Page 9 of Origin in Death

  "I determine what has to do with my investigation. What I found on discs in your father's possession deals with more than fifty unidentified young women who were subjected to tests and evaluations, some sur­geries, over a course of years. Who are they, Dr. Icove? Where are they?"

  "I don't care for your tone, Lieutenant."

  "I get that a lot."

  "I assume these women were part of a voluntary test group which interested my father. If you knew anything about reconstructive sur­gery, or sculpting, you'd be aware that the body isn't merely the box that holds the prize. When the body is seriously injured, it affects the brain, the emotions. The human condition must be treated as a whole. A patient who loses an arm in an accident loses more than a limb, and must be treated for that loss, must be treated and trained to adjust to it and live a contented and productive life. Quite possibly my father was interested in this particular case study as a means to observe individu­als, over the course of a span of years, who were being tested and eval­uated on every level."

  "If this study took place in the Center, you'd be aware of it?"

  "I'm sure that I would."

  "You and your father were close," Peabody said.

  "We were."

  "It seems if he was interested enough in a project like this one. enough to keep records in his home office, he would have discussed it with you at some point. Father to son, colleague to colleague."

  Icove started to speak, then stopped, seemed to rethink. "It's possible he intended to. I can't speculate on that. Nor can I ask him. He's dead.

  "Killed," Eve pointed out, "by a woman. A strong physical speci­men, like those documented on the discs."

  She heard him suck in a shocked breath, watched that shock, and a hint of fear, widen his eyes. "You . . . You actually believe one of the pa­tients documented on those discs killed my father?"

  "Physically, the suspect fits the documented descriptions of most of the subjects. Height, weight, body type. One or more of these patients may have objected to what's termed 'placement.' Potential motive. It would also explain why your father agreed to the appointment."

  "What you're suggesting is ludicrous, out of the question. My father helped people, he improved lives. He saved them. The president of the United States contacted me personally with condolences. My father was an icon, but more, he was a man who was loved and respected."

  "Someone disrespected him enough to shove a scalpel into his heart. Think about that, Dr. Icove." Eve rose. "You know how to reach me."

  "Knows something," Peabody commented when they were out on the sidewalk.

  "Oh yeah. What do you figure our chances are of getting a search warrant for the surviving doctor's house?"

  "With what we've got? Slim."

  "Let's see if we can get more before we spin that wheel."

  She hit Feeney next, back at Central, and got a frown on his mopey face.

  "Got into the unit, no problem. What you got in there's medical mumbo. Can't see anything hinky about it. But it turns out Jasmina Free's tits didn't come from God, and neither did those pillow lips of hers, or her chin. Or her damn ass either."

  "Who's Jasmina Free?"

  "Jesus, Dallas. Vid goddess. Starred in last summer's biggest block­buster, Endgame."

  "I was a little busy over the summer."

  "Took an Oscar last year for Harm None."

  "I guess I was a little busy last year, too."

  "Thing is, girl's an eyepopper. Now that I know most of it came from the sculpting knife, it spoils things."

  "Sorry to rain on your prurient fantasies, Feeney, but I'm a little busy now, too, just trying to close a case."

  "Giving you what I got, aren't I?" he grumbled. "A lot of other high-dollar names on his client list. Some just getting a couple of tweaks, others going the full-body and face route."

  "Full names listed?"

  "Yeah, sure. It's his patient list."

  "Right." She nodded. "Interesting. Keep going."

  "I took a look around, poking for some underlayment. See if the doc had any sideline in changing faces and whatnot for new ID purposes."

  "That's a good thought."

  "Didn't find any. Came up and up. You know what Jasmina paid for -nose tits? Twenty grand each." A faint smile ghosted around his mouth. "Guess I gotta say, money well spent."

  "You're scaring me, Feeney."

  He shrugged. "The wife thinks it's midlife crisis, but she doesn't mind. Man doesn't appreciate a good rack-God- or man-made-he might as well apply for a self-termination permit."

