“I’ll use the auxiliary and keep going through her case files.”
Roarke sat, and began to peel at the first layers.
Ricker, he thought. The name was like a virus in his life, springing out, spreading, then crawling back into hiding only to slither out again. And again.
He had reason to wonder if Ricker had been responsible for jamming the knife in Patrick Roarke’s throat in that alley in Dublin years ago. And that, Roarke admitted, was the single thing he’d have to be grateful to Ricker for.
Not true, he corrected, not entirely true.
He could be grateful for what he’d learned during his association with Ricker. He’d learned how far he would go, and where he wouldn’t go. He knew it had both amused and annoyed Max Ricker that he wouldn’t deal in the sex trade when it involved minors or the unwilling. That he wouldn’t kill on command, or for the sake of spilling blood.
He’d taken lives in his time, Roarke admitted. He’d spilled blood. But always for purpose. Never for profit. Never for sport.
He supposed, in some oddly twisted way, he’d learned more of his own lines, his own moralities from Max Ricker than he had from his own unlamented father.
What, he wondered, had Alex Ricker learned from his father?
German boarding schools, Roarke noted. Military type. Very strict, very costly. Private tutors on holidays, then private university. Studied in business, finance, languages, politics, and international law. Played football—soccer to the Yanks.
Covering many bases there.
No marriages, no children on record.
Alex Maximum Ricker, age thirty-three, residences in Atlanta, Berlin, Paris, and most recently, New York. Financier and entrepreneur listed as occupations of record.
Also covering a lot of bases. Current net worth: 18.3 million.
Oh, no, there’ll be more than that. So, Roarke thought. Let’s get down to it.
He worked steadily for an hour, ordering multiple runs and chipping away manually.
“Covering asses, too, aren’t you now?” Roarke mumbled to himself when he hit a block, shoved and tunneled around and under it. “Not so quick to toot your own horn as your father was. Smarter. All that posturing and preening helped bring him down, didn’t it? Ah, now, there’s a start.”
“What? What have you got?”
“Hmmm?”
“I’ve got nothing.” Eve swiveled around to him. “Zip. You’ve got something. What?”
“Apparently, it’s not coffee,” he said with a glance at his empty mug.
“What am I, a domestic droid?”
“If so, why aren’t you wearing your frilly white apron and little white cap, and nothing else?”
She sent him a pained look of sincere bafflement. “Why do men think that kind of getup is sexy?”
“Hmm, let me think. Mostly naked women wearing only symbols of servitude. No, I can’t understand it myself.”
“Perverts, your entire species. What have you got?”
“Besides a very clear picture of you in my head wearing a frilly white apron and little white cap?”
“Jesus, I’ll get the damn coffee if you’ll cut it out.”
“What I’ve found is the reason Alex Ricker hasn’t blipped on my radar, not that I’ve given him much thought. But from a purely business standpoint, why he hasn’t blipped.”
“Why?”