Неизвестный - 3. In Pursuit Of Justice Страница 2

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

“In a nutshell, yes. That and the fact that you need to see me on a regular schedule 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.”

“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

CATHERINE WATCHED REBECCA pack with a sense of loss. It had taken her by surprise when after breakfast that morning 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 the detective had improved dramatically; nevertheless, Catherine’s first response had been one of disappointment. It was an occupational hazard to ask herself why, especially when she was elated to see her recovering so quickly, and 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 Catherine knew why not. Her heart might not, but her head did. Too soon. We’ve spent most of our time together in crisis mode, and 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. She 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 was some comfort; small comfort perhaps, but a reassurance that she would be whole again. And soon. Today I start getting my life back. “Especially not 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 to herself, Catherine thought about the two weeks she had taken off to spend with Rebecca after her discharge form the hospital and realized that they were two of the most relaxing weeks she’d had in months. Vacations had become a rarity for her between trying to juggle private practice with her university teaching responsibilities. 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.”

“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 like I deserve you.”

“What makes you think you don’t already?” Catherine asked, knowing even as she spoke the words that Rebecca would only feel worthwhile if she were 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 like I deserve you, whether you think it matters or not.

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

“Yeah, well,” she 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’re 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, walking quickly to her side and slipping her 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, and forgetting that she was worried about her safety, and even forgetting that she was angry, so angry, at her for 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 seven 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 behind her, Catherine listened to her footsteps fade 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 lookin’ 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 hair pulled back in a haphazard pony-tail, 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 what not. She didn’t see me sneakin’ 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 actually more than just the morgue, which, strictly speaking, was the purview of the medical examiner, but rather an extensive evidence analysis lab that examined all physical material collected from a crime scene and 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.

“Oh, every day it’s a surprise. People keep inventin’ 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,” so she scathingly remarked, and she suffered their presence with very little patience.

“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 comin’ 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 pumpin’ 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 doctor’s 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. If she couldn’t run, she couldn’t work. “I’m doing okay.”

“Right,” Maggie agreed. “Good to see you back, Rebecca.”

Yes. It will be good to get back. All the way back . When she went into the locker room to shower, despite the pain and the fatigue, she felt more like herself than she had since the moment she’d come to in a sea of agony to find Catherine bending over her, terror in her eyes. All she needed now was to convince everyone else that she was fit for duty. She had a lot of unfinished business to attend to, and she couldn’t begin to take care of it until she had reclaimed her place in the world.

CHAPTER THREE

“IS SOMETHING WRONG?” Rebecca asked quietly. They were seated at a small candlelit table in the nook formed by floor to ceiling bay windows in DeCarlo’s, a very exclusive restaurant that occupied the ground floor of a century old mansion. A bottle of imported champagne sat chilling in a silver ice bucket beside them and the appetizers—grilled figs and sweet sausages—had just been placed in the center of the linen draped table. Despite the elegant décor and the intimate atmosphere, she had a feeling that her dinner companion was absorbed in something other than the fine meal and her own stellar company.

“Hmm? Oh, no.” Catherine reached for her hand, smiling apologetically. “I’m sorry. I drifted away there for a minute. Work.”

“I know the feeling. Even been guilty of it a few times myself. Anything you can talk about?”

“No, not really.”

Rebecca shrugged. “If there’s something you can say, I’m here.”

“Thanks.” Fortunately, Rebecca had appreciated from the first that Catherine’s work was something that she could only allude to in the most general of terms, for obvious reasons of patient confidentiality. It had been just that conflict that had brought them so explosively together just a few short months before. It was one thing, however, to have the barrier exist professionally and quite another to have it crop up in their personal dealings. Because she’d never had a relationship that had been so central to her life before, Catherine had never had to contend with the fact that she couldn’t discuss some of the ramifications of her work with the person closest to her. She was still learning how to navigate those murky waters, and, fortunately, Rebecca, who was used to compartmentalizing her life, didn’t push. It helped diffuse the awkwardness, but there were times, like tonight, when Catherine wished she could talk.

“Let’s get the paperwork out of the way first, okay?”

“Sure.”

“No significant medical, surgical or psychiatric conditions in the past?”

“That’s right.”

“Never been hospitalized for any reason?”

“No.”

She’d wait to ask about the obvious bruise under the left eye and what looked like finger marks on the neck. “No drug allergies or current medications?”

“No.”

“Recreational drug use?”

“I drink now and then. Nothing else.”

“Do you smoke?”

“When I drink.” Faint laughter.

Catherine smiled. She had found that with new patients it was best to start with something basic and unthreatening such as reviewing the data the patient provided on a standard medical questionnaire. It established a bit of rapport, although the young woman in her office didn’t seem particularly nervous. Upright posture, no apparent tics or nervous habits. Her button-down collar pale blue cotton shirt and dark tan chinos were pressed, her oxfords polished and shined, her thick wavy hair cut short, no make-up. If anything, the clear-eyed brunette with the sharp blue gaze was watching her with just a hint of suspicion—or was it something else? Intense curiosity? Not unusual from patients, but it usually developed later in the course of treatment—that need to know the therapist as a person and not as someone who merely existed for fifty minutes once or twice a week and to whom you exposed your most intimate secrets. But about whom you knew almost nothing.