Origin in Death (4 page)

"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 extensive 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."

"What?"

"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.

"I think you have sculpting prejudice, Dallas."

"I'm not prejudiced about it. I just think it's dumbass. Regardless, it's the kind of field that draws suits, and his record for them is dead low. I can't find a single stain on his record, no political ties that might prompt a hit, no history of gambling, whoring, illegals, diddling patients. Nothing."

"Some people are really just good."

"Anybody this good has a halo and wings." She tapped the generated files. "There's something in there. Everybody's got a deep and dark somewhere."

"You wear your cynicism well, sir."

"Interestingly, he was the legal guardian of the girl who grew up to become his daughter-in-law. Her mother, also a doctor, was killed during an uprising in Africa. Her father, an artist, ditched his little family shortly after Avril Hannson Icove was born. And was, subsequently, killed by a jealous husband in Paris."

"Lot of tragedy for one family."

"Isn't it just." She pulled up in front of the Upper West Side town-house where Dr. Icove, the surviving one, lived with his family. "Makes you think."

"Sometimes tragedy haunts families. It's like a karma thing."

"Do Free-Agers believe in karma?"

"Sure." Peabody stepped out on the curb. "We just call it cosmic balancing." She walked up a short flight of steps to what she assumed was the original door, or a hell of a reproduction. "Some place," she said, running her fingers over the wood as the security system asked their purpose.

"Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody." Eve held her badge up to be scanned. "NYPSD, to speak with Dr. Icove."

One moment, please.

"They've got a weekend place in the Hamptons," Peabody continued. "A villa in Tuscany, a pied-a-terre in London, and a little grass shack on Maui. They'll add two other prime properties to their personal geography with Icove Sr.'s death. Why couldn't McNab be a rich doctor?"

lan McNab, EDD hotshot, was Peabody's cohab and apparently the love of her young life.

"You could ditch him for one," Eve suggested.

"Nah, Too crazy about his bony butt. Look what he gave me." She dug under her shirt, drew out a four-leaf-clover pendant.

"What for?"

"To celebrate the completion of my physical therapy and complete recovery from being injured in the line. He says it's to keep me from being hurt again."

"Riot gear might work better." She saw Peabody's pout form, and remembered partnership-and friendship-had certain requirements. "It's pretty," she added, taking the little charm in her palm for a closer look. "Nice of him."

"He comes through when it counts." Peabody tucked it back under her shirt. "Makes me feel, I don't know, warm knowing I'm wearing it."

Eve thought of the diamond-big as a baby's fist-she wore under her shirt. It made her feel silly, and awkward, but warm, too, she supposed. At least since she'd gotten used to its weight.

Not its physical weight, she admitted, but the emotional. It took time, at least in her experience, to grow accustomed to carrying love.

The door opened. The woman from the portrait stood framed in the entrance with a shower of gold light behind her. Even eyes swollen from weeping couldn't diminish her outrageous beauty.

Chapter Two

I'M SORRY TO HAVE KEPT YOU WAITING, AND IN the rain." Her voice matched her, a lovely and rich tone, thickened by grief. "I'm Avril Icove. Please come in."

She stepped back into a foyer accented by a chandelier-each teardrop crystal was illuminated with soft gold light. "My husband is upstairs, finally resting. I hate to disturb him."

"We're sorry to intrude at this time," Eve said.

"But..." Avril managed a sad smile. "I understand. My children are home. We took them out of school, brought them home. I was upstairs with them. This is so hard for them, so hard for all of us. Ah ..." She pressed a hand to her heart. "If you'd come up to the second floor. We entertain on the main level, and it doesn't seem appropriate for this."

"No problem."

"The family living areas are on the second floor," she began as she turned to the stairs. "Can you tell me, is it all right to ask? Do you have any more information on the person who killed Wilfred?"

"The investigation is in its early stages, and very active."

Avril glanced over her shoulder as she reached the top of the stairs. "You really do say things like that. I enjoy crime drama," she explained. "The police really do say things like that. Please, make yourselves comfortable."

She gestured them into a living room done in lavenders and forest greens. "Can I get you some tea or coffee? Anything at all."

"No, thanks. If you'd come back with Dr. Icove," Eve told her. "We'd like to speak to both of you."

"All right. This may take a few minutes."

"Nice," Peabody commented when they were alone. "You expect elegant, like the main level, but this is nice and homey." She looked around, taking in the sofas, the sink-into-me chairs, shelves holding family photographs and memorabilia. One wall was dominated by a nearly life-size family portrait. Icove, his wife, and two pretty children smiled out at the room.

Eve stepped up to it, read the signature on the bottom right corner. "Her work."

"Beautiful and talented-I could hate her."

Eve wandered the room, studying, accessing, dissecting. Family-oriented look, she decided, with feminine touches. Actual books rather than disc copies, entertainment screen concealed behind a decorative panel.

And all tidy and ordered, like a stage set.

