The In Death Collection, Books 21-25

by J. D. Robb

  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 of face.

  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.”

  “Some people set sex on the back burner at a certain period of their life.”

  “Too bad for them.”

  Eve wandered out, noted that there was another area devoted to exercise, which flowed into office space. She tried the computer. “Passcoded. Figures. We’ll let EDD play with this, and take all the discs back to Central for review.

  “Not a thing out of place,” she mumbled. “Everything in its slot. Neat, ordered, coordinated, stylish. It’s like a holo program.”

  “Yeah, sort of. Like those ones you play with when you’re fantasizing about your dream house.” She slanted a glance toward Eve. “Well, I do sometimes. You just happen to live in Dream House.”

  “You can look at this.” Eve stepped to the glass rail. “And you can see how he lived. Up in the morning—early, I’d say. Thirty minutes on his equipment—keep it toned—shower, groom, do a three-sixty in the mirror just to make sure nothing’s pudging or sagging, take daily meds, head on down for a healthy breakfast, read the paper or some medical journal crap. Maybe catch the morning reports on-screen, keep that on while you come back up to select today’s wardrobe. Dress, primp, check appointment book. Depending on that, maybe do a little paperwork here, or head out to the office. Walk most days, unless the weather’s ugly.”

  “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.