The In Death Collection, Books 21-25

by J. D. Robb

  As she read, Louise’s brow knitted. She began to murmur to herself, shake her head. “Experimental, certainly, and vague on the details. These can’t be his actual case notes. It’s an overview: physical, mental, emotional, intelligence. Treating the whole patient, as was his method. One I agree with. But . . . Young female subject, excellent physical condition, high intelligence quotient, small corrections to vision and facial structure. Four years of study and treatments wrapped in a few pages. There has to be more.”

  “Is the subject human?”

  Louise’s eyes flicked up, then back to the notes again. “The vitals and treatments all indicate a human female. One who was tested regularly, and thoroughly, not only for defects and disease but for mental and artistic progress and prowess. There were fifty of these?”

  “That I’ve found, to date.”

  “Placement,” Louise said softly. “Educational placement? Employment?”

  “Dallas doesn’t think so,” Charles commented with his eyes on Eve’s.

  “Then what—” Louise broke off, reading the look that passed between her lover and Eve. “Oh God.”

  “You have to be tested to get an LC license,” Eve began.

  “That’s right.” Charles picked up his coffee. “You’re tested physically to ensure against disease or condition. You undergo some psychiatric evals, to hopefully eliminate any sexual deviants or predators. And to keep your license current, you’re required to have regular exams.”

  “And there are various levels, with various fee scales.”

  “Of course. The level of your license is determined not only by your preference, but your skills. Intelligence, knowledge of art and entertainment, your . . . style. A street level, for instance, isn’t required to be able to discuss art history with a client, or know Puccini from pig Latin.”

  “The higher the level, the bigger the fee.”

  “Correct.”

  “And the higher the level placed, the bigger the placement fee for the agency that either trains or tests and certifies the LC.”

  “Also correct.”

  “It doesn’t make sense,” Louise interrupted. “First someone with Icove’s resources, skills, and interests testing potential LCs? For what purpose? And it doesn’t take years to train and certify. His fees would be nominal compared to his real work.”

  “Boy needs a hobby,” Peabody added, and considered another bagel.

  Charles played his fingers over the tips of Louise’s hair. “She’s not thinking traditional LCs, sweetie. Are you, Dallas? Not selling services, but the whole package.”

  “Selling . . .” Louise went pale. “Dallas, my God.”

  “It’s a theory. I’m working on a couple of them. You’d agree, as a doctor, that the security on these discs is more than usual.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “That the notes themselves are sketchy, and also unusual.”

  “I agree I’d have to see more to have an opinion to their purpose.”

  “Where are the images?” Eve asked. “If you, as a doctor, were documenting information such as this on a patient over the course of years, wouldn’t you have images of that patient. At certain points? Certainly before and after procedures?”

  Louise said nothing for a moment, then let out a long breath. “Yes. I’d also clearly document the steps of any procedure, who assisted, the duration of the procedure. I would’ve listed the names of the patient as well as the names of any medical or laystaff who assisted in tests. There would, most likely, be personal observations and comments added. But these aren’t thorough notes, certainly not medical charts.”

  “Okay. Thanks.” Eve held out her hand for the hard copies.

  “You think he may have been involved in some sort of . . . human auction? That’s why he was killed.”

  “It’s a theory.” Eve got to her feet. “A lot of doctors have God complexes.”

  “Some,” Louise said, coolly now.

  “Even God didn’t create the perfect woman. Maybe Icove figured he could one-up God. Thanks for the coffee,” Eve added, and let herself out.

  “I think you pretty much ruined her day,” Peabody commented as they walked to the elevator.

  “Might as well go for a streak and ruin Dr. Will’s day next.”

  A domestic droid opened the door of the Icoves’ home. She’d been created to replicate a woman in her comfortable forties, with a pleasant face, a trim build.

  She showed them directly into the main living area, offered them a seat, refreshment, then stepped out. Moments later, Icove came in.

  There were shadows under his eyes and a weary pallor to his cheeks.

  “You have news?” he asked immediately.

  “I’m sorry, Dr. Icove, we don’t have anything to tell you at this time. We do have some follow-up questions.”

  “Oh.” He rubbed the center of his forehead in a firm up-and-down motion. “Of course.”

  As he crossed over to take a seat, Eve saw the young boy peek around the doorway. His hair was so blond it was nearly white and spiked up—as the current fashion demanded—from a youthful and pretty face. He had his mother’s eyes, she noted. So blue they were nearly purple.

  “I think we might want to discuss this in private,” Eve told Icove.

  “Yes. My wife and children are still at breakfast.”

  “Not all of them.” Eve inclined her head, and Icove turned in time to catch a glimpse of his son before the boy scooted back out of sight.

  “Ben!”

  The sharp command had the boy sliding into view again, chin on chest. But those eyes, Eve saw, where bright and avid despite the shamed posture.

  “Haven’t we discussed eavesdropping on private conversations?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody,” Icove said, “my son, Ben.”

  “Wilfred B. Icove the Third,” the boy announced, straightening his shoulders. “Benjamin’s my middle name. You’re the police.”