  "You say. Lot of high-powered, famed names on his patient and consult lists. So it's interesting that he keeps coded files in his home office."

  She filled him in, then gave him copies on the off chance he might see or find anything on them she'd missed.

  When he left her office, Eve was curious enough to look up Jasmina Free on Icove's records.

  Thoughtfully she studied the images. As Louise had verified, there were several, before and after, every procedure, various angles. She didn't see anything wrong with the breasts in the before, but was forced to admit they were a reckoning force in the after.

  Now that she saw the image she recognized the vid star. She sup­posed people in Free's profession looked at tit jobs and lip fattening as job security.

  A lot of young girls fantasized about being vid stars, she supposed. Or music stars like Mavis.

  Placement.

  Create perfect specimens then place them in their fantasy. But what teenager has the money for that?

  Rich parents. The newest underground method of fulfilling your little darling's fondest wish.

  Happy birthday, honey! We got you some rocking new breasts.

  Not much more out there than Roarke's Frankenstein theory.

  Following through, she brought up Free's official data.

  Born twenty-six years ago in Louisville, Kentucky, one of three chil­dren. Father a retired city cop.

  Forget that theory as applies to Free, Eve decided. Cops didn't make enough for big doctor's fees.

  Of course, being a humanitarian, he could have taken some of them on for free. But she read through the data, found no gaps.

  Still, it was a thought to go down on her list. Something else to fiddle with.

  Curious, she brought up Lee-Lee Ten's data. She and Will Icove had seemed pretty damn chummy.

  Born in Baltimore, no sibs. Raised by mother after termination of legal cohab with father. First professional modeling, age six months.

  Six months? What the hell did a six-month-old model? she wondered.

  Modeled, did screen ads, baby bits in vids.

  Jesus, Eve thought, reading. The woman had worked her entire life. No placement possibilities there, she decided. None of Icove's records listed placements before the age of seventeen.

  But she ran the name through the Center's records and noted Lee-Lee had had a number of "tune-ups" over the years.

  Was no one satisfied with the package God put her in?

  She ran probabilities on her computer, toying with various scenar­ios. Nothing rang for her. She got coffee, then settled in to wade through Icove's many properties, arms, connections, looking for locations that might provide him with privacy for side projects.

  She found dozens: homes, hospitals, offices, treatment and health renters, research facilities, physical, mental, emotional rehabilitation centers, and combinations thereof. Some he owned outright, some were owned by his foundation, others he had interests in, or was affili­ated with, or served in some capacity.

  She separated them into her own priorities, concentrating first on lo­cations where Icove had held full control.

  Then she rose and paced. She couldn't discount the sites that were out of the country, even off planet. Nor could she positively state she wasn't chasing the wild goose by concentrating on this single angle.

  But she wasn't, Eve thought as she stared out at the bleak November sky through her skinny window.


  The doctor had kept a secret, and secrets were what haunted. Se­crets were what hurt.

  She should know.

  He'd given them labels, she thought. Denying people a name de­humanized them.

  They'd given her no name when she'd been born. Had given her none for the first eight years of her life while they had used and abused her. Dehumanizing her. Preparing her. Training her through rape and beatings and fear to make a whore of her. She'd been an investment, not a child.

  And it was that not-quite-human thing that had broken, that had fi­nally broken and killed what had tormented and imprisoned her.

  Not the same. Roarke was right, it wasn't the same. There was no mention of rape in the notes. No physical abuse of any kind. On the contrary, care seemed to have been taken to keep them at the height of physical perfection.

  But there were other kinds of abuse, and some of it looked so benign on the surface.

  Somewhere in those notes was motive. Somewhere beyond them was more specific documentation. That's where she'd find Dolores.

  "Eve."

  She turned at Mira's voice. Mira stood in the open doorway, hollow-eyed. "I came to apologize for brushing you off this morning."

  "Not a problem."

  "Yes, it is. Mine. I'd like to come in. Close the door."

  "Sure."

  "I'd like to see what you wanted to show me this morning."

