by J. D. Robb
“Good as done, then.”
He tried to relax into his dinner and not worry about the logistics of this event he’d started. The transportation was no problem. He’d already seen to that. And housing them, well, the place was big enough to tuck them in even if the whole lot of them hopped the shuttle.
But what the hell was he going to do with them once they got here? It wasn’t like entertaining business associates or even friends.
He had relations, for God’s sake. How was he supposed to get used to having them, dealing with them, when he’d lived nearly the whole of his life without them?
Now they were going to be under his roof, and he hadn’t a clue what they would expect.
“Should we have something separate for the children, do you think?”
“What?” Eve frowned at him as she poked at the food on her plate. “Oh, that. Hell, I don’t know. You’re supposed to know how to do this stuff.”
His face was a mirror of his frustration. “And how am I supposed to know how to do something I’ve never done before?” He scowled into his wine. “It’s unnerving, that’s what it is.”
“You could contact them, say something’s come up. Cancel.”
“I’m not a bloody coward,” he muttered in a way that made her think he’d considered doing just that. “And it would be rude as well.”
“I can be rude.” Shifting work to one side, she gave it some thought. “I like being rude.”
“That’s because you’re so good at it.”
“True. You could tell them that due to my obsessive involvement in a juicy murder case, Thanksgiving’s been cancelled. No turkey for you. See, then it’s all on me. Me bloody wife’s driving me starkers,” she said in an exaggerated Irish accent while she waved the water glass around. “The lieutenant, she’s working all the day and half the night as well, and not giving me five minutes of her precious time. What’s a man to do, then? Bugger it.”
He sat silent a moment, just staring at her. “I don’t sound a bit like that, nor does anyone of my acquaintance.”
“You haven’t heard yourself when you’re drunk, which you would be out of frustration with my selfish behavior.” She shrugged, drank some water. “Problem solved.”
“Not nearly, but thanks for the strange and generous offer. Well, back to murder, which as it happens is a simpler matter for both of us to deal with.”
“Got that right.”
“Why do you suppose a man of Icove’s stature would dabble, if your theory’s correct, in gray medicine?”
“Because he could, that’s one. And because he was hoping to build a—what do you call it?—better mousetrap. The human body’s flawed, right. It breaks down, needs regular repair and maintenance. It’s fragile. He grew up seeing its fragility with his parents’ work. Then with his mother’s accident and subsequent suicide. His wife’s death, and the whole ugly nightmare of the Urbans. So how much of a rush would it be to try to make it perfect, to make it stronger, more durable, smarter? You’ve already done considerable work toward that goal, and gotten accolades for it. Gotten way rich for it. Why not take it up a level?”
“With only women?”
“I don’t know.” She shook her head. “Maybe he had a thing for women. His mother, his wife. Maybe he focused on women because his women had proven too fragile.
“And rich or not, he’s got to have income to sustain the work. Probably, that’s more your area than mine. It’s still easier to sell a female than a male. There are still more female LCs than male. Sexual predators are most usually male. You guys equate sex with power or virility, even life. Punishment, if you’re twisted. Women, mostly, equate it with emotion first. Or see it as a commodity or bargaining tool.”
“Or weapon.”
“Yeah, that, too. It’s how the machine ticks. See . . .” She ate without thinking about it now that the pieces of the case were shifting around in her mind. “You’ve got this big-deal doc—big brain, big name, big bucks. Big ego. You get that.”
Roarke smiled. “Naturally.”
“He’s already got a lot under his belt. Lots of good, public work, lots of important slaps on the back. And a hell of a good lifestyle. But there’s always more. More to do, more to want to do. More to just want. That Frankenstein guy, he must’ve been pretty smart.”
He loved watching her wind her way through a case, he thought. The way her brain picked at details and knitted them together. “Well, creating life out of dead body parts.”
“Okay, disgusting, but smart. Lots of medical, scientific, technological advances come through little bits of craziness, a lot of ego.”
“Or happy accidents,” Roarke pointed out.