  Because Peabody knew her partner, she took the front line with the boy. “That’s right. We’re very sorry about your grandfather, Ben, and we’re here to talk to your father.”

  “Somebody killed my granddad. They stabbed him right in the heart.”

  “Ben—”

  “They know.” Ben’s face was a study in frustration as he turned to his father. “Now they have to ask questions and follow leads and gather evidence. Do you have suspects?” he demanded.

  “Ben.” Icove spoke more gently and wrapped an arm around his son’s shoulders. “My son doesn’t want to follow family tradition and enter the medical field. He hopes to be a private investigator.”

  “Cops have to follow too many rules,” the boy explained. “PIs get to break them and they get big, fat fees and hang out with shady characters.”

  “He enjoys detective book discs and games,” Icove added with a light of amusement—and, Eve thought, pride—in his eyes.

  “If you’re a lieutenant, you get to boss people around, and yell at them and stuff.”

  “Yeah.” Eve felt a smile twitch at her lips. “I like that part.”

  There was the sound of footsteps moving fast down the hall. Avril appeared, apology on her face. “Ben. Will, I’m sorry. He got away from me.”

  “No harm. Ben, go back into the breakfast room now with your mother.”

  “But I want—”

  “No arguments.”

  “Ben.” Avril’s voice was a murmur, but it worked. Ben’s head drooped again as he dragged his feet out of the room.

  “Sorry for the interruption,” Avril said, curved her lips in a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, then retreated.

  “We’re keeping the children home for a few days,” Icove explained. “The media doesn’t always respect grief, or innocence.”

  “He’s a great-looking kid, Dr. Icove,” Peabody put in. “He favors your wife.”

  “Yes, he does. Both our children favor Avril.” His smile warmed, beca
me genuine. “Fortunate DNA. What do you need to know?”

  “We have some questions regarding some information accessed from discs recovered from your father’s home office.”

  “Oh?”

  “The data they’re on was coded.”

  There was a change—just a flicker—when puzzlement became shock, a shock masked by mild interest. “Medical notes often seem like code to the layman.”

  “True enough. Even when the text was accessed, the contents are puzzling. Your father appears to have taken notes on the treatment of some fifty patients, female patients from their late teens to early twenties.”

  Icove’s expression remained neutral. “Yes?”

  “What do you know about those patients, those . . . treatments, Dr. Icove?”

  “I couldn’t say.” He spread his hands. “Certainly not without reading the notes. I wasn’t privy to all my father’s cases.”

  “These strike me as a special project, and one he took some care to keep secure. My impression was his field of interest was reconstructive surgery and sculpting.”

  “Yes. For more than fifty years, my father dedicated his skills to that field, and led the way to—”

  “I’m aware of his accomplishments.” Deliberately, Eve hardened her voice. “I’m asking about his interests, and his work, outside of that field, the field he’s publically known for. I’m asking about his sidelines, Dr. Icove. Those that involve testing and training young women.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  Eve took out the hard copies, passed them to him. “These give a glimmer?”

  He cleared his throat, read through them. “I’m afraid not. You say you found these on disc in his home office?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Possibly copies from a colleague.” He lifted his head, but his eyes didn’t quite meet Eve’s. “There’s nothing on here to indicate to me that these are my father’s notes. They’re very incomplete. Case studies of some sort, of course. And honestly, I fail to see what these might have to do with your investigation.”

  “I determine what has to do with my investigation. What I found on discs in your father’s possession deals with more than fifty unidentified young women who were subjected to tests and evaluations, some surgeries, over a course of years. Who are they, Dr. Icove? Where are they?”

  “I don’t care for your tone, Lieutenant.”

  “I get that a lot.”

  “I assume these women were part of a voluntary test group which interested my father. If you knew anything about reconstructive surgery, or sculpting, you’d be aware that the body isn’t merely the box that holds the prize. When the body is seriously injured, it affects the brain, the emotions. The human condition must be treated as a whole. A patient who loses an arm in an accident loses more than a limb, and must be treated for that loss, must be treated and trained to adjust to it and live a contented and productive life. Quite possibly my father was interested in this particular case study as a means to observe individuals, over the course of a span of years, who were being tested and evaluated on every level.”

  “If this study took place in the Center, you’d be aware of it?”

  “I’m sure that I would.”

  “You and your father were close,” Peabody said.

  “We were.”

  “It seems if he was interested enough in a project like this one, enough to keep records in his home office, he would have discussed it with you at some point. Father to son, colleague to colleague.”

  Icove started to speak, then stopped, seemed to rethink. “It’s possible he intended to. I can’t speculate on that. Nor can I ask him. He’s dead.”

  “Killed,” Eve pointed out, “by a woman. A strong physical specimen, like those documented on the discs.”

  She heard him suck in a shocked breath, watched that shock, and a hint of fear, widen his eyes. “You . . . You actually believe one of the patients documented on those discs killed my father?”

  “Physically, the suspect fits the documented descriptions of most of the subjects. Height, weight, body type. One or more of these patients may have objected to what’s termed ‘placement.’ Potential motive. It would also explain why your father agreed to the appointment.”

