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She snarled at him, hunched protectively over her unit. “You just want to show off.”
“Would I be that small?”
“To cut me down on this, you’d shrink to microscopic.”
“Just to show how big I really am, I’m going to overlook that insult. Why don’t you take a look at the purchase list I’ve printed out for you, and I’ll see if I can unravel some of your red tape.”
YOUR REQUEST, THE COMPUTER ANNOUNCED IN DULCET TONES, FOR PERSONAL AND MEDICAL RECORDS CONCERNING JUSTICE THOMAS WERNER CANNOT BE PROCESSED AT THIS TIME. PLEASE SUBMIT REQUEST THROUGH THIS AGENCY BETWEEN THE HOURS OF EIGHT A.M., AND THREE P.M. EST, MONDAY THROUGH FRIDAY. REQUESTS OF THIS NATURE MUST BE SUBMITTED IN TRIPLICATE AND ACCOMPANIED BY THE ATTACHED FORM, WITH ALL QUESTIONS ANSWERED THEREON. AN INCOMPLETE OR MISSING FORM WILL DELAY PROCESSING. NO REQUESTS WILL BE CONSIDERED OTHER THAN THOSE MADE BY PROPERLY AUTHORIZED PERSONS. IDENTIFICATION MUST BE INCLUDED AND VERIFIED. NORMAL PROCESSING TIME FOR RECORD REQUESTS IS THREE WORKING DAYS.
WARNING!!! ANY ATTEMPTS MADE TO ACCESS RECORDS WITHOUT PROPER REQUEST, PROPER IDENTIFICATION AND VERIFICATION OF SAME IS A FEDERAL VIOLATION AND WILL RESULT IN ARREST, A FINE NO LESS THAN FIVE THOUSAND U.S. DOLLARS, AND POSSIBLE IMPRISONMENT.
“Not very friendly, is it?” Roarke murmured.
She said nothing, merely pushed to her feet, stalked around the desk, and picked up the hard copy he’d brought with him. Deliberately, she took it with her to the kitchen on the pretext of getting coffee when he took her place.
Damned if she’d watch how easily he cut through the tape.
She stood, scanning the lists as she reached in the AutoChef for her mug of coffee. He’d already done the work there, she noted, highlighting the range of cash purchases made on a single date in February.
It fits Yost’s style, she thought. Another little shopping spree. New briefcase, new shoes—six pairs—new wallet, four leather belts, several pairs of socks—silk or cashmere. He’d ordered two shirts, tailored to his measurements, from the fancy shop Roarke had identified from the Talbot disc.
In only two stores, two stops, he’d dropped over thirty thousand Euro dollars.
Roarke had added the data from the jeweler in London. The New York clerk’s cooperative cousin had confirmed that Yost had purchased, for cash, two two-foot lengths of silver wire.
No backup tool, she thought. That was his arrogance again. He was confident in his skill.
And according to the best estimate on time of death of the smugglers in Cornwall, he’d done his shopping two days, three at most, before he’d headed north and killed two people.
He’d had to get north, she thought. Did he keep a car in London? A house? Did he stay at some swank hotel, then rent transpo, take the train, fly?
Since it was a good bet he hadn’t walked, she might be able to track his movements.
“Question,” Eve said as she stepped back into her office. “Do you have a house in London?”
“Yes, though I rarely use it. I generally prefer my suite at The New Savoy. The service is impeccable.”
“Got a car there?”
“Two. Garaged.”
“How long a drive to Cornwall?”
“I’ve never done it, so I’d have to check.” He spared her a glance now, turning in the chair and looking, she thought, entirely too comfortable at her work station. “If I were going that far north, I’d likely save time and take the jet-copter from one of my offices. Unless I was in the mood to see the countryside.”
“If you wanted to keep a low profile?”
“I’d probably rent a discreet, well-built vehicle.”
“That’s what I think, because if you took the train or an air shuttle, you’d have to arrange for transpo on the other end. That adds an unnecessary step. He doesn’t like unnecessary steps. The New Savoy’s the top digs in London?”
“I like to think so.”
“Yours?”
“Mmmm. Do you want to see this data?”
“Are we going to be arrested, fined, and imprisoned?”
