In Death 23 - Born in Death

need it.”
    She glanced at it, then looked over at him as he sat. “Are my eyes bleeding? They feel like they’re bleeding.”
    “Not so far.”
    “I don’t know how you do it, day after day.” She made the mistake of looking toward the wall screen where he had the morning stock reports running. And slapped a hand over her aching eyes. “Have mercy.”
    He chuckled, but switched to the morning media. “Had enough of numbers, darling?”
    “I saw them in my sleep. Dancing. Some were singing. I think some might have had teeth. I’d rather lie bare-assed naked on the sidewalk and be trampled by tourists from South Dakota than be an accountant. And you.” She stabbed her fork in his direction. “You love them. The fives and twenties and the profit margins, overheads, the trading fees and tax-free fuckwhats.”
    “I love little more than a tax-free fuckwhat.”
    “How does anybody keep track of money anyway, when it’s zinging around all over the place? This guy puts it here for five minutes into pork asses, then whap! he kicks the asses and slaps it into gizmos, then shuffles some of that into peanut brittle.”
    “It’s never wise to put all your eggs into one pork’s ass.”
    “Whatever.” She had to struggle back a yawn. “Those accountant guys rake it in and spread it around.”
    “Money’s a bit like manure. You can’t get anything to grow if you don’t spread it around.”
    “I couldn’t find anything off, but then I think my brain fried in hour two. Lifestyles jibe with the incomes, incomes jibe with the business fees and profits, investments and blah-de-blah. If any of them are pulling some in on the side, they’ve got it buried.”
    “I’ll see if I can scrape off any of the dirt there. Meanwhile, I’ve got a couple of clients that have shown fairly consistent upswings and profits over the last two years. Could be good management,” he added as he ate. “Good luck. Or good information.”
    “With New York branches?”
    “Yes.”
    “Excellent. Gives me someone to harass and intimidate. Makes up for the long night with numbers.” She ate with more enthusiasm. “Roarke. Say you were doing something off the books, under the table, or in the gray area of law and ethics.”
    “Me?” He gave a good imitation of insulted shock. “What a thing to imply.”
    “Yeah, right. But if you were, and one of your employees tapped in. How would you handle it?”
    “Denial. Complete and utter denial, and while I was denying, I’d be busy covering up anything potentially damaging, crunching numbers, altering data. Depending on how matters shook out, I’d give the employee a raise or transfer them.”
    “In other words, there are lots of ways around this, if it’s a money deal. Killing two people is extreme, brings more heat. Now you’ve got cops digging.”
    “A strong and foolish reaction, yes. Someone took it personally, when it’s simply business.”
    “Yeah, that’s what I’m thinking.”
    Since it was something she wanted to run past Mira, Eve copied the files to the profiler’s office unit, and contacted Mira’s obsessively protective admin for an appointment.
    On the way downtown, an ad blimp cruised overhead blasting the news of an INVENTORY BLOWOUT! and a RED DOT EXTRAVAGANZA! at Aladdin’s Cave at Union Square.
    She wondered about people who got juiced up about blowouts and extravaganzas at places called Aladdin’s Cave. What were they after, cut-rate lamps with genies? Overstocked flying carpets?
    It was too early for bargain hunters or for any but the most determined tourists. New Yorkers clipped along the sidewalks, heading to or from work, to breakfast meetings. By-the-day domestics huddled in the chill waiting for their buses to rumble up to take them to the apartments or townhouses they’d spend their days cleaning.
    More, she knew, would be jammed under the streets, zoning while the subway thundered along the rails.
    On corners, glide-cart operators were set up to hawk their hideous excuse for coffee and tooth-chipping bagels to the early commuters. Steam poured off the grills to accommodate those hungry enough or just crazy enough to eat the fake egg pouches the carts fried up.
    A few enterprising street hawkers were spreading their designer rip-offs and gray market wares on tables and blankets. Scarves and hats and gloves would be the hot sellers, she thought, on a day with the bitter wind cutting at the bone, and the sky just waiting to dump snow.
    Which