She nodded toward the candles burning on the table. “Bet the first guy who made fire figured he was a god, and the other cavemen bowed down to him.”
“Or bashed him in the head with a rock and stole his burning stick.”
She had to laugh. “Yeah. Well, yeah, but you get me. So you make fire, then, hey, let’s see what we can do with this. Wow, no more raw mastodon! Make mine medium-well. Oh shit, I set Joe on fire!”
Now Roarke’s laugh rolled out, and made her grin. “Oops, sorry, Joe,” she continued. “So now you have to figure out how to treat a burn. And how to deal with somebody who likes to set Joe on fire, and maybe torch the village. Next thing you know, you’ve got hospitals and cops and climate control and—” She forked up more meat. “Roast pig on demand.”
“A fascinating capsule view of civilization.”
“I think I got off my point somewhere around the mastodon. Anyway, what I’m saying is, you do something big—universal big, life-and-death big, and get known for it. What’s next?”
“Bigger.”
When her ’link beeped, she snatched it up. “Dallas.”
“You’d better be right.” Reo’s Southern-comfort voice was all business. “Because our asses are sharing the same sling.”
“Just shoot me the paper.”
“No, I’m bringing the warrant personally. I’ll meet you at Icove Jr.’s residence in twenty minutes. Oh, and Dallas, if that sling rips, I’m tossing you out and using you to break my fall.”
“Fair enough.” She clicked off, glanced at Roarke. “Well, here we go,” she said, and beeped Peabody.
She beat Reo and Peabody, and used her waiting time to study Icove’s home. There was a light on, third-floor window. Home office, bedroom? Another, giving a backwash of pale light, second floor. Probably a hall light left burning for convenience.
The main level was dark but for dim security lights, and the steady red blink at the entrance door indicating lockdown.
It meant the doctor was in, which would make the entry easier and the search itself messier. She’d just leave the diplomacy of that to Reo.
It was after nine now, full dark, with a cool, kicky breeze. A neighboring house had some sort of folk-arty decoration on its front door in the shape of a fat turkey.
It made her think about Thanksgiving and having numerous Irish strangers underfoot.
Roarke’s family, she reminded herself. She’d have to figure out how to get on with them—or get around them. She’d liked Sinead, his aunt, the only one of the group she’d met. But that didn’t mean she knew what to do with her, or the rest of them, when they were just hanging around.
Family relations were way out of her orbit.
He hadn’t said for how long, and she could admit now she’d been afraid to ask. Maybe it was just for the day. Just an overnight thing.
What if it was longer? What if it was a week?
Maybe she’d get lucky, catch some vicious, violent homicide that would keep her out of the house for most of their stay.
And that, she thought with a sigh, was just sick.
Roarke was nervous about this deal, she reminded herself. And he had ice for blood most of the time. So that meant it was important to him. Really important. Which meant she had to be supportive and wifely.
Go
d. It wouldn’t actually be her fault if a vicious, violent homicide landed in her lap, would it? She couldn’t control these things.
She caught sight of Peabody coming up from the west corner. And of the skinny form in neon-green skin-pants and purple duster strolling beside her.
“Mag coat,” McNab said. “Do they make it in brights?”
“I wouldn’t know. Did I tell you to bring your boy toy?”
“Figured we could use an e-man.”
McNab smiled, his green eyes twinkling in his pretty face. “Not that I mind when she toys with me. Hey, Mavis says hi. We saw her as we were heading out. Getting large,” he added, rounding his arms over his belly to indicate the extent of Mavis’s pregnancy. “What size is the coat?”
“Lieutenant size. You assist on the search,” Eve added. “No on-site e-duty unless so ordered. Since you’re here, you can oversee any transfer, should we deem appropriate, of any units, data, and communication, to Central.”
“Got it.”
“Aw, look at the turkey.” Peabody grinned over at the neighbor’s holiday door art. “We used to do stuff like that when I was a kid. Not that we ate turkey on Thanksgiving, that being considered a commercial and/or political symbol of oppression and commercialization to us Free-Agers.”
