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Another day, she thought again and strode into her office. Roarke was at her desk, busily screening data.
“What are you doing?” She all but leapt to him. “That’s classified.”
“Don’t pick nits, darling. You were going too broad last night. You’ll be days compiling and rejecting all accounts under the name Palmer. You want one that shows considerable activity, large transfers, and connections to other accounts—which is, of course, the trickier part if you’re dealing with someone who understands how to hide the coin.”
“You can’t just sit down and start going through data accumulated in an investigation.”
“Of course I can. You need coffee.” He looked up briefly. “Then
you’ll feel more yourself and I’ll show you what I have.”
“I feel exactly like myself.” Which, she admitted, at the moment was annoyed and edgy. She stalked to the AutoChef in the kitchen, went for an oversized mug of hot and black. The rich and real caffeine Roarke could command zipped straight through her system.
“What have you got?” she demanded when she walked back in.
“Palmer was too simple, too obvious,” Roarke began, and she narrowed her eyes.
“You didn’t think so yesterday.”
“I said check for relatives, same names. I should have suggested you try his mother’s maiden name. Riley. And here we have the account of one Palmer Riley. It was opened six years ago, standard brokerage account, managed. Since there’s been some activity over the last six months, I would assume your man found a way to access a ’link or computer from prison.”
“He shouldn’t have been near one. How can you be sure?”
“He understands how money works, and just how fluid it can be. You see here that six months ago he had a balance of just over $1.3 million. For the past three years previous, all action was automatic, straight managed with no input from the account holder. But here he begins to make transfers. Here’s one to an account under Peter Nolan, which, by the way, is his aunt’s husband’s name on his father’s side. Overseas accounts, off-planet accounts, local New York accounts—different names, different IDs. He’s had this money for some time and he waited, sat on it until he found the way to use it.”
“When I took him down before, we froze his accounts, accounts under David Palmer. We didn’t look deeper. I didn’t think of it.”
“Why should you have? You stopped him, you put him away. He was meant to stay away.”
“If I’d cleared it all, he wouldn’t have had the backing to come back here.”
“Eve, he’d have found a way.” He waited until she looked at him. “You know that.”
“Yeah.” She let out a long breath. “Yeah, I know that. This tells me he’s been planning, he’s been shopping, he’s been juggling funds, funneling into cover accounts. I need to freeze them. I don’t think a judge is going to argue with me, not after what happened to one of their own.”
“You’ll piss him off.”
“That’s the plan. I need the names, numbers, locations of all the accounts you can connect to him.” She blew out a breath. “Then I guess I owe you.”
“Use your present, and we’ll call it even.”
“My present? Oh, yeah. Where and/or when do I want to go for a day. Let me mull that over a little bit. We get this wrapped, I’ll use it for New Year’s Eve.”
“There’s a deal.”
A horrible thought snuck into her busy mind. “We don’t have like a thing for New Year’s, do we? No party or anything.”
“No. I didn’t want anything but you.”
She looked back at him, narrowing her eyes even as the smile spread. “Do you practice saying stuff like that?”
“No.” He rose, framed her face and kissed her, hard and deep. “I have all that stuff on disc.”
“You’re a slick guy, Roarke.” She skimmed her fingers through her hair and simply lost herself for a moment in the look of him. Then, giving herself a shake, she stepped back. “I have to work.”
“Wait.” He grabbed her hand before she could turn away. “What was that?”
“I don’t know. It just comes over me sometimes. You, I guess, come over me sometimes. I don’t have time for it now.”
