“Well now, if there is some bit of business, you’re unlikely to find it this way, aren’t you?”
“I’m not?”
“Something old and simmering, you say.” Considering the possibility, Roarke hooked another fry. “If I wanted to find something long buried, so to speak, I’d figure on getting a bit of dirt under my nails.”
“I don’t follow you.”
“Sealed records.”
“I don’t have the authority to open sealeds. You gotta have probable cause, and a warrant, and all that happy shit.” When Roarke merely smiled, McNab straightened, glanced at the entrance door. “Of course, if there was a way around all that off the record—”
“There are ways, Ian. And there are ways.”
“Yeah, but there’s also the CYA factor.”
“Well then, we’ll just have to make sure your ass is covered. Won’t we?”
• • •
“Dallas is going to know, isn’t she?” McNab said a few minutes later, when their positions were reversed and Roarke sat at the computer.
“Of course. But you’ll find that knowing and proving are far different matters, even to the redoubtable lieutenant.”
In any case, Roarke enjoyed his little forays into police work. And he was a man who rarely saw a need to limit his enjoyments.
“Now you see here, Ian, we’ve accessed the on-record fingerprints and DNA pattern of your primary suspects. Perfectly legitimate.”
“Yeah, if I was doing the accessing.”
“Only a technicality. Computer, match current identification codes with any and all criminal records, civil actions and suits, including all juvenile and sealed data. A good place to start,” he said to McNab.
Working…Access to sealed data is denied without proper authority or judicial code. Open records are available. Shall I continue?
“Hold.” Roarke sat back, examined his nails. Clean as a whistle, he thought. For the moment. “McNab, be a pal, would you, and fetch me some coffee?”
McNab stuck his hands in his pockets, pulled them out, did a quick mental dance over the thin line between procedure and progress. “Um. Yeah, okay. Sure.”
He ducked into the kitchen area, ordered up the coffee. He dawdled. McNab didn’t have a clue how long it would take to bypass the red tape and access what was not supposed to be accessed. To calm himself, he decided to see if there was any pie available.
He discovered to his great delight that he had a choice of six types and agonized over which to go for.
“Ian, are you growing the coffee beans in there?”
“Huh?” He poked his head back in. “I was just…figured you’d need some time.”
He was a sharp tech, Roarke thought, and a delightfully naive young man. “I think this might interest you.”
“You got in? Already? But how—” McNab cut himself off as he hurried back to the desk. “No, I’d better not know how. That way, when I’m being charged and booked, I can claim ignorance.”
“Charged and booked for what?” Roarke tapped a finger on a sheet of paper. “Here’s your warrant for the sealeds.”
“My—” Eyes goggling, McNab snatched up the sheet. “It looks real. It’s signed by Judge Nettles.”
“So it appears.”
“Wow. You’re not just ice,” McNab said reverently. “You’re fucking Antarctica.”
“Ian, please. You’re embarrassing me.”