"And so much less aesthetic." He stroked the cat's neck and sent him into ecstasy. "You're welcome to borrow any you like."
"I don't think so."
"How about a drink?"
"I could handle that."
His 'link beeped. "This is the call I've been waiting for. Why don't you get us both a glass of wine I've had breathing over on the table?"
"Sure." She took the cat from him and walked over to oblige. Because she wanted to eavesdrop, she forced herself to stay the length of the room away from where he sat murmuring.
It gave her a chance to browse the books, to puzzle over the titles. Some she had heard of. Even with a state education, she'd been required to read Steinbeck and Chaucer, Shakespeare and Dickens. The curriculum had taken her through King and Grisham, Morrison and Grafton.
But there were dozens, perhaps hundreds of names here she'd never heard of. She wondered if anyone could handle so many books, much less read them.
"I'm sorry," he said when the call was complete. "That couldn't wait."
"No problem."
He took the wine she'd poured him. "The cat's becoming quite attached to you."
"I don't think he has any particular loyalties." But Eve had to admit, she enjoyed the way he curled under her stroking hand. "I don't know what I'm going to do about him. I called Georgie's daughter and she said she just couldn't face taking him. Pressing the matter only made her cry."
"You could keep him."
"I don't know. You have to take care of pets."
"Cats are remarkably self-sufficient." He sat on the sofa and waited for her to join him. "Want to tell me about your day?"
"Not very productive. Yours?"
"Very productive."
"A lot of books," Eve said lamely, knowing she was stalling.
"I have an affection for them. I could barely read my name when I was six. Then I came across a battered copy of Yeats. An Irish writer of some note," he said when Eve looked blank. "I badly wanted to figure it out, so I taught myself."
"Didn't you go to school?"
"Not if I could help it. You've got trouble in your eyes, Eve," he murmured.
She blew out a breath. What was the use of stalling when he could see right through her? "I've got a problem. I want to do a run on Simpson. Obviously, I can't go through channels or use either my home or office units. The minute I tried to dig on the chief of police, I'd be flagged."
"And you're wondering if I have a secured, unregistered system. Of course I do."
"Of course," she muttered. "A nonregistered system is in violation of Code four fifty-three-B, section thirty-five."
"I can't tell you how aroused it makes me when you quote codes, lieutenant."
"It's not funny. And what I'm going to ask you to do is illegal. It's a serious offense to electronically breach the privacy of a state official."
"You could arrest both of us afterward."
"This is serious, Roarke. I go by the book, and now I'm asking you to help me break the law."
He rose, drew her to her feet. "Darling Eve, you have no idea how many I've already broken." He fetched the wine bottle, letting it dangle from two fingers of the hand he slipped around her waist. "I ran an underground dice game when I was ten," he began, leading her from the room. "A legacy from my dear old father who'd earned himself a knife through the gullet in a Dublin alley."
"I'm sorry."
"We weren't close. He was a bastard and no one loved him, least of all me. Summerset, we'll have dinner at seven-thirty," Roarke added as he turned toward the stairs. "But he taught me, by means of a fist to the face, to read the dice, the cards, the odds. He was a thief, not a good one, as his end proved. I was better. I stole, I cheated, I spent some time learning the smuggling trade. So you see, you're hardly corrupting me with such a nominal request."
She didn't look at him as he decoded a locked door on the second floor. "Do you… "
"Do I steal, cheat, and smuggle now?" He turned and touched a hand to her face. "Oh, you'd hate that, wouldn't you? I almost wish I could say yes, then give it all up for you. I learned a long time ago that there are gambles more exciting for their legitimacy. And winning is so much more satisfying when you've dealt from the top of the deck."
He pressed a kiss to her brow, then stepped into the room. "But, we have to keep our hand in."
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Compared to the rest of the house she'd seen, this room was spartan, designed rigidly for work. No fancy statues, dripping chandeliers. The wide, U-shaped console, the base for communication, research, and information retrieving devices, was unrelieved black, studded with controls, sliced with slots and screens.
Eve had heard that IRCCA had the swankiest base system in the country. She suspected Roarke's matched it.
Eve was no compu-jock, but she knew at a glance that the equipment here was vastly superior to any the New York Police and Security Department used – or could afford – even in the lofty Electronic Detection Division.
The long wall facing the console was taken up by six large monitor screens. A second, auxiliary station held a sleek little tele-link, a second laser fax, a hologram send-receive unit, and several other pieces of hardware she didn't recognize.
The trio of comp stations boasted personal monitors with attached 'links.
The floor was glazed tile, the diamond patterns in muted colors that bled together like liquid. The single window looked over the city and pulsed with the last lights of the setting sun.
It seemed even here, Roarke demanded ambiance.
"Quite a setup," Eve commented.
"Not quite as comfortable as my office, but it has the basics." He moved behind the main console, placed his palm on the identiscreen. "Roarke. Open operations."
After a discreet hum, the lights on the console glowed on. "New palm and voice print clearance," he continued and gestured to Eve. "Cleared for yellow status."
At his nod, Eve pressed her hand to the screen, felt the faint warmth of the reading. " Dallas."
"There you are." Roarke took his seat. "The system will accept your voice and hand commands."
"What's yellow status?"
He smiled. "Enough to give you everything you need to know – not quite enough to override my commands."
"Hmmm." She scanned the controls, the patiently blinking lights, the myriad screens and gauges. She wished for Feeney and his computer-minded brain. "Search on Edward T. Simpson, Chief of Police and Security, New York City. All financial data."
"Going right to the heart," Roarke murmured.
"I don't have time to waste. This can't be traced?"
"Not only can't it be traced, but there'll be no record of the search."
"Simpson, Edward T.," the computer announced in a warm, female tone. "Financial records. Searching."
At Eve's lifted brow, Roarke grinned. "I prefer to work with melodious voices."
"I was going to ask," she returned, "how you can access data without alerting the Compuguard."
"No system's foolproof, or completely breach resistant – even the ubiquitous Compuguard. The system is an excellent deterrent to your average hacker or electronic thief. But with the right equipment, it can be compromised. I have the right equipment. Here comes the data. On viewing screen one," he ordered.
Eve glanced up and saw Simpson's credit report flash onto the large monitor. It was the standard business: vehicle loans, mortgages, credit card balances. All the automatic E-transactions.
"That's a hefty AmEx bill," she mused. "And I don't think it's common knowledge he owns a place on Long Island."
"Hardly murderous motives. He maintains a Class A rating, which means he pays what he owes. Ah, here's a bank account. Screen two."
Eve studied the numbers, dissatisfied. "Nothing out of line, pretty average deposits and withdrawals – mostly automatic bill paying transfers that jibe with the credit report. What's Jeremy's?"
"Men's clothier," Roarke told her with the smallest sneer of disdain. "Somewhat second rate."