"I put that there an hour ago. And what the hell do you mean dip into my own account, there's plenty there?"
"Plenty of what? Oh." He rose to stretch his shoulders and replace his stale coffee. "You have a personal account that's been open for months. Don't you ever look at your finances?"
"I have – had – a cop's salary, which means I have no finances. My personal account has about two hundred dollars in it, since Christmas wiped out the rest."
"That would be your professional account. You have your salary automatically transferred. I thought you meant your personal account."
"I've only got one account."
Patiently, he sipped his coffee, rotated his neck. He decided he wanted a session in the whirlpool. "No, you have two accounts with the one I opened for you last summer. Do you want to see this log?"
"One damn minute." She slapped a hand on his bare chest. "You opened it for me? What the hell did you do that for?"
"Because we got married. It seemed logical, even normal."
"Just how much seemed logical, even normal to you?"
He ran his tongue around his teeth. She was, he knew well, a woman with a temper and what he often thought as a screwed sense of pride. "I believe, if memory serves, the account was seeded with five million – though that's certainly increased due to interest and dividends."
"You – What is wrong with you?" She didn't punch. He'd been prepared to block a fist. Instead, she all but skewered her finger through his chest.
"Jesus. You need a manicure."
"Five million dollars." She threw her hands up in the air, arms flapping in frustration. "What do I want with five million dollars? Damn it all to hell and back again, Roarke. I don't want your money. I don't need your money."
"You just asked me for half a million," he pointed out with a charming smile that only widened when she let out a thin scream of frustration. Then he said, "Okay. Marital spat or murder investigation? You choose."
She closed her eyes, struggled to remember her priorities. "We're going to deal with this later," she warned him. "We are really going to deal with this later."
"I'll look forward to it. For now, aren't you interested in the fact that our favorite geek happened to be visiting certain pertinent cities on certain pertinent dates?"
"What?" She whirled to stare at the screen. "Oh God, it's right there. Right there. Chicago, Paris, London. Right in his goddamn log. I've got one of them. Son of a bitch, when I get him into interview, he'll roll over on the rest quick enough. I'll fry his sorry ass and then…"
She trailed off, stepped back, felt Roarke's hands come down on her shoulders to rub. "I forgot for a minute. Stupid."
"Don't." He lowered his lips to the top of her head.
"No, I'm okay. I'm okay with it." Had to be, she ordered herself. "I just have to figure out how to get this to Feeney without compromising him or the case. We can copy it to disc, drop the disc in an overnight mail drop. We need it to go through departmental channels to reach him. Need it documented. He can run it then, and he can use an anonymous tip to get a warrant to seize the logs and to bring him into interview. It'll take the best part of a day that way, but it won't screw up the case or put him in a bind."
"Then that's what we'll do. It's falling into place, Eve. You'll have what you need soon, and all of this will be behind you."
"Yeah." The case, she thought, and very likely her badge.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Eve convinced herself she was completely prepared when she walked into Mira's office. She would do what needed to be done, then move on. And she knew, very well, that the results of what she did and what was done to her over the next few hours would weigh heavily in the department's decision. Her suspension could be lifted. Or suspension could lead to dismissal.
Mira went directly to her, took Eve's arms in her hands. "I'm so terribly sorry."
"You didn't do anything."
"No, I didn't. I wish I could have." She could feel the tension, snapping tight, in the muscles she gripped. "Eve, you're not required to submit to these tests and procedures until you're fully ready."
"I want it done."
With a nod, Mira stepped back. "I understand that. Sit down first. We'll talk."
Nerves danced up her spine, were ruthlessly shaken off. Nerves, Eve knew, would only add to the trauma. "Dr. Mira, I'm not here for tea and conversation. The sooner it's over, the sooner I know where I stand."
"Then consider it part of the procedure." Mira's voice was uncharacteristically sharp as she gestured to a chair. She wanted to soothe, and would be required to distress. "Sit down, Eve. I have all your data here," she began when Eve shrugged and dropped into a chair. Arrogantly, Mira thought. That was good. A little arrogance would help get Eve through what was to come. "I'm required to verify that you understand what you've agreed to."
"I know the drill."
"You're submitting to personality evaluation, violent tendency ratio, and a truth test. These procedures include virtual reality simulations, chemical injections, and brain scans. I will personally conduct or supervise all procedures. I'll be there with you, Eve."
"You don't carry this weight, Mira. It's not on you."
"If you're here because an associate arranged or had a part in the circumstances that brought you to this point, put you in this position, I carry some of the weight."
Eve's eyes sharpened. "Your profile indicates an associate?"
"I can't discuss my profiling with you." Mira picked up a disc from her desk, tapped a finger against it while her gaze remained steady on Eve's. "I can't tell you what data and conclusions are on this copy of my reports. A copy of reports already filed to all appropriate parties." She tossed it carelessly back on the desk. "I need to check the equipment in the next room. Wait here a moment."
Well, Eve thought when the door closed, that invitation was clear enough. What the hell, she decided and nipped the disc off the desk, stuffed it into the back pocket of her jeans.
She wanted to pace, wanted to find a way to keep herself loose before she snapped. But she forced herself to sit again, to wait, to blank her mind.
They wanted you to think, she reminded herself. To worry and to sweat. The more you did, the more open and vulnerable you were to everything that was beyond that door.
They would, she thought, use their equipment, their scans, their injections, to strip your control and dig into your mind. Your fears.
The less you took in with you, the less they had to exploit.
Mira opened the door again. She didn't come back into the room, didn't so much as glance at the desk, but nodded at Eve. "We're ready to start."
Saying nothing, Eve rose and followed Mira down one of the corridors that formed the maze of Testing. This one was in pale green, the color of hospitals. Others would be glassed with techs and machines lurking behind them like smoke.
From this point, every gesture, expression, and word and every thought would be documented, evaluated, analyzed.
"This Level One procedure should take no more than two hours," Mira began. Eve stopped short, grabbed her arm.
"Level One?"
"Yes, that's all you're required to take."
"I need Level Three."
"That's not necessary; it's not recommended. The risks and side effects of Level Three are too extreme for these circumstances. Level One is recommended."
"My badge is riding on this." Her fingers wanted to tremble. She wouldn't allow it. "We both know it. Just like we both know passing Level One is no guarantee of getting it back."
"Positive results and my recommendation will weigh very heavily in your favor."
"Not heavily enough. Level Three, Mira. It's my right to demand it."
"Damn it, Eve. Level Three is for suspected mental defectives, extreme violent tendencies, murderers, mutilators, deviants."
Eve drew in a long breath. "Have I been cleared of any suspicion regarding the murder of Officer Ellen Bowers?"