The In Death Collection, Books 21-25 Page 3

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

  2

  “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 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?”

  “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.

  “Careful. Well thought out. In at eleven-thirty, out by, what, twelve-oh-five, max. She’s through security at twelve-nineteen. It takes that long to get downstairs, through the scanners. Just long enough to make sure he’s dead.”

  “Nocho-Alverez, Dolores, age twenty-nine. Citizen of Barcelona, Spain, with an address in that city, another in Cancún, Mexico. Nice-looking woman—exceptionally nice.” Peabody looked up from the screen of her hand unit. “Don’t know why she’d need a consult for a face job.”

  “Gotta get a consult to get close enough to kill him. Check on her passport, Peabody. Let’s see where Dolores has been staying in our fair city.”

  Eve circled the room. “Cups are clean. She doesn’t sit and drink . . .” She lifted the top of the silver pot, wrinkled her nose. “Flower petal tea—and who can blame her? I bet she doesn’t touch anything she doesn’t need to touch, and deals with that when she’s done. Sweepers won’t find her prints. Sits there.” She gestured to one of the visitor chairs facing the desk. “Has to go through the consult, talk. Has to fill thirty minutes until the assistant goes to lunch. How’d she know when the assistant goes to lunch?”

  “Could have heard the vic and the admin talk about it,” Peabody put in.

  “No. She already knew. She’s scoped it out, or had inside data. She knew the routine. Admin’s at lunch till one, giving the killer plenty of time to do the job, get out of the building, before the body’s discovered. Moved in close.”

  Eve walked around the desk. “Flirting with him, maybe, or giving him some sad tale of having one nostril a millimeter smaller than the other. Look, look at my face, Doctor. Can you help me? And slide that blade right into his aorta. Body’s dead before his brain can catch up.”

  “There’s no passport issued in the name of Dolores Nocho-Alverez, Dallas. Or any combination of those names.”

  “Smelling like pro,” Eve murmured. “We’ll run her face through IRCCA when we get back to Central, see if we get lucky. Who’d put out a hit on nice old Dr. Wilfred?”

  “Will Jr.?”

  “That’s where we start.”

  I cove’s office was bigger and bolder than his father’s. He went for a sheer glass wall with wide terrace beyond, a silver console rather than a traditional desk. His seating area boasted two long, low sofas, a mood screen, and a fully stocked bar—health b
ar, Eve noted. No alcohol, at least visible.

  There was art here as well, with one portrait dominating. She was a tall, curvy blonde with skin like polished marble and eyes the color of lilacs. She wore a long dress of the same hue that seemed to float around her, and carried a wide-brimmed hat with purple ribbons trailing. She was surrounded by flowers, and the astonishing beauty of her face was luminous with laughter.

  “My wife.” Icove cleared his throat, gestured with his chin toward the portrait Eve studied. “My father had it done for me as a wedding gift. He was like a father to Avril, too. I don’t know how we’ll get through this.”

  “Was she a patient—client?”

  “Avril.” Icove smiled up at the portrait. “No. Just blessed.”

  “Big-time. Dr. Icove, do you know this woman?” Eve handed him a hard copy of the image Peabody had printed out from her hand unit.

  “No. I don’t recognize her. This woman killed my father? Why? For God’s sake, why?”

  “We don’t know that she killed anyone, but we do believe she was, at least, the last person to see him alive. Her information indicates she’s a citizen of Spain. Resides in Barcelona. Have you or your father connections to that country?”

  “We have clients all over the world, and off planet as well. We don’t have formal facilities in Barcelona, but I—and my father—have traveled extensively to consult when the case warrants.”

  “Dr. Icove, a facility like this, with its various arms and endorsements, its consultations, generates a powerful amount of income.”

  “Yes.”

  “Your father was a very wealthy man.”

  “Without question.”

  “And you’re his only son. His heir, I assume.”

  There was a beat of silence. Slowly, with great care, Icove lowered himself into a chair. “You think I’d kill my own father, for money?”

  “It would be helpful if we could eliminate that area of investigation.”

  “I’m already a very wealthy man myself.” He bit off the words as his color rose. “Yes, I’ll inherit a great deal more, as will my wife and my children. Other substantial sums will go to various charities, and to the Wilfred B. Icove Foundation. I want to request another investigator on this matter immediately.”

  “You can,” Eve said easily. “You won’t get one. And you’ll be asked exactly the same questions. If you want your father’s murderer brought to justice, Dr. Icove, you’ll cooperate.”

  “I want you to find this woman, this Alverez woman. I want to see her face, to look into her eyes. To know why—”

  He broke off, shook his head. “I loved my father. Everything I have, everything I am, began with him. Someone took him from me, from his grandchildren. From the world.”

  “Does it bother you to be known as Dr. Will rather than your full title?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake.” This time he put his head in his hands. “No. Only the staff call me that. It’s convenient, less confusing.”

  Won’t be any confusion anymore, Eve thought. But if Dr. Will had plotted and planned and paid for his father’s death, he was wasting his time in the medical field. He’d double his fortune in vids.

  “Your field is competitive,” Eve began. “Can you think of a reason why someone might want to eliminate some of the competition?”

  “I can’t.” He left his head in his hands. “I can hardly think at all. I want my wife, and my children. But this facility will continue without my father. He built it to last, he built toward the future. He always looked ahead. There was nothing to be gained by his death. Nothing.”

  There’s always something, Eve thought as they headed back to Central. Spite, financial gain, thrills, emotional satisfaction. Murder always offered a reward. Why else would it remain so popular?

