In Death 01 - Naked in Death

steal, cheat, and smuggle now?" He turned and touched a hand to her face. "Oh, you'd hate that, wouldn't you? I almost wish I could say yes, then give it all up for you. I learned a long time ago that there are gambles more exciting for their legitimacy. And winning is so much more satisfying when you've dealt from the top of the deck."
    He pressed a kiss to her brow, then stepped into the room. "But, we have to keep our hand in."

CHAPTER SIXTEEN
    Compared to the rest of the house she'd seen, this room was spartan, designed rigidly for work. No fancy statues, dripping chandeliers. The wide, U-shaped console, the base for communication, research, and information retrieving devices, was unrelieved black, studded with controls, sliced with slots and screens.
    Eve had heard that IRCCA had the swankiest base system in the country. She suspected Roarke's matched it.
    Eve was no compu-jock, but she knew at a glance that the equipment here was vastly superior to any the New York Police and Security Department used -- or could afford -- even in the lofty Electronic Detection Division.
    The long wall facing the console was taken up by six large monitor screens. A second, auxiliary station held a sleek little tele-link, a second laser fax, a hologram send-receive unit, and several other pieces of hardware she didn't recognize.
    The trio of comp stations boasted personal monitors with attached 'links.
    The floor was glazed tile, the diamond patterns in muted colors that bled together like liquid. The single window looked over the city and pulsed with the last lights of the setting sun.
    It seemed even here, Roarke demanded ambiance.
    "Quite a setup," Eve commented.
    "Not quite as comfortable as my office, but it has the basics." He moved behind the main console, placed his palm on the identiscreen. "Roarke. Open operations."
    After a discreet hum, the lights on the console glowed on. "New palm and voice print clearance," he continued and gestured to Eve. "Cleared for yellow status."
    At his nod, Eve pressed her hand to the screen, felt the faint warmth of the reading. "Dallas."
    "There you are." Roarke took his seat. "The system will accept your voice and hand commands."
    "What's yellow status?"
    He smiled. "Enough to give you everything you need to know -- not quite enough to override my commands."
    "Hmmm." She scanned the controls, the patiently blinking lights, the myriad screens and gauges. She wished for Feeney and his computer-minded brain. "Search on Edward T. Simpson, Chief of Police and Security, New York City. All financial data."
    "Going right to the heart," Roarke murmured.
    "I don't have time to waste. This can't be traced?"
    "Not only can't it be traced, but there'll be no record of the search."
    "Simpson, Edward T.," the computer announced in a warm, female tone. "Financial records. Searching."
    At Eve's lifted brow, Roarke grinned. "I prefer to work with melodious voices."
    "I was going to ask," she returned, "how you can access data without alerting the Compuguard."
    "No system's foolproof, or completely breach resistant -- even the ubiquitous Compuguard. The system is an excellent deterrent to your average hacker or electronic thief. But with the right equipment, it can be compromised. I have the right equipment. Here comes the data. On viewing screen one," he ordered.
    Eve glanced up and saw Simpson's credit report flash onto the large monitor. It was the standard business: vehicle loans, mortgages, credit card balances. All the automatic E-transactions.
    "That's a hefty AmEx bill," she mused. "And I don't think it's common knowledge he owns a place on Long Island."
    "Hardly murderous motives. He maintains a Class A rating, which means he pays what he owes. Ah, here's a bank account. Screen two."
    Eve studied the numbers, dissatisfied. "Nothing out of line, pretty average deposits and withdrawals -- mostly automatic bill paying transfers that jibe with the credit report. What's Jeremy's?"
    "Men's clothier," Roarke told her with the smallest sneer of disdain. "Somewhat second rate."
    She wrinkled her nose. "Hell of a lot to spend on clothes."
    "Darling, I'm going to have to corrupt you. It's only too much if they're inferior clothes."
    She sniffed, stuck her thumbs in the front pockets of her baggy brown trousers.
    "Here's his brokerage account. Screen three. Spineless," Roarke added after a quick scan.
    "What do you mean?"
    "His investments, such as they are. All no risk. Government issue, a few mutual funds,