Origin in Death Page 5

  "Or pack a bag, a briefcase, cab it to a transpo station," Peabody put in. "He lectured, consulted. Some travel in there."

  "Yeah, have a nice meal, see the sights. Take a few appointments here and there, some board meetings, whatever. See the fam, hang out a couple times a week. Dinner or drinks with a lady friend occasion­ally, or a business associate. Come back to your perfect apartment, do a little reading in bed, then nighty-night."

  "He had a good life."

  "Yeah, looks like. But what does he do?"

  "You just said-"

  "It's not enough, Peabody. Guy's a big wheel, big brain, creates cen­ters, foundations, all but single-handedly advances his field of exper­tise. Now he what, takes the occasional case, or consults, bops off to lecture or consult out of town. Plays with his grandkids a couple days a week. It's not enough," she repeated, shaking her head. "Where's the kick? No sign he's sexually active, at least not regularly. No sport or hobby equipment in here. Nothing in his data to indicate interests in those areas. He doesn't golf, play retired-guy games. Basically, he's pushing paper and buying suits. He'd need more than this."

  "Such as?"

  "I don't know." She turned, frowned into the office space. "Some­thing. Contact EDD. I want to know what's on that computer."

  More out of habit than necessity, Eve slated the morgue as next on her list. She found Morris, chief medical examiner, loitering in the tiled hallway at Vending-and if she wasn't mistaken, flirting with a stu­pendously endowed blonde.

  Big breasts and batting lashes aside, Eve made the blonde as a cop. They broke off as she approached, and each turned eyes sparking with lust in her direction.

  It was more than a little disconcerting.

  "Hey, Morris."

  "Dallas. Looking for your dead?"

  "No, I just like the party atmosphere around here."

  He smiled. "Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Coltraine, recently trans­planted to our fair city from Savannah."

  "Detective."

  "I've only been with the four-two for a couple of weeks, but I've al­ready heard of you, Lieutenant."

  She had a voice like melted butter and eyes of drowning blue. "Nice meeting you."

  "Sure. My partner, Detective Peabody."

  "Welcome to New York."

  "Sure is different from home. Well, I've got to get along. Appreciate the time, Dr. Morris, and the Coke." She held up the tube from Vend­ing, batted those lashes again, then sort of glided down the hall of death.

  "Magnolia blossom." Morris sighed. "In full bloom."

  "You must be full up, sucking all that nectar."

  "Just a little taste. Usually I steer clear of cops, in that area. But I may have to make an exception."

  "Just because I'm not going to bat my lashes at you doesn't mean you can't buy me a drink."

  He grinned at her. "Coffee?"

  "I want to live, and the coffee here's poison. Pepsi, and the same for my pal, who will also not be batting lashes at you. Only the I'm-forever-on-a-diet variety for Peabody."

  He ordered two tubes. "Her first name's Amaryllis."

  "Oh, Christ."

  "Ammy for short."

  "You're making me sick, Morris."

  He tossed her a tube, passed the second to Peabody. "Let's go see your dead guy. That'll make you feel better."

  He led the way. He wore a suit the color of walnuts, with a dull gold shirt. His dark hair was pulled back into two queues, one stacked on the other and twined with gold cord.

  Snappy was Morris's style of dress, and it suited his sharp face and avid eyes.

  They passed through the doors into Holding, where Morris walked to the bank of drawers. There was a puff of vapor as he unlocked one.

  "Dr. Wilfred B. Icove, aka Icon. He was a brilliant man."

  "You knew him?"

  "Reputation only. I attended some of his lectures over the years. Fas­cinating. As you can see, we have a male, approximately eighty years of age. Excellent muscle tone. The single wound punctured the aorta. Common surgical scalpel."

  He moved over to Imaging and flipped on a screen to show her the wound and surrounding area magnified. "One jab, bull's-eye. No defensive wounds. Tox screen clear of illegals. Basic vitamins and health meds. Last meal, consumed approximately five hours before death, consisted of a whole-wheat muffin, four ounces of orange juice-the real deal-rose hip tea, some banana, and some raspberries. Your vic was a fan of his field of practice and has had superlative work done, face and body. Muscle tone indicates he believed in working for his health and youthful appearance."

