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chat.”
    “And what do you think he’s counting on?” she demanded.
    “Why disappoint him?” Coffee cup in hand, he sat on the arm of his chair. “I’ve compiled personal and professional data on Skinner. Nothing seems particularly relevant to this, but I haven’t studied his case files in depth. Yet.”
    Eve set down the coffee he’d just poured her with a little snap of china on wood. “Case files? You hacked into his case files? Are you a lunatic? He gets wind of that, you’re up on charges and in lockup before your fancy lawyers can knot their fancy ties.”
    “He won’t get wind of it.”
    “CompuGuard—” She broke off, scowled at the bedroom unit. CompuGuard monitored all e-transmissions and programming on-planet or off. Though she was aware Roarke had unregistered equipment at home, the hotel system was a different matter. “Are you telling me this unit’s unregistered?”
    “Absolutely not.” His expression was innocent as a choirboy’s. “It’s duly registered and meets all legal requirements. Or did until a couple of hours ago.”
    “You can’t filter out CompuGuard in a few hours.”
    Roarke sighed heavily, shook his head. “First you hurt my feelings, now you insult me. I don’t know why I put up with this abuse.”
    Then he moved fast, grabbing her up, hauling her against him, and crushing her mouth with a kiss so hot she wondered if her lips were smoking.
    “Oh, yes.” He released her, picked up his coffee again. “That’s why.”
    “If that was supposed to distract me from the fact that you’ve illegally blocked CompuGuard and broken into official data, it was a damn good try. But the joke’s on you. I was going to ask you to dig up the data.”
    “Were you really, Lieutenant? You never fail to surprise me.”
    “They beat him until his bones were dust.” Her tone was flat, dull. All cop. “They erased half his face. And left the other half clean so I’d know as soon as I saw him. The minute he stepped in front of me tonight, he was dead. I was the goddamn murder weapon.” She looked back at the computer. “So. Let’s get to work.”
     
    They culled out cases during Skinner’s last decade of active duty and cross-referenced with anything relating to them during the seven years of his retirement. It overlapped the time before Roarke had come to America from Ireland, but it seemed a logical place to start.
    As the caseload was enormous, they split it. Eve worked on the bedroom unit, and Roarke set up in the second bedroom.
    By three, Eve’s temples were throbbing, her stomach raw from caffeine intake. And she’d developed a new and reluctant admiration for Commander Skinner.
    “Damn good cop,” she acknowledged. Thorough, focused, and up until his retirement, he had apparently dedicated himself, body and soul, to the job.
    How had it felt to step away from all that? she wondered. It had been his choice, after all. At sixty-four, retirement was an option, not a requirement. He could have easily put in another ten years on active. He might have risen to commissioner.
    Instead, he’d put in his fifty and then used that as a springboard in a run for Congress. And had fallen hard on his face. A half century of public service hadn’t been enough to offset views so narrow even the most dug-in of the Conservative Party had balked. Added to that, his platform had swung unevenly from side to side.
    He was an unwavering supporter of the Gun Ban, something the Conservatives tried to overturn at every opportunity. Yet he beat the drum to reinstate the death penalty, which alienated the Liberals from mid-road to far left.
    He wanted to dissolve legal and regulated prostitution and strike out all legal and tax benefits for cohabitating couples. He preached about the sanctity of marriage, as long as it was heterosexual, but disavowed the government stipend for professional mothers.
    Motherhood, the gospel according to Skinner stated, was a God-given duty, and payment in its own