“There are worse ways to go, I suppose.” He turned his head, murmured to someone nearby. Eve saw a woman move briskly behind Roarke and out of view. “I’ve just dismissed my assistant,” he explained. “I wanted to be alone when I asked if you’re wearing anything under that sheet.”
She glanced down, lifted a brow. “Doesn’t look like it.”
“Why don’t you take it off?”
“No way I’m going to satisfy your prurient urges by interspace transmission, Roarke. Use your imagination.”
“I am. I’m imagining what I’m going to do to you the next time I get my hands on you. I advise you to rest up, lieutenant.”
She wanted to smile and couldn’t. “Roarke, we’re going to have to talk when you get back.”
“We can do that as well. I’ve always found conversations with you stimulating, Eve. Get some sleep.”
“Yeah, I will. See you, Roarke.”
“Think of me, Eve.”
He ended the transmission, then sat alone, brooding at the blank monitor. There’d been something in her eyes, he thought. He knew the moods of them now, could see beyond the training into the emotion.
The something had been worry.
Turning his chair, he looked out at his view of star splattered space. She was too far away for him to do any more than wonder about her.
And to ask himself, again, why she mattered so much.
chapter thirteen
Eve studied the report of the bank search for Sharon DeBlass’s deposit box with frustration. No record, no record, no record.
Nothing in New York, New Jersey, Connecticut. Nothing in East Washington or Virginia.
She had rented one somewhere, Eve thought. She’d had diaries, and had kept them tucked away someplace where she could get to them safely and quickly.
In those diaries, Eve was convinced, was a motive for murder.
Unwilling to tag Fenney for another, broader search, she began one herself, starting with Pennsylvania, working west and north toward the borders of Canada and Quebec. In slightly less than twice the time it would have taken Feeney, she came up blank again.
Then, working south, she struck out with Maryland, and down to Florida. Her machine began to chug noisily at the work. Eve issued a warning snarl and a sharp bump to the console. She swore she’d risk the morass of requisition for a new unit if this one just held out for one more case.
More from stubbornness than hope, she did a scan of the Midwest, heading toward the Rockies.
You were too smart, Sharon, Eve thought, as the negative results flickered by. Too smart for your own good. You wouldn’t have gone out of the country, or off planet where you’d have to go through a customs scan every trip. Why go far away, someplace where you’d need transport or travel docs? You might want immediate access.
If your mother knew you kept diaries, maybe other people knew it, too. You bragged about it because you liked to make people uncomfortable. And you knew they were safely tucked away.
But close, damn it, Eve thought, closing her eyes to bring the woman she was comi
ng to know so well into full focus. Close enough so that you could feel the power, use it, toy with people.
But not so simple that just anyone could track it down, gain access, spoil the game. You used an alias. Rented your safe box under another name—just in case. And if you were smart enough to use an alias, you’d have used one that was basic, that was familiar. One you wouldn’t have to hassle over.
It was so simple, Eve realized as she keyed in Sharon Barrister. So simple both she and Feeney had overlooked it.
She hit pay dirt at the Brinkstone International Bank and Finance, Newark, New Jersey.
Sharon Barrister not only had a safe-deposit box, she had a brokerage account in the amount of $326,000.85.
Grinning at the screen, she hit her tie-in with the PA. “I need a warrant,” she announced.