  "How long did it take him to die?"

  "A minute or two, though essentially he was dead instantly."

  "Even with something as sharp as the scalpel, it would take a good solid jab to pierce through the suit, the shirt, flesh, and into the heart- not to mention accuracy."

  "Correct. Whoever did this was up close and personal, and knew what they were doing."

  "Okay. Sweepers got nothing on-scene. Frigging place is hydro-cleaned nightly. No prints on the weapon. It was coated." Idly, Eve drummed her fingers on her thighs while she studied the body. "I watched her walk through the building-security discs. She never touched a thing. They don't do audio, so no shot at a voice print. Her ID's bogus. Feeney's running her image through IRCCA, but since I haven't heard from him, I'd say he's not having any luck so far."

  "Smooth operator."

  "She's that. Thanks for the drink, Morris." To make him laugh, she batted her eyes.

  "What kind of name is Amaryllis?" Eve demanded when she and Peabody were back in the car.

  "Floral. You're jealous."

  "I'm what?"

  "You and Morris have a thing. Most of us have a little thing for Morris, who is oddly sexy. But the two of you have a special thing, and here comes Southern Belle Barbie getting him worked up."

  "I don't have a thing for Morris. We're friendly associates. And her name was Amaryllis, not Barbie."

  "The doll, Dallas. You know, Barbie doll. Jeez, didn't you ever have dollies?"

  "Dolls are like small dead people. I have enough dead people, thanks. But yeah, now I get you. Ammy for short? How can you be a cop with a name like that? Hello, my name is Ammy, and I'll be ar­resting you today. Please."

  "It's a nice little thing you've got with Morris."

  "There is no thing, Peabody."

  "Right, like you never thought of doing him on one of the slabs in there." When Eve choked on her Pepsi, Peabody shrugged. "Okay, that's just me, then. Hey look, it stopped raining, which is a big change of subject before I further humiliate myself."

  Eve caught her breath, stared straight ahead. "We'll never speak of this again."

  "That'd be best."

  When Eve walked back into her office carrying her share of the vic­tim's office discs, Dr. Mira was standing by her desk.

  Must be the day for sharp-dressing doctors, Eve thought.

  Mira was elegant in one of her trademark suits, this one a rosy pink with a short, nipped-in jacket that buttoned to the throat. Her mink-colored hair was swept back and sort of rolled at the nape of her neck. Small triangles of gold glinted at her ears.

  "Eve. I was just about to leave you a memo."

  Sorrow, Eve noted, in those soft blue eyes, in that smooth, pretty face. "What is it?"

  "Do you have a moment?"

  "Sure. Sure. You want-" She started to offer coffee, remembered Mira favored herbal tea. And her AutoChef didn't stock any. "Any­thing?"

  "No, thanks. No. You're primary on Wilfred Icove's murder."

  "Yeah, caught it this afternoon. I was already on-scene on another matter. I was thinking of running what I've got on the suspect by you, and . . . And you knew him," Eve realized.

  "Yes, I did. I'm . . . staggered," she decided, and sat in the visitor's chair. "Can't get my head around it. You and I should be used to it, shouldn't we? Death every day, and it doesn't always pass by those we know, those we love or respect."

/>   "Which was it? Love or respect."

  "Respect, a great deal of it. We were never romantically involved."

  "He was too old for you anyway."

  A smile wisped around Mira's mouth. "Thank you. I met him years ago. Years, when I was just starting my practice. A friend of mine was involved with an abuser. She finally broke things off, began to get her life back together. He abducted her, then he raped her, sodomized her. He beat her unconscious and threw her out of his car near Grand Cen­tral. She was lucky to live through it. Her face was shattered, her teeth broken, broken eardrum, crushed larynx, a medley of pain and poten­tial disfigurement. I went to Wilfred, to ask him to take her as a pa­tient. I knew he was reputed to be the best in the city, if not the country."

  "And he did."

