Origin in Death

  Her eye watered, and she blinked furiously to stem a tide of tears. And in doing so earned points of respect from Eve.

  "You and Mr. Speegal had a relationship. An intimate relationship."

  "We fucked like rabbits all summer."

  "Lee-Lee," Charlie began, and she pushed her hand at him. A quick, impatient gesture Eve understood perfectly.

  "I told you what happened, Charlie. Do you believe me?"

  "Of course I do."

  "Then let me tell it to Roarke's cop. I met Bry when I got a part in a vid he was shooting here in New York last May. We were in the sack about twelve hours after the how-do-you-dos. He's-he was," she cor­rected, "gorgeous. Toss-your-skirt-over-your-head gorgeous. Dumb as a toad, and-as I found out night before last-vicious as a ... I can't think of anything that vicious."

  She sucked on the straw again, took three slow breaths. "We had some laughs, we had great sex, we got a lot of play on the gossip circuit. He started to get a little too full of himself. I want this, you're not do­ing that, we're going here, where have you been, and so on. I decided to break it off. Which I did, last week. Just let's chill this awhile, it's been fun, but let's not push it. Pissed him off some, I could tell, but he handled it. I thought he handled it. We're not kids, for God's sake, and we weren't starry-eyed."

  "Did he make any threats at that time, was he physical in any way?"

  "No." She lifted a hand to her face, and though her voice was steady, Eve saw her fingers trembled lightly. "He played it like, 'Oh yeah, I was trying to figure out how to say the same thing-we've about wrung this dry.' He was flying out to New L.A. to do some promos for the vid. So when he called, said he was back in New York, wanted to come up and talk, I said sure."

  "He contacted you just before eleven P.M."

  "Can't say for sure." Lee-Lee managed a crooked smile. "I'd had dinner out, at The Meadow, with friends. Carly Jo, Presty Bing, Apple Grand."

  "We spoke with them," Peabody told her. "They confirm your din­ner engagement, and stated that you left the restaurant about ten that evening."

  "Yeah, they were going on to a club, but I wasn't in the mood. Bad call on my part, as it turns out." She touched her face again, then let her hand fall to the bed.

  "I went home, started reading this script for a new vid my agent sent me. Bored the shit-sorry, Will-out of me, so when Bry called, I was up for some company. We had some wine, talked the talk, and he made a couple moves. He has some good ones," she said with a hint of a smile. "So we took it upstairs, had ourselves an intense round of sex. After, he says something like, 'Women don't tell me when to chill,' and he'll let me know when he's finished with me. Son of a bitch."

  Eve watched Lee-Lee's face. "Pissed you off."

  "Big-time. He'd come over there, got me into bed just so he could say that." Color joined the bruising on her cheeks. "And I let him, so I'm as pissed at myself as I am at him. I didn't say anything. I got up, grabbed a robe, went downstairs to settle down. It pays-and it can pay damn well-not to make enemies in this business. So I go in the kitchen, going to smooth out my temper, figure out how to handle this. I'm thinking maybe I'll make an egg-white omelette."

  "Excuse me," Eve interrupted. "You get out of bed, you're angry, so you're going to cook eggs?"

  "Sure. I like to cook. Helps me think."

  "You have no less than ten AutoChefs in your penthouse."

  "I like to cook," she said again. "Haven't you seen any of my culi­nary vids? I really do that stuff, you can ask anybody on production. So I'm in the kitchen, pacing back and forth until I can calm down enough to break some eggs, and he waltzes in, all puffed up."

  Lee-Lee looked over at Icove now, and he walked to her bedside, took her hand.

  "Thanks, Will. He strutted around, said when he paid for a whore, he told her when to clock out, and this was the same thing. Hadn't he bought me jewelry, gifts?" She managed to shrug a shoulder. "He wasn't going to let me spread it around that I'd tossed him over. He'd do the tossing when he was damn good and ready. I told him to get out, get the hell out. He pushed me, I pushed back. We were yelling at each other, and ... Jesus, I didn't see it coming. The next thing I know I'm on the floor and my face is screaming. I can taste blood in my mouth. Nobody's ever hit me before."