  “Round us up, Peabody.”

  “Respected, even revered physician, one of the fathers of reconstructive surgery as we know it in this century, is killed, efficiently and in a controlled manner in his office. An office in a facility that has strong security. Our primary suspect for this crime is a woman who walked into that office, by appointment, and left again in a timely fashion. While reputedly a citizen and resident of Spain, she has no passport on record. The address given on her official documentation does not exist.”

  “Conclusions?”

  “Our primary suspect is a professional, or a talented amateur, who used a false name and information to gain entry to the victim’s office. Motive, as yet, murky.”

  “Murky?”

  “Well, yeah. It sounds chillier than unknown, and like we’re going to clear the air and see it.”

  “How’d she get the weapon through security?”

  “Well.” Peabody looked out the window, through the rain to an animated billboard celebrating vacation packages for sun-washed beaches. “There’s always a way around security—but why risk it? Place like that has to have scalpels around. Could’ve got an assist on the inside, had one planted. Or she might’ve gotten in at another time, copped one, planted it herself. They’ve got tight security, yeah, but they’ve also got privacy issues. So no security cams in patient rooms or in the hallways in patient areas.”

  “They’ve got patient areas, waiting areas, gift shop areas, office areas, operating and exam areas. And that’s not counting the attached hospital and emergency areas. Place is a fricking maze. You’re cool enough to walk in, stab a guy in the heart, and walk out again, you do your recon. She knew the layout. She’s been in there before, or done a hell of a lot of sims.”

  Eve threaded through the sluggish traffic and into the garage at Cop Central. “I want to review the security discs. We’ll run our suspect through IRCCA and imaging. Maybe we’ll pop a name or an alias. I want full background on the vic, and a financial from the son. Let’s eliminate him from the field. Or not. Maybe we’ll find unexplained and large sums of money transferred recently.”

  “He didn’t do it, Dallas.”

  “No.” She parked, slid out of the car. “He didn’t do it, but we run it anyway. We’ll talk to professional associates, lovers, ex-lovers, social acquaintances. Let’s get the why of this.”

  She leaned back against the wall of the elevator as they started up. “People like suing doctors, or bitching about them—especially over elective stuff. Nobody gets out clean. Somewhere along the line, he’s botched a job, or had a patient pissed at him. He’s lost one, and had the grieving family blaming him. Payback seems the most likely here. Killing the guy with a medical instrument. Symbolism, maybe. Heart wound, same deal.”

  “Seems to me heavier symbolism would have been to cut up his face, or whatever body part was involved if it was payback on a procedure.”

  “Wish I didn’t agree with you.”

  Cops and techs and Christ knew who else started piling on when they reached the second level, main. By the time they hit five, Eve had had enough, muscled her way off, and switched to a glide.

  “Hold on. I need a boost.” Peabody hopped off, arrowed toward a vending area. Thoughtfully, Eve trailed after her.

  “Get me a thing.”

  “A what thing?”

  “I don’t know, something.” Brow knitted, Eve scanned her choices. How come they put so much health crap in a cop shop? Cops didn’t want health crap. Nobody knew better that they weren’t going to live forever.

  “Maybe that cookie thing with the stuff inside.”

  “Gooey Goo?”

  “Why do they give this stuff such stupid names? Makes me embarrassed to eat it. Yeah, the cookie thing.”

  “Are you still not interacting with Vending?”

  Eve kept her hands in her pockets as Peabody plugged in her credits and choices. “I work with a mediator, nobody gets hurt. If I interact with one of these bastards again, someone will be destroyed.”

  “That’s a lot of venom for an inanimate object that dispenses Gooey Gos.”

  “Oh, they live, Peabody. They live and they think their evil thoughts. Don’t believe other
wise.”

  You have selected two Gooey Goos, the scrumptious crispy treat with the gooey center. Go with the Goo!

  “See,” Eve said darkly as the machine began to list the ingredients and caloric content.

  “Yeah, I wish they’d shut the hell up, too, especially about the calories.” She passed one of the bars to Eve. “But it’s programmed in, Dallas. They don’t live or think.”

  “They want you to believe that. They talk to each other through their little chips and boards, and are probably plotting to destroy all humankind. One day, it’ll be them or us.”

  “You’re creeping me out, sir.”

  “Just remember, I warned you.” Eve bit into the cookie as they turned toward Homicide.

  They split the duties, with Peabody veering off to her desk in the bull pen and Eve heading into her office.

  She stood in the doorway a moment, studying it as she chewed. There was room for her desk and chair, one unsteady visitor’s chair, a filing cabinet. She had a single window that wasn’t much bigger than one of the drawers in the filing cabinet.

  Personal items? Well, there was her current candy stashed, where it had—to date—gone undetected by the nefarious candy thief who plagued her. There was a yo-yo—which she might play with occasionally while thinking her thoughts. With her door locked.

  It was good enough for her. In fact, it suited her fine. What the hell would she do with an office even half the size of either of the doctors Icove? More people could come in and bother her if there was actually room for that. How would she get anything done?

  Space, she decided, was another symbol. I’m successful so I have all this room. The Icoves obviously believed in that route. Roarke, too, she admitted. The man loved to have his space, and lots of toys and goodies to fill it up.

  He’d come from nothing, and so had she. She supposed they just had different ways of compensating for it. He’d bring gifts back from this business trip. He always managed to find time to buy things, and seemed amused with her discomfort at the constant shower of gifts.

  What about Wilfred B. Icove? she wondered. What had he come from? How did he compensate? What were his symbols?