  "Yes, he did. More, he was so kind, and so endlessly patient with a woman who'd had her spirit and her courage shattered as much as her body. Wilfred and I spent considerable time together over my friend, and became friends ourselves. His death, like this-it's very hard to ac­cept. I understand a personal connection like this might influence you to keep me a step back. I'm asking you not to."

  Eve considered a minute. "You ever drink coffee?"

  "Now and again."

  She went to the AutoChef, programmed two cups. "I could use some help understanding the vic and getting a profile on the killer. If you tell me you're able to work the case, then you're able to work the case."

  "Thank you."

  "Did you see the victim much in the last few years?"

  "Not really." Mira accepted the coffee. "A few times a year socially. Dinner, or a dinner party, cocktails, the occasional medical conference. He had offered me the position of head of psychiatric at his center, and was disappointed, perhaps a little annoyed, when I declined. So we haven't consulted professionally in some time, but maintained a social relationship."

  "You know the family."

  "Yes, his son's another brilliant mind, and seems the perfect choice to carry on his father's work. His daughter-in-law is a talented artist."

  "Doesn't do much with it now."

  "No, I suppose not. I have one of her early works. Two grandchil­dren, about nine and six, I believe. Girl and boy. Wilfred doted on them. He always had new holos or photographs to show off. He adores children. The center here has the finest pediatric reconstructive de­partment in the world, in my opinion."

  "He have enemies?"

  Mira sat back. She looked tired, Eve noted. Grief, she knew, could sap the system, or energize it.

  "There are some who envy him-his talent, his vision-and some who've questioned it along the way. But no, I don't know of any in our community who would have wished him harm. No one in the social circle I shared with him either."

  "Okay. I might need some help going through his medical files. In­terpreting the lingo."

  "I'm happy to give you as much time as you need. It certainly isn't my area of expertise, but I can help you understand his notes, I'd think, and his case files."

  "It looks professional. Looks like a hit."

  "Professional?" Mira set the untouched coffee aside. "That seems impossible. Even ludicrous."

  "Maybe not. Doctors who build medical empires, financially lucra­tive empires, generate not only a lot of money, but a lot of politics, power, a lot of influence. Somebody may have wanted him taken out. The suspect used a bogus ID, claimed to be a citizen of Spain. That mean anything?"

  "Spain." Mira ran a hand over her hair, over her face. "No, not immediately."

  "Late twenties, an eye-popper." She dug in her bag to give Mira a copy of the photo. "Never flicked an eyelash going through security. Stabbed him through the heart with a medical scalpel, timing it so his admin was at lunch, giving her time to exit the building-which she did, again without a flick. I'd consider droid, but that would've popped on the body scan. But that's how cool she was-before, apparently dur­ing, and certainly after."

  "Well planned, organized, and controlled. No reaction." Mira nod­ded, and seemed steadier with work to balance her. "Possible sociopathic tendencies. The single wound would also indicate control, efficiency, and lack of emotion."

  "It's likely the weapon was planted. Ladies' room. Which means someone inside, or with access inside, was an accessory or the driving force. They do a sweep of the building every week, and the cleaning system all but sterilizes the place every night. That weapon hadn't been there long."

  "You have the log?"

  "Yeah. I'm checking it out. A couple of patients, his staff. But other departmental staffer employees don't log in if they pop up there. Then there's the cleaning crew, maintenance. I'll be running the security discs for the forty-eight hours prior to the murder, see what I see. I doubt the weapon was there longer than that. If it was there at all. Maybe she just had to pee." Eve shrugged. "I'm sorry about your friend, Dr. Mira."

  "So am I. If there's anyone I'd want standing for a friend under these circumstances, it would be you." She rose. "Anything you need from me, you have only to ask."

  "Your other friend, the one who got smashed up back a ways, how'd she do?"

  "He gave her her face back, and that-along with several years of therapy-helped her get her life back. She moved to Santa Fe and opened a little art gallery. Married a watercolorist and had a daughter."

  "How about the guy who smashed her?"

  "Apprehended, tried, and convicted. Wilfred testified regarding her injuries. The bastard's still in Rikers."

  Eve smiled. "I like happy endings."