  Her voice trembled now, and thickened. "Nobody ever ... I don't know how many times he hit me. I think I got up once, tried to run. I don't know, I swear. I tried to crawl, I screamed-tried. He pulled me up. I could hardly see, there was so much blood in my eyes, and so much pain. I thought he was killing me. He shoved me back against the counter-the island counter, and I grabbed it so I didn't fall. If I tell, he'd kill me."

  She paused, closed her eyes for a moment. "I don't know if I thought that then, or later, and I don't know if it's true. I think-"

  "Lee-Lee, that's enough."

  "No, Charlie. I'm going to have my say. I think ..." she continued. "When I look back now, I think maybe he was done. Maybe he was fin­ished hitting me, maybe he realized he'd hurt me more than he'd meant to. Maybe he just meant to mess up my face some. But at that moment, when my own blood was choking me, and I could hardly see, and my face felt like someone had set it on fire, I was afraid for my life. I swear it. He stepped toward me, and I ... the knife block was right there. I grabbed one. If I'd been able to see better, I'd have grabbed a bigger one. I swear that, too. I meant to kill him, so he didn't kill me. He laughed. He laughed and he reared back with his arm, like he was going to backhand me."

  She'd steadied again, and that emerald eye stayed level on Eve's face. "I ran that knife into him. It slid right into him, and I pulled it out and stabbed him again. I kept doing it until I passed out. I'm not sorry I did it."

  And now a tear escaped, ran down her bruised cheek. "I'm not sorry I did it. But I'm sorry I ever let him put his hands on me. He broke my face to pieces. Will."

  "You'll be more beautiful than ever," he assured her.

  "Maybe." She brushed carefully at the tear. "But I'll never be the same. Have you ever killed someone?" she asked Eve. "Have you ever killed someone and not been sorry?"

  "Yes."

  "Then you know. You're never the same."

  When they were finished, Lawyer Charlie followed them into the hall.

  "Lieutenant-"

  "Reverse your thrusters, Charlie," Eve said wearily. "We're not charging her. Her statement is consistent with the evidence and other statements we've documented. She was physically assaulted, in fear of her life, and defended herself."

  He nodded, and looked slightly disappointed that he wouldn't be required to jump on his expensive white horse and ride to his client's rescue. "I'd like to see the official statement before it's released to the media."

  Eve made a sound that might have passed for a laugh as she turned and walked away. "Bet you would."

  "You okay?" Peabody asked as they headed for the elevators.

  "Don't I look okay?"

  "Yeah, you look fine. And speaking of looks, if you were going to go for Dr. Icove's services, what would you pick?"

  "I'd pick a good psychiatrist to help me figure out why I'd let somebody carve on my face and/or body."

  The security to get down was as stringent as it had been to get up. They were scanned to ensure they'd taken no souvenirs, and most im­portant, any images of patients who were promised absolute confiden­tiality.

  As the scans were completed, Eve watched Icove rush by, then key into what she saw was a private elevator camouflaged in the rosy wall.

  "In a hurry," Eve noted. "Somebody must need emergency fat sucking."

  "Okay." Peabody exited the scanner. "Back on topic. I mean, if you could change anything about your face, what would it be?"

  "Why would I change anything? I'm not looking at it most of the time anyway."

  "I'd like more lips."

  "Two aren't enough for you?"

  "No, jeez, Dallas, I mean plumper, sexier lips." She pursed them as they got on the elevator. "Maybe
a thinner nose." Peabody ran her thumb and forefinger down it, measuring. "Do you think my nose is fat?"

  "Yes, especially when you're poking it into my business."

  "See hers." Peabody tapped a finger on one of the automated posters lining the elevator walls. Perfect faces, perfect bodies, modeled for passengers

  "I could get that one. It's chiseled. Yours is chiseled."

  "It's a nose. It sits on your face and allows you to get air through two

  handy holes."

  "Yeah, easy for you to say, Chiseled Nose."

  "You're right. In fact, I'm starting to agree with you. You need plumper lips." Eve balled a hand into a fist. "Let me help you with that”

  Peabody only grinned and watched the posters. "This place is like the palace of physical perfection. I may come back and go for one of their free morphing programs, just to see how I'd look with more lips, or a skinny nose. I think I'm going to talk to Trina about a hair change."