Where the hell was Reo, Eve wondered, and dug her hands into her pockets. “We’re having a Thanksgiving thing, if you guys are interested.”
“Really?” Surprise and sentiment covered Peabody’s face. “Aw, that’s so nice. I’d really like to, but we’re going out to spend a couple days with my family. As long as we’re not on active. It’s the first sort of family deal as a couple.”
McNab showed his teeth in a smile, and Eve saw the nerves in it. What was it about family that scared the brave and true?
“We’re saving up to spend a couple days in Scotland with McNab’s clan right after Christmas.” And now Peabody got that same sick smile on her face. “Get it all done in one year if we can swing the fare.”
“No big.” But Eve was disappointed. It was going to cut into her I-actually-know-these-people portion of the party.
She put the problem aside when she saw the city car swing to the curb. Reo, in her lady suit and matching heels, stepped out.
Reo handed a paper warrant to Eve. “Let’s go find something. Detective Peabody, right?” Reo’s gaze skimmed over to McNab flirtatiously. “And?”
“Detective McNab.” His skinny shoulders straightened. “E-unit.”
“Cher Reo.” She offered him her hand before she drifted toward the entrance.
And Peabody gave him an elbow when Reo’s back was turned.
When Eve rang the bell, the security system blinked and responded.
We’re sorry, the Icoves are neither expecting nor accepting visitors at this time. If you would care to leave a message, one of the family or household staff will get back to you if deemed appropriate.
Eve held up her badge, and the warrant. “Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, NYPSD, along with Peabody and McNab, Detectives, and Reo, Assistant Prosecuting Attorney. We have a warrant authorizing us to enter and to search these premises. Inform Dr. Icove or a member of the household staff. If we’re not given entry voluntarily within five minutes, we will take other appropriate measures.”
One moment, please, while your identification and documents are scanned and authenticated.
“Go ahead. Clock’s ticking.”
A pale green light washed over her badge and the seal of the warrant. A minute dribbled by while the security unit hummed.
Your identification and documents have been authenticated. One moment, please, while the main household droid is activated. Dr. Icove has not yet acknowledged this inquiry.
Interesting, Eve thought. “Record on, Peabody,” she ordered, and engaged her own as well.
Three of the five minutes elapsed before the security light blinked to green. The door was opened by the same tidy female droid Eve had seen on her prior visit.
“Lieutenant Dallas, I’m sorry you were kept waiting. I was not on active service.” She stepped back, politely. “Dr. Icove is upstairs in his office. I’m afraid I was ordered not to disturb him prior to being deactivated for the evening.”
“That’s okay. I wasn’t.”
“But . . .” As Eve turned toward the stairs, the droid clutched her hands together. “Dr. Icove is very particular about not being disturbed when he’s in his office. If you must speak to him, I wonder if you might go through household communications first.” She gestured toward a household scanner and ’link, similar to the ones Eve had at home.
“Reo, go that route. McNab, check security. Peabody, with me.” Eve continued up the stairs
“Reo put the eye on him,” Peabody muttered as they reached the second floor.
“What?”
“On McNab. She put the juicy eye on him. And she better make sure that’s all she puts on him, or I’ll have to kick her tiny Southern ass.”
“Maybe you could make some pretense about actually being on duty,” Eve suggested. “Just for the frigging record.”
“Just saying.” She glanced around as they turned toward the third-floor stairway. “Big place. Nice colors, pretty art. Quiet.”
“Wife and kids are supposedly tucked into their summer house. I’d imagine his office is soundproofed. Deactivates his household droid for the night, puts a no-pass on his security. Yeah, he’s serious about not being disturbed.”
The third floor had been reconfigured into three rooms. She noted the play area—kid world—with high-end arcade games, entertainment screen, lounging chairs, snack bar. Beside it was an area more adult, and more female by Eve’s gauge. A kind of woman’s sitting room/office done in pastels with arches and curves.