"She studied art at some fancy school, according to her records." Eve slid her hands into her pockets. "Icove was named her legal guardian through parental stipulation in her mother's will. She was six. After she graduated from college, she married Junior. They lived, primarily, in Paris for the first six months, during which she painted professionally, and had a successful showing."

"Before or after her father's unfortunate demise?"

"After. They came back to New York, to this residence, had two kids-she took professional-mom status after number one. She continues to paint, portraits being her primary interest, but rarely takes commissions, and donates the proceeds to the Icove Foundation, thereby keeping her professional mother status."

"You got a lot of data in a short amount of time,"

"Straightforward," Eve said with a shrug. "No criminal on her, not even minor brushes. No previous marriage or cohab, no other children on record."

"If you factor out the dead parents, dead in-laws, it's a pretty perfect life."

Eve glanced around the room again. "Sure looks that way."

When Icove stepped in she was facing the doorway. Otherwise, she wouldn't have heard him. The carpet was thick, and his shoes made no sound over it. He wore loose pants and a pullover rather than his suit. And still managed to look as if he were wearing one, Eve noticed.

Roarke could do that, too, Eve thought. No matter how casually attired, he could radiate authority in a finger snap.

"Lieutenant, Detective. My wife will be here in another moment. She's checking on the children. We deactivated the domestics for the day."

He moved to a floor cabinet, opening it to reveal a mini AutoChef. "Avril said she offered you refreshment but you declined. I'm having coffee, if you'd like to change your minds."

"Coffee'd be good, thanks. Just black."

"Sweet and light for me," Peabody added. "We appreciate you seeing us, Dr. Icove. We know this is difficult."

"Unreal, more like." He programmed the unit. "It was horrible at the Center, there in his office. Seeing him like that, knowing nothing could be done to bring him back. But here, at home ..."

He shook his head, drew out cups. "It's like a strange, sick dream. I keep thinking my 'link will buzz and it'll be Dad, wondering why we don't all have dinner on Sunday."

"Did you often?" Eve asked. "Have dinner together."

"Yes." He passed the coffee to her, to Peabody. "Once a week, sometimes twice. He might just drop by to see the kids. The woman? Have you found the woman who . .."

"We're looking. Dr. Icove, records indicate everyone on your father's personal staff at the Center has been with him three years or longer. Is there anyone else, anyone he had cause to dismiss or who left unhappily?"

"No, none that I know of."

"He'd work with other doctors and medical staff on cases."

"Certainly, a surgical team, psychiatrists, family services, and so on."

"Can you think of anyone in that area of his work he may have had issue with, or who may have had issue with him?"

"I can't. He worked with the best because he insisted on doing superior work, and giving his patients the very finest resources."

"Still he had unhappy patients and clients in his practice."

Icove smiled a little, humorlessly. "It's impossible to please everyone, and certainly to please everyone's lawyer. But my father and I, in turn, vet our patients very carefully, in order to weed out those who want more than can be given, or who are psychologically inclined to litigate. Even so, as I told you before, my father was semiretired."

"He was consulting with the woman who called herself Dolores Nocho-Alverez. I need his case notes."

"Yes." He sighed, heavily. "Our lawyers aren't happy, want me to wait until they do some motions and so on. But Avril convinced me it's foolish to think of legalities. I've ordered them turned over to you. I have to ask, Lieutenant, that the contents be considered highly confidential."

"Unless it pertains to the murder, I'm not interested in who had their face retrofitted."

"I'm sorry I was so long." Avril hurried into the room. "The children needed me. Oh, you're having coffee after all. Good." She sat beside her husband, took his hand in hers.

"Mrs. Icove, you spent a lot of time in your father-in-law's company, for many years."

"Yes. He was my guardian, and a father to me." She pressed her lips together. "He was an extraordinary man."

"Can you think of anyone who would want to kill him?"

"How could I? Who would kill a man so devoted to life?"

"Did he seem worried about anything recently? Concerned? Upset?"

Avril shook her head, looked over at her husband. "We had dinner together here two nights ago. He was in great spirits."

"Mrs. Icove, do you recognize this woman?" Eve took the print out from her file bag, offered it.

"She .. ." Avril's hand trembled, had Eve poised on alert. "She killed him? This is the woman who killed Wilfred." Tears swam into her eyes. "She's beautiful, young. She doesn't look like someone who could . . . I'm sorry."

She handed the photo back, wiped at the tears on her cheeks. "I wish I could help. I hope when you find her you ask her why. I hope-"

She stopped again, pressed a hand to her lips, made a visible effort to steady herself. "I hope you ask her why she did this thing. We deserve to know. The world deserves to know."

Wilfred Icove's apartment was on the sixty-fifth floor, three blocks from his son's home and a brisk five from the center he had built.

They were admitted by the building concierge, who identified herself as Donatella.

"I couldn't believe it when I heard it, simply couldn't." She was a toned and polished forty, at Eve's gauge, in a sharp black suit. "Dr. Icove was the best of men, considerate, friendly. I've worked here ten years, the last three as concierge. I've never heard a single bad word said about him."

"Somebody did more than say it. Did he have a lot of visitors?"