  "Why, why, why, does everybody have to change their hair? It cov­ers your scalp, keeps it from getting wet or cold."

  "You're just scared that when I talk to Trina she's going to corner you and give you a treatment."

  "I am not." She was, too.

  It was a surprise to hear her name paged through the elevator's com­munication system. Frowning, Eve cocked her head.

  "This is Dallas."

  "Please, Lieutenant, Dr. Icove asks that you come, right away, to the forty-fifth floor. It's an emergency."

  "Sure." She glanced at Peabody, shrugged. "Reroute to forty-five," she ordered, and felt the elevator slow, shift, ascend. "Something's up," she commented. "Maybe one of his beauty-at-any-price clients croaked."

  "People hardly ever croak from face and body work." Peabody ran a considering finger down her nose again. "Hardly ever."

  "We could all admire your skinny nose at your memorial. Damn shame about Peabody, we'd say, and dash the tears from our eyes. But that is one mag nose she's got in the middle of her dead face."

  "Cut it out." Peabody hunched her shoulders, folded her arms over her chest. "Besides, you couldn't dash the tears away. You'd cry buck­ets. You'd be blinded by your copious tears and wouldn't even be able to see my nose."

  "Which makes dying for it really stupid." Satisfied she'd won that round, Eve stepped off the elevator.

  "Lieutenant Dallas. Detective Peabody." A woman with a- hmmm-chiseled nose and skin the color of good rich caramel rushed forward. Her eyes were black as onyx, and currently pouring tears. "Dr. Icove. Dr. Icove. Something terrible."

  "Is he hurt?"

  "He's dead. He's dead. You need to come, right away. Please, hurry."

  "Jesus, we saw him five minutes ago." Peabody fell in beside Eve, moving quickly to keep up with the woman who all but sprinted through a hushed and lofty office area. The glass walls showed the storm still blowing outside, but here, it was warm, with subdued light­ing, islands of lush green plants, sinuous sculptures, and romantic paintings-all nudes.

  "You want to slow down?" Eve suggested. "Tell us what hap­pened?"

  "I can't. I don't know."

  How the woman managed to stand much less sprint on whip-thin heels Eve would never understand, but she bolted through a pair of double doors of frosted sea green and into another waiting area.

  Icove, pale as death but apparently still breathing, stepped out of an open doorway.

  "Glad to see the rumors of your death are exaggerated," Eve began.

  "Not me, not. .. My father. Someone's murdered my father."

  The woman who'd escorted them burst into fresh and very noisy tears. "Pia, I want you to sit down now." Icove laid a hand on her shak­ing shoulder. "I need you to sit down and compose yourself. I can't get through this without you."

  "Yes. All right. Yes. Oh, Dr. Will."

  "Where is he?" Eve demanded.

  "In here. At his desk, in here. You can .. ." Icove shook his head, gestured.

  The office was spacious yet gave the feeling of intimacy. Warm col­ors here, cozy chairs. The view of the city came through tall, narrow windows in this room, and was filtered by pale gold screens. Wall niches held art or personal photographs.

  Eve saw a chaise in buttery leather, a tray of tea or coffee that looked untouched on a low table.

  The desk was genuine wood-good old wood by her estimate, in a masculine, streamlined style. The data and communication equipment on it was small and unobtrusive.

  In the desk chair, high-backed and buttery leather like the chaise, Wilfred B. Icove sat.

  His hair was a thick, snowy cloud crowning a strong, square face. He wore a dark blue suit, and a white shirt with thin red pencil stripes.

  A silver handle protruded from the breast of the jacket, just under a triangle of red that accented the pocket.

  The small amount of blood told Eve it had been a very accurate heart shot.

  PEABODY.

  "I'll go get the field kits, and call it in." "Who found him?" Eve asked Icove.

  "Pia. His assistant." He looked, Eve thought, like a man who'd just taken an airjack in the gut. "She ... she contacted me immediately, and I rushed up. I ..."

  "Did she touch the body? Did you?"

  "I don't know. I mean to say, I don't know if she did. I... I did. I wanted to ... I had to see if there was anything I could do."

  "Dr. Icove, I'm going to ask you to sit down over there. I'm very sorry about your father. Right now, I need information. I need to know who was the last person who was in this room with him. I want to know when he had his last appointment."

