Naked in Death by J. D. Robb Page B

proper office.
    For those who wanted to wander about on their own, there were more than a dozen moving maps.
    Eve marched to a monitor and was politely offered assistance.
    “Roarke,” she said, annoyed that his name hadn’t been listed on the main directory.
    “I’m sorry.” The computer’s voice was that overly mannered tone that was meant to be soothing, and instead grated on Eve’s already raw nerves. “I’m not at liberty to access that information.”
    “Roarke,” Eve repeated, holding up her badge for the computer to scan. She waited impatiently as the computer hummed, undoubtedly checking and verifying her ID, notifying the man himself.
    “Please proceed to the east wing, Lieutenant Dallas. You will be met.”
    “Right.”
    Eve turned down a corridor, passed a marble run that held a forest of snowy white impatiens.
    “Lieutenant.” A woman in a killer red suit and hair as white as the impatiens smiled coolly. “Come with me, please.”
    The woman slipped a thin security card into a slot, laid her palm against a sheet of black glass for a handprint. The wall slid open, revealing a private elevator.
    Eve stepped inside with her, and was unsurprised when her escort requested the top floor.
    Eve had been certain Roarke would be satisfied with nothing but the top.
    Her guide was silent on the ride up and exuded a discreet whiff of sensible scent that matched her sensible shoes and neat, sleek coif. Eve secretly admired women who put themselves together, top to toe, with such seeming effortlessness.
    Faced with such quiet magnificence, she tugged selfconsciously at her worn leather jacket and wondered if it was time she actually spent money on a haircut rather than hacking away at it herself.
    Before she could decide on such earth-shattering matters, the doors whooshed open into a silent, white carpeted foyer the size of a small home. There were lush green plants — real plants: ficus, palm, what appeared to be a dogwood flowering off season. There was a sharp spicy scent from a bank of dianthus, blooming in shades of rose and vivid purple.
    The garden surrounded a comfortable waiting area of mauve sofas and glossy wood tables, lamps that were surely solid brass with jeweled colored shades.
    In the center of this was a circular workstation, equipped as efficiently as a cockpit with monitors and keyboards, gauges and tele-links. Two men and a woman worked at it busily, with a seamless ballet of competence in motion.
    She was led past them into a glass-sided breezeway. A peek down, and she could see Manhattan. There was music piped in she didn’t recognize as Mozart. For Eve, music began sometime after her tenth birthday.
    The woman in the killer suit paused again, flashed her cool, perfect smile, then spoke into a hidden speaker. “Lieutenant Dallas, sir.”
    “Send her in, Caro. Thank you.”
    Again Caro pressed her palm to a slick black glass. “Go right in, lieutenant,” she invited as a panel slid open.
    “Thanks.” Out of curiosity, Eve watched her walk away, wondering how anyone could stride so gracefully on three-inch heels. She walked into Roarke’s office.
    It was, as she expected, as impressive as the rest of his New York headquarters. Despite the soaring, three-sided view of New York, the lofty ceiling with its pinprick lights, the vibrant tones of topaz and emerald in the thickly cushioned furnishings, it was the man behind the ebony slab desk that dominated.
    What in hell was it about him? Eve thought again as Roarke rose and slanted a smile at her.
    “Lieutenant Dallas,” he said in that faint and fascinating Irish lilt, “a pleasure, as always.”
    “You might not think so when I’m finished.”
    He lifted a brow. “Why don’t you come the rest of the way in and get started? Then we’ll see. Coffee?”
    “Don’t try to distract me, Roarke.” She walked closer. Then, to satisfy her curiosity, she took a brief turn around the room. It was as big as a heliport, with all the