"How much do you know about electronics?"
"I beg your pardon?''
No choice was all she could think, and refused to look at Roarke. "What are your duties for your employer?"
"They're varied."
"And in these various duties, do you have occasion to send and receive transmissions?"
"Naturally."
"And you're aware that your employer has very sophisticated communication equipment."
"The finest communication equipment on- or off-planet." There was a lilt of pride in his voice.
"And you're very familiar with it."
"I am."
"Familiar enough, knowledgeable enough, to cloak or jam in- or outgoing transmissions?"
"Of course I—" He caught himself, set his teeth. "However, I would have no reason to do so."
"Do you like riddles, Summerset?"
"On occasion."
"And would you consider yourself a patient man?"
He lifted his eyebrows. "I would."
She nodded and, as her stomach fisted, turned away. Here was the thought, the worry, the grief that had kept her wakeful most of the night. "Your daughter was murdered when she was a teenager."
She heard no sound behind her now, not even breath. But if pain had weight, the air grew heavy with it. "Your current employer was indirectly responsible for her death."
"He was—" Summerset cleared his throat. Beneath the table his hands had fisted on his knees. "He was not responsible."
"She was tortured, she was raped, she was murdered to teach Roarke a lesson, to hurt him. She was no more than a tool, is that correct?"
He couldn't speak for a moment, simply couldn't squeeze the words past the grief that had so suddenly dug claws into his throat. "She was murdered by monsters who preyed on innocence." He took one breath, long and deep. "You, Lieutenant, should understand such things."
When she turned back her eyes were blank. But she was cold, horribly cold, because she did understand such things all too well. "Are you patient enough, Summerset, are you clever enough and patient enough to have waited all these years? To have established the relationship, the trust, with your employer, to have gained unconditional access to his personal and professional dealings, and then, using that relationship, that trust, that access, attempt to connect him to murder?''
Summerset's chair dug into the aged linoleum as he shoved back from the table and sprang to his feet. "You dare speak to me of using. You dare? When you'd use an innocent young girl in this filthy business? And you would stand there and point your finger at the man whose ring you wear and say that he was responsible for the horrors she endured? They were children. Children. I'd gladly spend the rest of my life in a cage if it makes him see you for what you are."
"Summerset." Roarke stayed seated, but laid a hand on Summerset's arm. His eyes were flat and cool as they met Eve's. "He needs a moment."
"Fine. This interview is broken at this time at the request of the subject's representative. Record off."
"Sit down," Roarke murmured, keeping his hand on Summerset's arm. "Please."
"They're the same, you see." Summerset's voice trembled with emotion as he lowered himself into a chair. "With their badges and their bullying and their empty hearts. Cops are all the same."
"We'll have to see," Roarke said, watching his wife. "Lieutenant, I'd like to speak with you, off the record, and without your aide."
"I won't have it," Summerset fired up.
"It's my choice. If you'd excuse us, Peabody." Roarke smiled politely, gestured toward the door.