“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.
“Here and there,” he said absently, “in my misspent youth. I have to get around the security. It’s going to take some time. Why don’t you pour us some more wine?”
“Roarke, I shouldn’t have asked.” An attack of conscience had her walking to him. “I can’t let this come back on you—”
“Ssh.” His brows drew together in concentration as he maneuvered his way through the security labyrinth.
“But—”
He head snapped up, impatience vivid in his eyes. “We’ve already opened the door, Eve. Now we go through, or we turn away from it.”
Eve thought of three women, dead because she hadn’t been able to stop it. Hadn’t known enough to stop it. With a nod, she turned away again. The clatter of the keyboard resumed.
She poured the wine, then moved to stand in front of the screens. Tidy as they came, she mused. Top credit rating, prompt payment of debts, conservative and, she assumed, relatively small investments. Surely that was more money than average spent on clothes, wine shops, and jewelry. But it wasn’t a crime to have expensive taste. Not when you paid for it. Even the second home wasn’t a criminal offense.
Some of the contributions were dicey for a registered Moderate, but still, not criminal.
She heard Roarke curse softly and looked back. But he was hunkered over the keyboard. She might not have been there. Odd, she wouldn’t have guessed he had the technical skills to access manually. According to Feeney, it was almost a lost art except in tech-clerks and hackers.
Yet here he was, the rich, the privileged, the elegant, clattering over a problem usually delegated to a low-paid, overworked office drone.
For a moment, she let herself forget about the business at hand and smiled at him.
“You know, Roarke, you’re kind of cute.”
She realized it was the first time she’d really surprised him. His head came up, and his eyes were startled—for perhaps two heartbeats. Then that sly smile came into them. The one that made her own pulse jitter.
“You’re going to have to do better than that, lieutenant. I’ve got you in.”