  "I consulted another medical expert. It isn't necessary for you to-"

  "Please." Mira sat, folded her hands in her lap. "May I see?"

  Saying nothing, Eve got the papers, gave them to Mira.

  "Cryptic," Mira said after a few moments of silence. "Incomplete. Wilfred was a meticulous man, in all areas of his life. Yet in their way these are meticulously cryptic."

  "Why aren't they named?"

  "To help him keep his distance, his objectivity. These are long-term treatments. I would say he didn't want to risk emotional attachment. They're being groomed."

  "For?"

  "I can't say. But they're being groomed, educated, tested, given the opportunity to explore their personal strengths and skills, improve their weaknesses. Those in the lower percentile are terminated as pa­tients after it's deemed they're unlikely to improve. He sets the bar high. He would."

  "What would he need to pull this off?"

  "I'm not sure what this is. But he'd need medical and laboratory fa­cilities, rooms or dormitories for the patients, food preparation areas, exercise areas, educational areas. He would want the best. He'd insist on it. If these girls were indeed his patients, he would want them com­fortable, stimulated, well treated."

  She looked up at Eve. "He would not abuse a child. He would not harm. I don't say this as his friend, Eve. I say this as a criminal profiler. He was a fiercely dedicated doctor."

  "Would he conduct experiments outside the law?"

  "Yes."

  "You don't hesitate on that."

  "He would consider the science, the medicine, the benefits and the possibilities more important than law. Often, they are. And on some level, he would consider himself above the law. There was no violence or cruelty in him, but there was arrogance."

  "If he was spearheading, or even involved in a project that was grooming-as you said-young girls into what some might consider perfect women, would his son have known?"

  "Without question. Their pride in each other-their affection for each other-was genuine and deep."

  "The kind of facility you've described, long-term treatment as indi­cated by the data, the equipment, the security. All of that would cost big."

  "I imagine it would."

  Eve leaned forward. "Would he agree to meet with ... let's call her a graduate of his project? She was a label to him, a subject-and still he worked with her for several years, watched her progress. If she con­tacted him at some point after she was placed, would he meet her?"

  "His professional instinct would be to refuse, but both his ego and his curiosity would war with that. Medicine is risk, day after day. I think he would have risked this for the satisfaction of seeing one of his own. If indeed she was."

  "Wasn't she? Isn't it more likely, given the method of the murder, that he knew her, and she him? She had to get close, had to want to. One stab wound, in the heart. No rage, but control. As he had control over her. A medical instrument as murder weapon, a clean cut. Objec­tive, as he'd been objective."

  "Yes." Mira closed her eyes. "Oh God, what has he done?"

  EVE SNAGGED PEABODY AT HER DESK IN THE

  bull pen. "We're going to spin that wheel. Mira's writ­ing up a vie profile to add weight to what we've got. Then we're pushing for a search warrant."

  "I've got nothing that stands out on the financials," Peabody cold her.

  "Daughter-in-law, grandkids?"

  "Nothing out of line."

  "There's money somewhere. There always is. Guy has that many ringers in that many pies, he probably has some secret pies tucked away somewhere. For now, we're going back to the Center, talking to people-admin down."

  "Can I wear your new coat?"

  "Sure, Peabody."

  Peabody's face beamed like the sun. "Really?"

  "No." With a roll of her eyes and a sweep of leather, Eve started out.

  Peabody sulked after her. "You didn't have to get my hopes up."

  "If I don't get them up, how can I crush them? Where would I get my satisfaction?" She sidestepped for a pair of uniforms who were muscling a bruiser down the corridor. The bruiser sang obscenities at the top of his voice.

  "Well, he can carry a tune," Eve remarked.

  "A very pleasant baritone. Can I try on the coat sometime when you're not wearing it?"

  "Sure, Peabody."

  "You're getting my hopes up again, only to crush them, right?"

  "Keep learning that fast, you may make Detective Second Grade one day." Eve sniffed the air as she hopped on a glide. "I smell choco­late. Do you have chocolate?"