The woman hesitated. "It's not gossip, I suppose, under the circumstances. He socialized, yes. His family, naturally, visited here regularly. Individually and in a group. He might have small dinner parties for friends or associates here, though more often, he used his son's home for that. He did enjoy the company of women." Eve nodded to Peabody, who pulled out the photo.

"How about this one?" Peabody asked, and the concierge took it, studied it carefully.

"No, sorry. This would be the type, if you understand. He enjoyed beauty, and youth. It was his profession, in a way. Beautifying people, helping them keep their youth. I mean to say, he did amazing work with accident victims. Amazing."

"Do you log in guests?" Eve asked her.

"No, I'm sorry. We clear visitors, of course, with a tenant. But we don't require sign-ins. Except for deliveries."

"He get many?"

"No more than his share."

"We could use a copy of the log, for the last sixty days, and the security discs for the last two weeks."

Donatella winced. "I could get them for you more quickly, and with less complication, if you'd make a formal request from building management. I can contact them for you now. It's Management New York."

A dim bell rang in Eve's head. "Who owns the building?"

"Actually, it's owned by Roarke Enterprises, and-"

"Never mind," she said when Peabody snorted softly behind her. "I'll take care of it. Who cleans the place?"

"Dr. Icove didn't keep domestics, droids or humans. He used the building maid service-droid model. Daily. He preferred droid in domestic areas."

"Okay. We'll need to look around. You've been given clearance for that from the next of kin."

"Yes. I'll just leave you to it."

"It's a really nice building," Peabody said when the door closed behind the concierge. "You know, maybe you can get Roarke to make like a chart or something so you'd know before you asked what he owns."

"Yeah, that would work, seeing as he's buying shit up every ten minutes, or selling it at an obscene profit. And no snorting in front of witnesses."

"Sorry."

The space, Eve thought, was what they called open living. Living, dining, recreational areas all in one big room. No doors, except on what she assumed was a bathroom. Above was another open area that would be the master bedroom, guest room, office space. Walls could be formed by drawing panels out from pockets, to add privacy.

The idea made her twitchy.

"Let's go through it, level one then two," she decided. "Check all 'links for transmissions, in or out, last seventy-two hours. Take a look at e-mail, voice mail, any personal notes. We'll let the boys in EDD dig deeper, if necessary."

Space, Eve thought as she got to work, and height. The rich seemed to prize both. She wasn't thrilled to be working on the sixty-fifth floor with a wall of windows the only thing separating her from the crowded sidewalk a very long drop down.

She turned her back on it and took a closet while Peabody took drawers. Eve found three expensive topcoats, several jackets, six scarves-silk or cashmere-three black umbrellas, and four pairs of gloves-two pairs black, one brown, one gray.

The first-floor 'link offered a call from his granddaughter asking for his support in campaigning for a puppy, and a transmission from him to his daughter-in-law, doing just that.

Upstairs, Eve found that what she had assumed to be a sitting room or second guest room behind pebbled glass walls was in actuality the master bedroom closet.

"Jeez." She and Peabody stood, staring at the huge space organized with shelves, cupboards, racks, revolving rods. "It's almost bigger than Roarke's."

"Is that a sexual euphemism?" Peabody cocked her head, and this time it was Eve who snorted. "This guy really liked clothes. I bet there are a hundred suits in here."

"And look how they're all organized. Color, material, accessories. I bet Mira'd have a field day with somebody this compulsive about wardrobe."

In fact, Eve thought, she might consult the psychiatrist and profiler on just that. Know the victim, know the killer, she decided.

She turned, saw that the back of the glass wall was mirrored, with an elegant grooming station fit into it.

"Appearance," she said. "That was a priority with him. Personal, professional. And look at his living space. Nothing out of place. Everything color coordinated."

"It's a beautiful space. Perfect urban living-upper-class urban living."

"Yeah, beauty and perfection, that's our guy." Eve walked back into the bedroom area, opened the drawer on one of the nightstands. She found a disc reader and three book discs, several unused memo cubes. The second nightstand was empty.

"No sex toys," she commented.

"Well, gee," Peabody said, and looked slightly mortified.

"Healthy male, attractive, with another forty on his average life span." She walked into the master bath. It held a large jet tub, a generous shower stall tiled in pristine white with a detached drying tube, and slate gray counters with a little garden of bright red flowers in shiny black pots.

There were two sculptures, each of tall, slender nudes, fair efface.

One entire wall was mirrored. "Guy liked to look at himself, check himself out, make sure everything was thumbs-up." She went through cupboards, drawers. "Upscale enhancements, lotions, potions, standard meds and pricey ones for youth extension. He's concerned with his own appearance. We might even say obsessed."

"You might," Peabody commented. "You figure anybody who spends more than five minutes primping's obsessed."

"The word 'primping' says it all. In any case, we'll say he was highly aware of himself-his health and his appearance. And he enjoys having naked women around-artfully. But it's not sexual, or not anymore. No porn vids, no sex toys, no dirty mag discs. Kept it clean."