  “What you’re suggesting is ludicrous, out of the question. My father helped people, he improved lives. He saved them. The president of the United States contacted me personally with condolences. My father was an icon, but more, he was a man who was loved and respected.”

  “Someone disrespected him enough to shove a scalpel into his heart. Think about that, Dr. Icove.” Eve rose. “You know how to reach me.”

  “Knows something,” Peabody commented when they were out on the sidewalk.

  “Oh yeah. What do you figure our chances are of getting a search warrant for the surviving doctor’s house?”

  “With what we’ve got? Slim.”

  “Let’s see if we can get more before we spin that wheel.”

  She hit Feeney next, back at Central, and got a frown on his mopey face.

  “Got into the unit, no problem. What you got in there’s medical mumbo. Can’t see anything hinky about it. But it turns out Jasmina Free’s tits didn’t come from God, and neither did those pillow lips of hers, or her chin. Or her damn ass either.”

  “Who’s Jasmina Free?”

  “Jesus, Dallas. Vid goddess. Starred in last summer’s biggest blockbuster, Endgame.”

  “I was a little busy over the summer.”

  “Took an Oscar last year for Harm None.”

  “I guess I was a little busy last year, too.”

  “Thing is, girl’s an eyepopper. Now that I know most of it came from the sculpting knife, it spoils things.”

  “Sorry to rain on your prurient fantasies, Feeney, but I’m a little busy now, too, just trying to close a case.”

  “Giving you what I got, aren’t I?” he grumbled. “A lot of other high-dollar names on his client list. Some just getting a couple of tweaks, others going the full-body and face route.”

  “Full names listed?”

  “Yeah, sure. It’s his patient list.”

  “Right.” She nodded. “Interesting. Keep going.”

  “I took a look around, poking for some underlayment. See if the doc had any sideline in changing faces and whatnot for new ID purposes.”

  “That’s a good thought.”

  “Didn’t find any. Came up and up. You know what Jasmina paid for those tits? Twenty grand each.” A faint smile ghosted around his mouth. “Guess I gotta say, money well spent.”

  “You’re scaring me, Feeney.”

  He shrugged. “The wife thinks it’s midlife crisis, but she doesn’t mind. Man doesn’t appreciate a good rack—God- or man-made—he might as well apply for a self-termination permit.”

  “You say. Lot of high-powered, famed names on his patient and consult lists. So it’s interesting that he keeps coded files in his home office.”

  She filled him in, then gave him copies on the off chance he might see or find anything on them she’d missed.

  When he left her office, Eve was curious enough to look up Jasmina Free on Icove’s records.

  Thoughtfully she studied the images. As Louise had verified, there were several, before and after, every procedure, various angles. She didn’t see anything wrong with the breasts in the before, but was forced to admit they were a reckoning force in the after.

  Now that she saw the image she recognized the vid star. She supposed people in Free’s profession looked at tit jobs and lip fattening as job security.

  A lot of young girls fantasized about being vid stars, she supposed. Or music stars like Mavis.

  Placement.

  Create perfect specimens then place them in their fantasy. But what teenager has the money for that?

  Rich parents. The newest underground method of fulfilling your little darling’s fondest wish.

  Happy birthday, honey! We got you some rocking new
breasts.

  Not much more out there than Roarke’s Frankenstein theory.

  Following through, she brought up Free’s official data.

  Born twenty-six years ago in Louisville, Kentucky, one of three children. Father a retired city cop.

  Forget that theory as applies to Free, Eve decided. Cops didn’t make enough for big doctor’s fees.

  Of course, being a humanitarian, he could have taken some of them on for free. But she read through the data, found no gaps.

  Still, it was a thought to go down on her list. Something else to fiddle with.

  Curious, she brought up Lee-Lee Ten’s data. She and Will Icove had seemed pretty damn chummy.

  Born in Baltimore, no sibs. Raised by mother after termination of legal cohab with father. First professional modeling, age six months.

  Six months? What the hell did a six-month-old model? she wondered.

  Modeled, did screen ads, baby bits in vids.

  Jesus, Eve thought, reading. The woman had worked her entire life. No placement possibilities there, she decided. None of Icove’s records listed placements before the age of seventeen.

  But she ran the name through the Center’s records and noted Lee-Lee had had a number of “tune-ups” over the years.

  Was no one satisfied with the package God put her in?

  She ran probabilities on her computer, toying with various scenarios. Nothing rang for her. She got coffee, then settled in to wade through Icove’s many properties, arms, connections, looking for locations that might provide him with privacy for side projects.

  She found dozens: homes, hospitals, offices, treatment and health centers, research facilities, physical, mental, emotional rehabilitation centers, and combinations thereof. Some he owned outright, some were owned by his foundation, others he had interests in, or was affiliated with, or served in some capacity.

  She separated them into her own priorities, concentrating first on locations where Icove had held full control.

  Then she rose and paced. She couldn’t discount the sites that were out of the country, even off planet. Nor could she positively state she wasn’t chasing the wild goose by concentrating on this single angle.

  But she wasn’t, Eve thought as she stared out at the bleak November sky through her skinny window.