In Death 01 - Naked in Death

have been about eight when it was disbanded, kid," Feeney told her with a smirk. "Should have heard of it in your history lessons."
    "Rings a distant bell. Was that one of the groups that got worked up when we had that skirmish with China?"
    "It was, and if they'd had their way, it would have been a lot more than a skirmish. A disagreement over international space could have gotten ugly. But the diplomats managed to fight that war before they could. Few years later, they were disbanded, though there are rumors on and off about a faction of SafeNet going underground."
    "I've heard of them. Still hear about them. You think Rockman's involved with a fanatic splinter group like that?"
    It only took Feeney a moment to shake his head. "I think he watches his step. Power reflects power, and DeBlass has plenty. If he ever gets into the White House, Rockman would be right beside him."
    "Please." Eve pressed a hand to her stomach. "You'll give me nightmares."
    "It's a long shot, but he's got some backing for the next election." Feeney moved his shoulders.
    "Rockman's alibied, anyway. By DeBlass. They were in East Washington. "' She sat. "Anything else?"
    "Charles Monroe. He's had an interesting life, nothing shady that shows. I'm working on the victim's logs. You know, sometimes if you're careless in altering files, you leave shadows floating. Seems to me somebody just kills a woman could get careless."
    "You find a shadow, Feeney, clear away the gray, and I'll buy you a case of that lousy whiskey you like."
    "Deal. I'm still working on Roarke," he added. "There's a guy who isn't careless. Every time I think I've gotten over one wall of security, I hit another. Whatever data there is on him is well guarded."
    "Keep scaling those walls. I'll try digging under them."
    When Feeney left, Eve shifted to her terminal. She hadn't wanted to check in front of Mavis, and preferred, in this case, using her office unit. The question was simple.
    Eve entered the name and address of her apartment complex. Asked: Owner?
    And so the answer was simple: Roarke.
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    Lola Starr's license for sex was only three months old. She'd applied for it on her eighteenth birthday, the earliest possible date. She liked to tell her friends she'd been an amateur until then.
    It was the same day she'd left her home in Toledo, the same day she'd changed her name from Alice Williams. Both home and name had been far too boring for Lola.
    She had a cute, pixie face. She'd nagged and begged and wept until her parents had agreed to buy her a more pointed chin and a tip-tilted nose for her sixteenth birthday.
    Lola had wanted to look like a sexy elf and thought she'd succeeded. Her hair was coal black, cut in short, sassy spikes. Her skin was milk white and firm. She was saving for enough money to have her eyes changed from brown to emerald green, which she thought would suit her image better. But she'd been lucky enough to have been born with a lush little body that needed no more than basic maintenance.
    She'd wanted to be a licensed companion all of her life. Other girls might have dreamed of careers in law or finance, studied their way into medicine or industry. But Lola had always known she was born for sex.
    And why not make a living from what you did best?
    She wanted to be rich and desired and pampered. The desire part she found easy. Men, particularly older men, were willing to pay well for someone with Lola's attributes. But the expenses of her profession were more stringent than she'd anticipated when she'd dreamed away in her pretty room in Toledo.
    The licensing fees, the mandatory health exams, the rent, and sin tax all ate into profits. Once she'd finished paying for her training, she'd only had enough left to afford a small, one-room apartment at the ragged edges of Prostitute Walk.
    Still, it was better than working the streets as many still did. And Lola had plans for bigger and better things.
    One day she'd live in a penthouse and take only the cream of clients. She'd be wined and dined in the best restaurants, jetted to exotic places to entertain royalty and wealth.
    She was good enough, and she didn't intend to stay at the bottom of the ladder for long.
    The tips helped. A professional wasn't supposed to accept cash or credit bonuses. Not technically. But everyone did. She was still girl enough to prefer the pretty little gifts some of her clients offered. But she