Naked in Death (In Death, #1)(74)

"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."

She wrinkled her nose. "Hell of a lot to spend on clothes."

"Darling, I'm going to have to corrupt you. It's only too much if they're inferior clothes."

She sniffed, stuck her thumbs in the front pockets of her baggy brown trousers.

"Here's his brokerage account. Screen three. Spineless," Roarke added after a quick scan.

"What do you mean?"

"His investments, such as they are. All no risk. Government issue, a few mutual funds, a smattering of blue chip. Everything on-planet."

"What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing if you're content to let your money gather dust." He slanted her a look. "Do you invest, lieutenant?"

"Yeah, right." She was still trying to make sense of the abbreviations and percentage points. "I watch the stock reports twice a day."

"Not a standard credit account." He nearly shuddered.

"So what?"

"Give me what you have, I'll double it within six months."

She only frowned, struggling to read the brokerage report. "I'm not here to get rich."

"Darling," he corrected in that flowing Irish lilt. "We all are."

"How about contributions, political, charities, that kind of thing?"

"Access tax saving outlay," Roarke ordered. "Viewing screen two."

She waited, impatiently tapping a hand on her thigh. Data scrolled on. "He puts his money where his heart is," she muttered, scanning his payments to the Conservative Party, DeBlass's campaign fund.

"Not particularly generous otherwise. Hmm." Roarke's brow lifted. "Interesting, a very hefty gift to Moral Values."

"That's an extremist group, isn't it?"

"I'd call it that, the faithful prefer to think of it as an organization dedicated to saving all of us sinners from ourselves. DeBlass is a strong proponent."

But she was flipping through her own mental files. "They're suspected of sabotaging the main data banks at several large contraception control clinics."

Roarke clucked his tongue. "All those women deciding for themselves if and when they want to conceive, how many children they want. What's the world coming to? Obviously, someone has to bring them back to their senses."

"Right." Dissatisfied, Eve stuck her hands in her pockets. "It's a dangerous connection for someone like Simpson. He likes to play middle of the road. He ran on a Moderate ticket."

"Cloaking his Conservative ties and leanings. In the last few years he's been cautiously removing the layers. He wants to be governor, perhaps believes DeBlass can put him there. Politics is a bartering game."

"Politics. Sharon DeBlass's blackmail disc was heavy on politicians. Sex, murder, politics," Eve murmured. "The more things change… "

"Yes, the more they remain the same. Couples still indulge in courting rituals, humans still kill humans, and politicians still kiss babies and lie."

Something wasn't quite right, and she wished for Feeney again. Twentieth-century murders, she thought, twentieth-century motives. There was one other thing that hadn't changed over the last millennium. Taxes.

"Can we get his IRS data? The past three years?"

"That's a little trickier." His mouth had already quirked up at the challenge.

"It's also a federal offense. Listen, Roarke – "

"Just hold on a minute." He pressed a button and a manual keyboard slipped out of the console. With some surprise, Eve watched his fingers fly over the keys. "Where'd you learn to do that?" Even with required department training, she was barely competent on manual.