  "Yes, yes. Pia can look it up on his schedule."

  "I don't have to." Pia had conquered the tears, but her voice was rusty from them. "It was Dolores Nocho-Alverez. She had an eleven-thirty. I ... I brought her in myself."

  "How long was she here?"

  "I'm not sure. I went to lunch at noon, as always. She needed the eleven-thirty, and Dr. Icove told me to go ahead to lunch, as usual, and he'd show her out himself."

  "She'd have to go out through security."

  "Yes." Pia got to her feet. "I can find out when she left. I'll check the logs now. Oh, Dr. Will, I'm so sorry."

  "I know. I know."

  "Do you know this patient, Dr. Icove?"

  "No." He rubbed his fingers over his eyes. "I don't. My father didn't take many patients. He's semiretired. He'd consult when a case inter­ested him, and sometimes assist. He remains chairman of the board of this facility, and is active on several others. But he rarely did surgery, not for the last four years."

  "Who wanted to hurt him?"

  "No one." Icove turned to Eve. His eyes were swimming, and his voice uneven, but he held on. "Absolutely no one. My father was beloved. His patients, through over five decades, loved him, were grateful to him. The medical and scientific communities respected and honored him. He changed people's lives, Lieutenant. He not only saved them, he improved them."

  "Sometimes people have unreal expectations. A person comes to him, wants something impossible, doesn't get it, blames him."

  "No. We're very careful with whom we take into this facility. And, to be frank, there was little my father would consider unrealistic in ex­pectations. And he proved, time and again, he could do what others considered impossible."

  "Personal problems. Your mother?"

  "My mother died when I was a boy. During the Urban Wars. He never remarried. He has had relationships, of course. But he's been, by and large, married to his art, his science, his vision."

  "Are you an only child?"

  He smiled a little. "Yes. My wife and I gave him two grandchildren. We're a very close family. I don't know how I'm going to tell Avril and the kids. Who would do this to him? Who would kill a man who's de­voted his life to helping others?"

  "That's what I'm going to find out."

  Pia came back in, a few strides ahead of Peabody. "We have her go­ing through exit security at twelve-nineteen."

  "Are there images?"

&n
bsp; "Yes, I've already asked security to send up the discs-I hope that was the right thing," she said to Icove.

  "Yes, thank you. If you want to go home for-"

  "No," Eve interrupted. "I need both of you to stay. I don't want either of you to make or receive any transmissions or speak with anyone-or each other-for the time being. Detective Peabody is go­ing to set you both up in separate areas."

  "Uniforms coming up," Peabody stated. "It's routine," she added. "There are things we need to do, then we'll need to talk to you both, get statements."

  "Of course." Icove looked around, like a man lost in the woods. "I don't..."

  "Why don't you both show me where you'd be most comfortable while we're taking care of your father?"

  She glanced back at Eve, got the nod while Eve opened her field kit.

  Alone, Eve sealed up, switched on her recorder, and for the first time moved over to examine the body.

  "Victim is identified as Wilfred B. Icove, Doctor. Reconstructive and cosmetic surgery." Still, she took out her Identi-pad, checked his prints and his data. "Victim is eighty-two, widowed, one son-Wilfred B. Icove, Jr., also a doctor. There is no sign of trauma other than the death wound, no sign of struggle, no defensive wounds."

  She took out tools, gauges. "Time of death, noon. Cause of death, in­sult to the heart-went right through this really nice suit and shirt with a small instrument."

  She measured the handle, took images. "It appears to be a medical scalpel."

  Manicured fingernails, she noted. Expensive, yet subtle, wrist unit. Obviously a proponent of his own medical area as he looked more a fit and toned sixty than eighty-plus.

  "Run Dolores Nocho-Alverez," she ordered when she heard Peabody come back. "Either she stuck our friendly doctor, or she knows who did."

  She stepped back, heard Peabody open a can of Seal-It. "One wound, only takes one when you know what you're doing. She had to get close, had to be steady. Controlled, too. No rage. Real rage doesn't let you just pop a blade in and walk away. Maybe pro. Maybe a hit. Woman's pissed off, she'd mess him up."

  "No blood on her with that kind of wound," Peabody pointed out.