Naked in Death (In Death 1) - Page 90
He smiled. “Enough to give you everything you need to kno
w—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, a smattering of blue chip. Everything on-planet.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing if you’re content to let your money gather dust.” He slanted her a look. “Do you invest, lieutenant?”
“Yeah, right.” She was still trying to make sense of the abbreviations and percentage points. “I watch the stock reports twice a day.”
“Not a standard credit account.” He nearly shuddered.
“So what?”
“Give me what you have, I’ll double it within six months.”
She only frowned, struggling to read the brokerage report. “I’m not here to get rich.”
“Darling,” he corrected in that flowing Irish lilt. “We all are.”
“How about contributions, political, charities, that kind of thing?”
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