The In Death Collection, Books 21-25

by J. D. Robb

  “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 staff or 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.”

  4

  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 passes 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 on the street and keep walking. He took his car today. Underground lot 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.”

  “Not possible.”

  “Pretty sure. Of course, he’s got close to fifty years on Roarke, so that could be the difference. He doesn�
�t gamble, he doesn’t cheat, he doesn’t screw his neighbor’s wife—at least not so it shows. His son will benefit somewhat financially by his death, but it doesn’t fit. He’s solid in that area, and was at this point basically running the show at the Center. Center staff so far interviewed sings the vic’s praises to the point of hallelujahs.”

  “Okay. There’s a skeleton in his closet, some dirt under his rug.”

  She absolutely beamed as she punched Feeney’s arm. “Thank you! That’s what I say. Nobody’s that clean. No fricking body. Not in my world. The kind of money this guy generated, he could’ve greased the right palms to get something expunged from his data. Plus, he’s got too much downtime, the way I see it. Can’t figure what he did with it. Nothing shows in his office or his apartment. His appointment book shows at least two days and three evenings a week where he’s got nothing going. What does he do, where does he go?”

  She checked her wrist unit. “I’ve got to go fill in the commander. Then I’m taking my toys and going home to play with them. Anything pops for you, I’m ready to hear it.”

  She traveled the maze of Central to Commander Whitney’s office and was shown right in. He was at his desk, a big man with big shoulders that bore the weight of his authority. Over time, that authority had carved lines into his dark face and threaded some gray through his hair.

  He gestured to a chair, and Eve had to control a frown. After more than ten years as her commander, he knew she preferred giving her orals standing.

  She sat.

  “Before you begin,” he said, “there’s a somewhat delicate matter I need to address.”

  “Sir?”

  “During the course of your investigation you will likely be required to review the patient list for the Icove Center, cross-referencing names with the victim, and with his son.”

  Oh-oh. “Yes, sir, that’s my intention.”

  “During this process, you will find that the younger Dr. Icove . . .”

  Oh shit.

  “The younger Dr. Icove, with the victim as consultant, executed some minor cosmetic procedures on Mrs. Whitney.”

  Mrs. Whitney. Thank God, Eve thought, and felt her stomach unclench. She’d been terrified her commander had been about to tell her he’d used the Center’s services himself.

  “Okay. Excuse me. Yes, sir.”

  “My wife, as you may suspect, would prefer to keep this matter private. I’m going to ask you, as a personal favor, Lieutenant, that unless you see a connection between Mrs. Whitney’s . . . what she calls her tune-ups,” he said with obvious embarrassment, “and your investigation, you keep this matter, and this conversation, to yourself.”

  “Absolutely, Commander. Certainly I see no relation between, um, the aforesaid tune-ups and the murder of Wilfred Icove, Sr. If it would be helpful, please assure Mrs. Whitney of my discretion in this matter.”

  “Damn right I will.” He pressed his fingers to his eyes. “She’s hounded me via ’link since she heard about it on the media report. Vanity, Dallas, comes at considerable price. So who killed Dr. Perfect?”

  “Sir?”

  “Anna mentioned that some of the nurses called him that—affectionately. He’s known for being a perfectionist, and expecting the same from those who work with him.”

  “Interesting. And it fits what I’ve learned about him so far.” Deciding the personal aspect of the report was over, she got to her feet, gave her report.

  It was well past end of shift when she headed home. Not that it was unusual, she decided. And with Roarke out of town, she had less motivation to go home. Nobody there but the pain in her ass, in the form of Roarke’s majordomo, Summerset.

  He’d make some crack when she walked in, she thought. About her being late, not informing him—as if she’d voluntarily speak to him. He’d probably sneer, and congratulate her on making it home without getting blood on her shirt.

  She had a comeback for that one ready. Oh yeah. She’d say there was still time, fuckhead. No, no, fuckface. Still time, fuckface. Planting my fist through your needle-dick nose ought to get some blood on my shirt.

  Then she’d start up the stairs, stop like she’d just thought of something, and say: Oh wait, you don’t run on blood, do you? I’d just end up with viscous green goo all over me.

  She entertained herself all the way uptown with varieties of the same theme, and alternate intonations.

  The gates opened for her, and lights bloomed on to illuminate the curving drive that wound through the grounds toward the house.

  Part fortress, part castle, part fantasy, it was home now. Its peaks and towers, its juts and terraces silhouetted against the broody night sky. Windows, countless windows, glowed against the gloom of the evening in a kind of welcome she’d never known before he’d come into her life.

  Had never expected to know.