  "If I did, I wouldn't give it to you," Peabody muttered.

  Eve sniffed again, then followed the aroma trail with her eyes. She spotted Nadine Furst crammed on the upcoming glide. The Channel 75 on-air reporter had her streaky hair swept up in some sort of twisty roll, wore a canary-yellow trench coat over a dark blue suit. And car­ried a hot-pink bakery box.

  "If you're taking that bribe to my department," Eve called out. "there'd better be some left for me."

  "Dallas?" Nadine squeezed through the jam of bodies. "Damn it. Wait. Wait at the bottom. Oh my God, the coat! Wait. I need five minutes."

  "Heading out. Later."

  "No, no, no." As they passed, nearly shoulder to shoulder, Nadine managed to shake the box. "Brownies. Triple chocolate."

  "Bitch." Eve sighed. "Five minutes."

  "Surprised you didn't just rip it out of her hands, then thumb your nose at her," Peabody commented.

  "Considered, rejected. Too many witnesses." Besides, Eve thought, she might be able to use Nadine as much as she could use a triple chocolate brownie.

  Nadine's shoes matched her coat, and both the heels and toes looked sharp enough to sever a jugular. Yet somehow she managed to stride along in them as if they were as comfy as Peabody's airskids.

  "Show me the chocolate," Eve said without preamble. Obliging, Nadine lifted the lid of the box. Eve gave a brief nod. "Good bribe. “Walk and talk."

  "The coat." Nadine said it like a woman praying. "It's extreme."

  "Keeps the rain off." Eve swiveled her shoulder when Nadine stroked a hand over the leather covering it.

  "Don't pet it."

  "It's like smooth black cream. I'd give an astounding sexual performance for a coat like this."

  "Thanks, but you're not my type. Is my coat going to be the topic of discussion during your five minutes?"

  "I could talk about that coat for days, but no. Icove."

  "The dead one or the live one?"

  "Dead. We've got bio data up the ying, and we'll be us
ing it. Wilfred Benjamin Icove, medical pioneer, healer, and humanitarian. Philanthropist and philosopher. Loving father, doting granddad. Scientist and scholar, yaddah, blah. His life's going to be covered endlessly by every media outlet on and off planet. Tell me how he got dead."

  "Stabbed through the heart. Give me a brownie."

  "Forget it." And Nadine hooked both arms around the box to pre­vent a snatch-and-run. "A voice-cracking on-air for his high school data screen's got that much. Chocolate's not cheap. We've got the beautiful and mysterious female suspect angle. Security guards, medical and administrative staff don't have to be bribed to blab. What have you got on her?"

  "Nothing."

  "Come on." Nadine reopened the lid of the box, waved her hand over it as if to waft the scent into Eve's face.

  Eve had to laugh. "It's believed the female individual who allegedly was the last person to see Icove alive used false ID. The investigating officers and the EDD section of the department are working with all diligence to identify this individual so that she can be questioned in re­gards to Icove's death."

  "An unidentified woman, using false ID, slipped through the elabo­rate security at the WBI Center, strolled into his office, stabbed him in the heart, strolled out again. Got it."

  "I'm not confirming that. We are very interested in identifying, lo­cating, and questioning this individual. Give me a damn brownie."

  When Nadine lifted the lid, Eve snatched two. Before a protest could be voiced, she passed one to Peabody. "Further," she said with a mouthful of chocolate so rich she all but heard her tonsils hum, "we are pursuing the theory that the victim knew his attacker."

  "Knew her? That's fresh."

  The brownie was worth fresh. "We have not yet identified the at­tacker as male or female. However, the death blow was inflicted at close range, and there is no evidence of struggle, duress, no defensive wounds. There is no indication of robbery or other assault. There is a strong likelihood that the victim knew his attacker. Certainly, evidence doesn't indicate he felt threatened."

  "Motive?"

  "Working on it." They'd made their way down to garage level. "Off the record."