should have known that Frye wouldn’t be one to sit at home. Goin’ crazy, probably.

  “I’m seeing Captain Henry first thing Monday morning.”

  “Well then, you’d best get back to pumping that iron. You need a spot?”

  “No. I’m not pushing. Just easing back in.” In truth, she’d been about to quit when Maggie’d come along. Her chest was on fire, and even though she’d reduced her usual weights by half, she’d been struggling. What worried her the most, though, was how short of breath she got after ten minutes on the treadmill. Although the doctors had assured her that her lung—collapsed by the bullet that had entered between her third and fourth ribs, an inch above her heart—had not sustained any permanent damage, it felt like something wasn’t working right. And if she couldn’t run, she couldn’t work. “I’m doing okay.”