Across from it, a door was closed. Assuming soundproofing, she didn’t knock, but pressed the intercom button. “Dr. Icove, this is Lieutenant Dallas. I’m accompanied by two detectives and an assistant prosecuting attorney. We’ve entered the residence with a warrant to search. You are legally obligated to open this door and cooperate.”
She waited a beat, heard no response. “Should you refuse to cooperate, we are authorized to bypass the locks and enter. You may contact your attorney or representative for verification. You may request that your attorney or representative be present to supervise said search.”
“Silent treatment,” Peabody commented after a moment.
“Let the record show that Dr. Icove has been informed and has refused to respond verbally. We are entering without his acknowledgment.”
Eve dug out her master, slid it through the standard interior lock.
“Dr. Icove, this is the police. We’re coming in.”
She opened the door.
The first thing she heard was music, the soft, mindless mush often played in elevators or on ’link holds. The desk stood in front of a trio of windows. If he’d been working there, there was no sign. A door to the left opened into what she could see was a bath. Beside the door was a mood screen, set on a soft, mindless mush of colors to match the music.
There was art, and books, family photographs, what she assumed were awards, diplomas.
The privacy screens were engaged on the glass, the lights were on low, and the room was comfortably warm.
A sitting area was stylishly arranged in the right front corner. On the table were a glossy black thermal pot, a plate of fruit and cheese, an oversized white cup and saucer, and a pale green cloth napkin.
On a long merlot-colored sofa, its leather as rich as her coat, lay Wilfred B. Icove, Jr. His feet were bare, and a pair of black slippers were neatly tucked at the end of the sofa. He wore dark gray lounging pants and a pullover in a lighter tone.
The heart blood stained the sweater, and the handle of the scalpel gleamed silver in the light.
“Field kits,” Eve snapped out to Peabody. “Call it in. Have McNab seal up and hit the security discs right now. Seal the house.”
“Yes, sir.”
/> “Son of a bitch,” Eve said softly when she was alone. “Son of a bitch. Victim visually identified by investigating officer is Icove Jr., Dr. Wilfred B. Victim is DOS, visual determination. Until investigators are sealed, the body will not be examined, nor will the room be entered to avoid contamination of scene. What appears to be a medical scalpel, of similar or same type used in the case of Icove Sr., has been inserted in victim’s chest. It’s heart blood. As seen on record, victim is in a reclining position on a sofa in his home office. The door to the office was secured, lights were on low setting, privacy screens on all windows engaged.”
She held up a hand as she heard footsteps—high heels. “APA Reo approaching scene. No entry, Reo. We seal up first.”
“What’s happened? Peabody said Icove’s dead. I don’t—”
She broke off, looking around Eve into the room. Her eyes tracked, from the bath, across the room, to the sofa.
Then they rolled back in her head as she made a small sound, like a balloon deflating. Eve moved quickly enough to break her fall, then left the APA sprawled unconscious in the hallway to continue the oral portion of her incident report.
“Entry to residence was gained through entry and search warrant. Single household droid was reactivated by automated security system. Crime scene shows no sign of forced entry, no sign of struggle.”
Eve held her hand out for her field kit when Peabody came back. Her partner stepped over the APA. “What happened to her?”
“Fainted. Do what you can.”
“I guess Southern types are delicate.”
Eve sealed up, then carried her kit inside. For form, she checked for vitals, found none. “DOS, confirmed.” She scanned his prints. “Identification confirmed. Peabody, do a sweep through the house, but secure the droid first.”
“I already secured the droid. I’ll do the sweep once I wake up Sleeping Beauty. He go out the same way as his father?”
“Looks that way.” She took the body temperature, worked the gauge. “He’s been dead less than two hours. Goddamn it.”
Eve straightened, studied the angle of the body, the angle of the weapon. “In close again. He’s lying down. He’s deactivated the droid—leaving it and the house security programmed for do-not-disturb. But he’s lying here and he doesn’t worry about somebody coming in, leaning over him. Tranqs maybe. We’ll check the tox screen. But I don’t think so. I don’t think so. He knew her. He wasn’t afraid of her. He didn’t fear for his life when she came into the room.”