  Seeing it, the house, the lights, the strength and beauty of what he’d built, what he’d made, what he’d given to her, she missed him outrageously. She very nearly drove around the loop, headed out again.

  She could go see Mavis. Wasn’t her friend and music disc star in town? She was pregnant—a lot pregnant now, Eve calculated. If she went to see Mavis, she’d have to run the gauntlet first—touch the scary belly, listen to knocked-up talk, be shown strange little clothes and weird equipment.

  After that, it would be fine, it would be good.

  But she was too damn tired to go through the hoops first. Besides, she had work to do.

  She grabbed the loaded disc and file bag, left her car at the steps—mainly because it annoyed Summerset—and headed inside, somewhat cheered she’d be able to use her stored insults.

  She stepped inside, into the warmth of the grand foyer, into light and fragrance. Deliberately she stripped off her jacket, tossed it over the newel post—another little poke at Summerset.

  But he didn’t ooze like evil fog out of the walls or woodwork. He always oozed like evil fog out of the walls or woodwork. She had a moment to be puzzled, then irritated, then mildly concerned he’d dropped dead during the day.

  Then her heart picked up a beat, something shivered along her skin. She looked up, and saw Roarke at the top of the stairs.

  He couldn’t have become more beautiful than he’d been a week before, but it seemed to her, in that shimmering light, that he had.

  His face—the strength, power, and yes, the beauty of a fallen angel with no regrets—was framed by the thick black of his hair. His mouth—full, carved, irresistible—smiled as he came toward her. And those eyes—impossibly, brilliantly blue—dazzled her where she stood.

  He made her weak in the knees. Foolish, foolish, she thought. He was her husband, and she knew him as she knew no other. Yet her knees were weak, and her heart was tumbling in her chest. She only had to look at him.

  “You’re not supposed to be here,” she said.

  He stopped at the base of the stairs, lifted a brow. “Did we move while I was out of town?”

  She shook her head, dropped her bag. And jumped into his arms.

  The taste of him—that was home, that was true welcome. The feel of his body—lean muscle, smooth flesh—that was both thrill and comfort.

  She sniffed at him like a puppy, scented him, caught the whiff of soap. He’d just showered, she thought, while her mouth met his again. Changed out of business clothes and into jeans and a pullover.

  It meant they were going nowhere, expecting no one. It meant it was the two of them.

  “I missed you.” She caught his face in her hands. “I really, really missed you.”

  “Darling Eve.” Ireland drifted through his voice, as he took her wrist, turned his face so his lips pressed to her palm. “I’m sorry it all took longer than I’d hoped.”

  She shook her head. “You’re back now, and a hell of a better welcoming committee than the one I was expecting. Where is the walking dead?”

  He tapped a finger on the shallow dent in her chin. “If you mean Summerset, I encouraged him to go out for
the evening.”

  “Oh, so you didn’t kill him.”

  “No.”

  “Can I kill him when he comes back?”

  “It’s comforting to see nothing’s changed in my absence.” He glanced down to look at the enormous cat that wound between his legs, then Eve’s. “Apparently Galahad missed me as well, and he’s already hit me up for some salmon.”

  “Well, if the cat’s fed and the butler from hell’s away, let’s go upstairs and flip a coin.”

  “Actually, I had another activity in mind.” When she bent to pick up the bag, he took it from her, winced at the weight. “Work?”

  Once, it had always been work. Only been work. But now . . . “It can wait a bit.”

  “I’m hoping this takes longer than a bit. I’ve been saving up.” He slid his free arm around her waist so they walked upstairs hip-to-hip. “What’s the coin toss for?”

  “Heads I jump you, tails you jump me.”

  He laughed, leaned down to nip her ear. “Screw the coin. Let’s jump each other.”

  He dumped her bag at the top of the steps, spun her back to the wall. Even as his lips crushed down on hers, she was boosting herself up to clamp her legs around his waist.

  Her hands fisted in his hair, and everything inside her went hot and needy.

  “Bed’s too far, too many clothes.” She dragged her mouth from his to bite his neck. “You smell so good.”

  He found and hit the release for her harness, just a flick of fast hands. “I’m about to disarm you, Lieutenant.”

  “I’m about to let you.”

  He turned, nearly stumbled over the cat. When he cursed, Eve laughed so hard her ribs ached.

  “Wouldn’t be so bloody funny if I’d dropped you on your ass.”

  Laughter still dancing in her eyes, she linked her arms around his neck as he navigated toward the bedroom. “I love you, a week’s worth more since the last time I touched you.”

  “Now you’ve done it. How can I drop you on your ass after that?”

  Instead he carried her up the steps of the platform where the wide bed stood, then laid her on sheets soft as rose petals.