“I’m already working on media control.”
“It may be hotter than we think.” Feeney looked up from the terminal. His eyes lingered on Eve’s, made her blood chill.
“The murder weapon’s registered. Purchased through silent auction at Sotheby’s last fall. Roarke.”
Eve didn’t speak for a moment. Didn’t care. “It breaks pattern,” she managed. “And it’s stupid. Roarke’s not a stupid man.”
“Lieutenant—”
“It’s a plant, commander. An obvious one. A silent auction. Any second-rate hacker can use someone’s ID and bid. How was it paid for?” she snapped at Feeney.
“I’ll need to access Sotheby’s records after they open tomorrow.”
“My bet’s cash, electronic transfer. The auction house gets the money, why should they question it?” Her voice might have been calm, but her mind was racing. “And the delivery. Odds are electronic pick-up station. You don’t need ID for an EPS; all you do is key in the delivery code.”
“Dallas.” Whitney spoke patiently. “Pick him up for questioning.”
“I can’t.”
His eyes remained level, cool. “That’s a direct order. If you have a personal problem, save it for personal time.”
“I can’t pick him up,” she repeated. “He’s on the FreeStar space station, a fair distance from the murder scene.”
“If he put out that he’d be on FreeStar—”
“He didn’t,” she interrupted. “And that’s where the killer made a mistake. Roarke’s trip is confidential, with only a few key people apprised. As far as it’s generally known, he’s right here in New York.”
Commander Whitney inclined his head. “Then we’d better check his whereabouts. Now.”
Her stomach churned as she engaged Whitney’s ’link. Within seconds she was listening to Summerset’s prune voice. “Summerset, Lieutenant Dallas. I have to contact Roarke.”
“Roarke is in meetings, lieutenant.
He can’t be disturbed.”
“He told you to put me through, goddamn it. This is police business. Give me his access number or I’m coming over there and hauling your bony ass in for obstructing justice.”
Summerset’s face puckered up. “I am not authorized to give out that data. I will, however, transfer you. Please stand by.”
Eve’s palms began to sweat as the screen went to holding blue. She wondered whose idea it was to pipe in the sugary music. Certainly not Roarke’s. He had too much class.
Oh God, what was she going to do if he wasn’t where he said he’d be?
The blue screen contracted into a pinpoint, then opened up. There was Roarke, a trace of impatience in his eyes, a half smile on his mouth.
“Lieutenant. You’ve caught me at a bad time. Can I get back to you?”
“No.” She could see from the corner of her eye that Feeney was already tracing the transmission. “I need to verify your whereabouts.”
“My whereabouts?” His brow cocked. He must have seen something in her face, though Eve would have sworn she kept it as smooth and unreadable as stone. “What’s wrong, Eve? What’s happened?”
“Your whereabouts, Roarke. Please verify.”
He remained silent, studying her. Eve heard someone speak to him. He flicked away the interruption with a dismissing gesture. “I’m in the middle of a meeting in the presidential chamber of Station FreeStar, the location of which is Quadrant Six, Slip Alpha. Scan,” he ordered, and the intergalactic ’link circled the room. A dozen men and women sat at a wide, circular table.
The long, bowed port showed a scatter of stars and the perfect blue-green globe of Earth.
“Location of transmission confirmed,” Feeney said in an undertone. “He’s just where he says he is.”