  EVE SWUNG INTO EDD, WHERE, IN HER MIND,

  the cops dressed more like club patrons and vid stars than civil servants. Clothes were painfully trendy, hair was colorful, and gadgets were everywhere.

  Several detectives swaggered, swayed, or shimmied around the room, talking into headsets or reciting incomprehensible codes into their handhelds. The few who worked at desks or cubes seemed oblivious to the constant chatter of voices and clicks and hums of equipment.

  Like a hive of overactive bees, Eve thought, and knew she'd go crazy before the end of a single shift with the e-squad.

  Feeney, however-whom she considered the most sensible and sta­ble of cops-seemed to thrive there. He sat at his desk in his wrinkled shirt, sucking on coffee as he worked.

  Some things you could count on, Eve thought, and walked in. So in­tent was his concentration that she'd skirted around his desk to take a look at his desk screen before he registered her presence.

  "That's not work," she said.

  "Yes, it is. End-"

  Without mercy, she slapped a hand over his mouth to stop him from ordering the program to end. "That's not a sim or scene reconstruct."

  He made some sound against her palm.

  "That's a game. It's a cops and robbers game. Roarke has this."

  He shoved her hand off his face and struggled for dignity. "Techni­cally it's a game. But it exercises hand-eye coordination, tests reflexes and cognitive skills. It keeps me tuned."

  "If you're going to spread all this bullshit around, you could at least offer me boots first."

  "End program." He sulked at her. "Ought to remember whose of­fice this is, and who outranks who."

  "Ought to remember some of us are trying to find real bad guys."

  He jabbed a finger toward his wall screen. "See that? There's your image match running right now. I ran your girl through IRCCA- name, MO, image. Nothing. McNab ran a standard image match, nada. So I'm running a secondary myself. Got boys going over the equipment from the crime scene, and a pickup unit heading out to bring in the personal from the vic's apartment. Any other little thing I can do for you today?"

  "Don't get pissy." She sat on the corner of his desk, helped herself to some of the sugared nuts he kept in a bowl. "Who the hell is she? Somebody who kills like that and doesn't blip on the radar anywhere?"

  "Maybe a spook." He scooped up a handful of nuts himself. "Maybe your vic was a sanctioned hit."

  "Doesn't play.
Not off the data I have on Icove, not with this method. If you're a deep underground government spook, why do you walk through heavy security? Flash your face around? Easier, cleaner, to take him out on the street somewhere. Or his apartment. Security there's a hell of a lot lighter than it is at the Icove Center."

  "Rogue?"

  "If she'd gone rogue, all the more reason to keep your face off the radar screen."

  He shrugged, crunched. "Just tossing them at you, kid."

  "She makes an appointment, goes through security, uses ID that masses their system. She knows when the admin's going to be out for an hour, giving her a clear road out before the body's discovered. The weapon was previously planted-had to be. It's all slick as spit. But..."

  Feeney rolled his shoulders, waited for her to finish.

  "Why there? No matter how you slice and serve it, taking him out in his office was more complicated than doing him at home. Plus the guy walks to work, barring inclement. You're that good, you stick him n the street and keep walking. He took his car today. Underground or in his building. You could get to him there-security, sure, but still easier than his office."

  "She had a reason to take him there."

  "Yeah. And maybe she had something to say to him before she killed him. Or something she wanted him to tell her. Anyway, if this was her first time, she had some major beginner's luck. No missteps, Feeney, not one. Not a single bead of sweat on her delicate brow after she stabs a

  guy through the heart. Dead through, too. Like he had a fucking target over it. Insert blade here."

  "Practiced."

  "Bet your ass. But jabbing a droid or a dummy or a sim, doing it in a holo, whatever.... It's not the same as flesh and blood. You know that. We know that."

  She munched, considered. "And the vic? He's nearly as unreal as she is. Not a smudge, not a smear in eighty years of living, more than a half century of medical practice. Sure he's got a few suits filed against him along the way, but they're outweighed by good works and professional kudos. His apartment? It's like a stage set. Nothing out of place, and I’m pretty sure the guy's got more suits than Roarke."