Origin in Death Read online

  "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 Cancun, 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 1RCCA 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 bar, 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 r"

  "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 otherwise."

  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?

  She sat at her desk, turned to her computer, and began the process of learning about the dead.

  While she gathered data on her computer, she tagged Feeney, Cap­tain of the Electronic Detectives Division.

  He came on-screen, hangdog face, wiry ginger hair. His shirt looked as if he'd slept in it-which was, always, oddly comforting to Eve.

  "Need a run through IRCCA," she told him. "Big-deal face and body sculptor went out in his office this morning. Last appointment looks like our winner. Female, late twenties, name and address- which is Barcelona, Spain-"

  "Ole," he said dourly, and made her smile. "Gee, Feeney, I didn't know you spoke Spanish." "Had that vacation at your place in Mexico, picked up a few things." "Okay, how do you say 'bull's-eye in the heart with a small-bladed instrument'?"

  “Ole.”

  "Good to know. No passport under the listed name of Nocho-Alverez, Dolores. Addy in sunny Spain is bogus. She got in and out clean through heavy security."

  "You smelling pro?"

  "I've got a whiff, but no motive on my horizon. Maybe one of your boys can match her through the system, or through imaging."

  "Shoot me a picture, see what we can do."

  "Appreciate it. Sending now."

  She clicked off, sent the ID image, then, crossing fingers that her unit could handle another simultaneous task, fed the security disc from the Center into a slot to review.

  Eve hit her AutoChef up for coffee, sipped as she scanned. "There you are," she murmured, and watched the woman currently known as Dolores walk to a security station at the main level. She wore slim pants, a snug jacket, both in flashy red. Mile-high heels in the same shade.

  Not afraid to be noticed, are you, Dolores, Eve mused.

  Her hair was glossy black, wore long and loosely curled around a face with cut-glass cheekbones, lush lips-also boldly red-and heavy-lidded eyes nearly as dark as her hair.

  She passed through security-bag scan, body scan-without a hitch, then strolled at an easy, hip-swaying pace toward the bank of elevators that would take her to Icove's level.

  No hesitation, Eve noted, no hurry. No attempt to evade the cam­eras. No sweat. She was cool as a margarita sipped under a pretty um­brella on a tropical beach.

  Eve switched to the elevator disc and watched the woman ascend- serenely. She made no stops, made no moves, until she exited on Icove's floor.

  She approached reception, spoke to the person on duty, signed in, then walked a short distance down the corridor to the ladies' room.

  Where there were no cameras, Eve thought. Where she either re­trieved the weapon where it had been planted for her, or removed it from her bag or person where it had been disguised well enough to beat security.

  Planted, most likely, Eve decided. Got somebody on the inside. Maybe the one who wanted him dead.

  Nearly three minutes passed, then Dolores stepped out, went di­rectly to the waiting area. She sat, crossed her legs, and flipped through the selection of book and magazine discs on the menu.

  Before she could pick one, Pia came through the double doors to lead her back to Icove's office.

  Eve watched the doors close, watched the assistant sit at her own desk. She zipped through, while the stamp flashed the passage of time until noon, when the assistant removed a purse from her desk drawer, slipped on a jacket, and left for lunch.

  Six minutes later, Dolores came out as casually as she'd gone in. Her face showed no excitement, no satisfaction, no guilt, no fear.

  She passed the reception area without a word, descended, crossed to exit security, passed through, and walked out of the building. And into the wind, Eve thought.

  If she wasn't a pro, she should be.

  No one else went in or out of Icove's office until the assistant re­turned from lunch.

  With a second cup of coffee, she read through the e
xtensive data on Wilfred B. Icove.

  Guy was a fricking saint," she said to Peabody. The rain had slowed to an irritating drizzle, gray as fog. "Came from little, did much. His parents were doctors, running clinics in depressed areas and coun­tries. His mother was severely burned attempting to save children from a building under attack. She lived but was disfigured.

  "So he goes into reconstructive surgery," Peabody finished.

  "Inspired, one assumes. He ran a portable clinic himself during the Urban Wars. Traveled to Europe to help with their urban strife. Was there when the wife got hit while volunteering. Son was a kid but al­ready on his way to becoming a doctor, and would later on graduate from Harvard Medical at the age of twenty-one."

  "Fast track."

  "Betcha. Senior worked with his parents, but wasn't with them when his mother was hurt, thereby escaping death or injury. He was also in another part of London working when the wife got hit."

  "Either really lucky or really unlucky."

  "Yeah. He'd already moved into reconstructive surgery by the time he was widowed, his mother's case pushing him into making it his mis­sion. Mom was, reputedly, a wowzer. I pulled out a file photo, and she looked pretty hot to me. There's also file photos of what she looked like after the explosion, and we could say grim. They were able to keep her alive, and do considerable work on her, but they weren't able to put her back the way she was."

  "Humpty Dumpty."

  "What5"

  "All the king's horses?" Peabody saw Eve's blank look. "Never mind."

  "She self-terminated three years later. Icove dedicates himself to re­constructive, and continuing his parents' good works, volunteers his services during the Urbans. Lost his wife and raised his son, devoted his life to medicine, founded clinics, created foundations, took on what were assumed to be hopeless cases-often waiving his fee-taught, lec­tured, sponsored, performed miracles and fed the hungry from a bot­tomless basket of bread and fish."

  "You made that last part up, right?"

  "Doesn't feel like it. No doctor's going to practice for sixty years, more or less, without dealing with malpractice suits, but his are well below the average, less than you'd expect, especially considering his field of practice.