She set up in the library because it was quiet and in another section of the house. Mostly, unless it related to a case, she liked to remain as oblivious as possible to emotional vibrations. But there’d been so many of them winging around in her office, she’d been tempted to duck and cover.
Here, the air was smooth and placid. She settled down at one of the desks, input the fresh data into the file.
“Computer, factoring new data, run probability scan on subject Carlo as alias for suspect.”
WORKING . . . PROBABILITY SUBJECT CARLO AS ALIAS FOR SUSPECT IS NINETY-SIX-POINT-TWO PERCENT.
“Yeah, that’s what I think. Second run. Probability subject Carlo manufactures illegals he subsequently sells.”
WORKING . . . INSUFFICIENT DATA FOR SCAN. REQUEST FURTHER INPUT TO COMPLETE.
“That’s where you’re wrong.” She pushed away from the desk to pace on the faded roses on the antique rug. “He makes it, he bottles it, he sells it, he uses it. Control. It’s all about control. Sixty thousand a year from one client for what, three ounces of that shit? Troll the ’net, hook a couple dozen rich marks, and you’re rolling. But it’s not about the money.”
She stalked to one of the rows of tall, arched windows, flipped the drape, and stared out over the vast blooming estate. Even for Roarke, who’d been desperately poor, achingly hungry, it wasn’t about the money so much as it was about the game of compiling it, having it, using it to make more of it.
And wielding the power of it.
But this was about neither greed nor need.
“Twenty k an ounce, and you slip a quarter of that into the first victim, after she’s alone with you, helpless and naked in her apartment. After you’ve already poured more than two ounces of Whore into her. Computer, street value, illegal Whore.”
WORKING . . . HORMONIBITAL-SIX, COMMONLY KNOWN AS WHORE, STREET VALUE SIXTY-FiVE-THOUSAND USD PER FLUID OUNCE. KNOWN STREET USE OF THIS SUBSTANCE IS NEGLIGIBLE. DERIVATIVE, EXOTICA, IS COMMON. STREET VALUE EXOTICA, FIFTY USD PER FLUID OUNCE. DO YOU REQUIRE LISTING OF OTHER COMMON DERIVATIVES?
“Negative. Derivatives aren’t good enough for this guy. No clones, no substitutes, no weak sisters. Date cost him about a hundred and fifty thousand. You could buy ten of the best LCs in New York for that and have a hell of a party. But it’s not about money, and it’s not about sex. They’re only factors in the game.”
“I wonder why you think you need me,” Mira said from the doorway.
Eve turned. “Thinking out loud.”
“So I heard.”
“I appreciate you coming out here,” Eve began. “I know you’re busy.”
“And so are you. I always love coming into this room.” Mira glanced around at the walls of books that dominated the two-level room. “Civilized luxury,” she commented. “You’ve hurt your face.”
“Oh.” Eve rubbed her knuckles along her jaw. “It’s nothing.”
Mira’s face was, Eve always thought, perfect. Serene and lovely, framed by a smooth sweep of sable hair. She wore one of her quiet and elegant suits that looked like it had been formed out of cool, fresh limes. The long gold chain around her neck was as thick as Eve’s pinky and enhanced with a single cream-colored pearl.
She smelled of apricots and her skin was baby smooth as she brushed her lips lightly over Eve’s jaw.
“Habit,” she said, and her blue eyes smiled easily at the line that formed between Eve’s. “Kissing hurts to make them better. Shall we sit?”
“Yeah. Sure.” She never quite knew how to handle Mira’s maternal attitude toward her. Mothers were a mystery with too many of the pieces missing to attempt to form a picture. “You’ll want tea.”
“I’d love some.”
Because she knew Mira’s habits, she programmed for a cup of the fragrant herbal brew Mira favored. And because she was in her own space, Eve programmed the second cup for coffee.
“How are you, Eve?”
“I’m okay.”
“Still not getting enough sleep,” Mira commented when Eve brought her tea.
“I get by.”
“On caffeine and nerves. How is Roarke?”