by J. D. Robb
The doors to what had been Icove’s office were open. Poole stepped inside. “Mrs. Icove?”
Her back was to the room as she faced the wide windows looking out on New York and a sulky sky. She turned. Her blond hair was swept back from her face, rolled under at the nape. She wore black, and her lavender eyes seemed weary and sad.
“Oh yes, Carla.” Mustering a smile, she moved forward, extended her hand to Roarke, then Louise. “I’m very pleased to meet you both.”
“Our condolences, Mrs. Icove, on your recent losses.”
“Thank you.”
“My father was acquainted with your father-in-law,” Louise put in. “And I myself attended a series of lectures he gave while I was in medical school. He’ll be missed.”
“Yes, he will. Carla, could we have a moment, please?”
Surprise flickered briefly over Poole’s face, and was quickly masked. “Of course. I’ll be outside when you need me.”
She went out, closed the doors.
“Shall we sit? My father-in-law’s office. Intimidating, I find. Would you like coffee? Anything?”
“No, don’t trouble.”
They settled in the sitting area, and Avril laid her hands in her lap. “I’m not a businesswoman, and have no aspirations in that area. Far from it. My function here is—and will continue to be—that of a figurehead. The Icove name.”
She looked down at her hands, and Roarke saw her run a thumb over her wedding ring.
“But I felt it was important that I meet with you personally when you expressed interest in Unilab and the Center. I need to be frank.”
“Please do.”
“Carla—Ms. Poole—believes you have intentions of acquiring majority shares in Unilab. At least that this visit is a kind of scouting expedition toward that end. Is it?”
“Would you object to that?”
“At this moment, I feel it’s important that we evaluate and reconstruct, as it were, the Center, and all its facilities and functions. That I, as the head of the family, be involved in that process as much as it’s feasible. In the future, possibly the near future, I would like to think that someone with your reputation and skill, your instincts, could be a leading hand in the work done here. I’d like time for that evaluation and reconstruction. As you know, probably with more comprehension than I, the center is a complex, multifaceted facility. Both my husband and his father were very hands-on, on every level. It’s going to be a laborious restructuring.”
Forthright, Roarke thought. Logically so, and very well prepared for this meeting. “You have no desire to take a permanent, active part in running Unilab or the Center?”
She smiled. Contained, polite, nothing more. “None whatsoever. But I want time to do my duty, and the option of then putting it in capable hands.” She rose. “I’ll leave you to Carla. She’ll be able to give you a much more comprehensive tour than I, and answer your questions more intelligently.”
“She seems very capable. She mentioned she went to Brookhollow College. I’m sure you understand I had some research done before this meeting. You also graduated from Brookhollow, correct?”
“Yes.” Her gaze stayed steady and level. “Though she’s younger than I, Carla actually graduated ahead of me. She was on an accelerated course.”
At Central, Eve conducted the briefing in a conference room. Attending included the chief of police, her commander, APA Reo, Mira, Adam Quincy—chief legal counsel for the NYPSD—as well as her partner, Feeney, and McNab.
Quincy, as was typical in Eve’s—thankfully rare—dealings with him, played devil’s advocate.
“You’re seriously alleging that the Icoves, the Icove Center, Unilab, Brookhollow Academy and College, and potentially all or some of the other facilities with which these two lauded doctors were associated are involved in illegal medical practices that include human cloning, physiological imprinting, and the merchandising of women.”
“Thanks for rounding it up for me, Quincy.”
“Lieutenant.” Tibble was a tall man, lean, with a dark face that could set like stone. “As chief counsel points out, these are stunning and serious accusations.”
“Yes, sir, they are. They aren’t made lightly. Through the investigation of the homicides we have ascertained that Wilfred Icove, Sr., was acquainted with and worked with Dr. Jonah D. Wilson—a noted geneticist who supported the lifting of bans on areas of genetic manipulation and reproductive cloning. After the death of his wife, Wilfred Icove came out publicly in support of his associate’s stand. While Icove ceased his public support, he never retracted his statements, and together these men built facilities—”
“Medical clinics,” Quincy put in. “Laboratories. The respected Unilab, for which they won the Nobel Prize.”
“Undisputed,” Eve snapped back. “Both these men were also instrumental in founding Brookhollow. Wilson served as its president, succeeded by his wife, then his wife’s niece.”
“Another respected institution.”
“Avril Icove, Senior’s ward, who subsequently became Junior’s wife, attended that institution. Avril’s mother was an associate of Icove Sr.’s.”
“Which correlates logically to being named her guardian.”
“The woman suspected of killing Icove Sr., and visually identified as Deena Flavia, also attended Brookhollow.”
“First, visually identified.” Quincy lifted a hand, tapped one finger. “Second—”
“Will you just wait?”
“Quincy,” Tibble said mildly, “save the rebuttal. Continue, Lieutenant. Lay it out.”
Somebody, somewhere, claimed a picture was worth a thousand words. She figured Quincy had a couple of billion words. But she had plenty of pictures. “Peabody, first images, please.”
“Yes, sir.” Peabody keyed them in, as previously discussed.
“This is the image generated by the security cameras of the woman calling herself Dolores Nocho-Alverez exiting Icove Sr.’s office moments after what has been confirmed as time of death. Sharing the screen is the ID image of Deena Flavia, taken thirteen years ago, shortly before her disappearance. A disappearance that was not reported to any authority.”
“Look the same to me,” Reo commented and cocked an eyebrow at Quincy. “Granted there are ways to duplicate images, or to change your own appearance—temporarily or permanently. But, it could be argued, why? If Dolores accessed Deena’s ID image, it could also be argued she would have known or assumed either her cooperation or her death. Which ties them together again.”
“Feeney?” Eve asked.
“The data listed for Dolores Nocho-Alverez is fabricated. Right down the line: name, DOB, POB, parents, residence. It’s what we call a sleeve—just a quick, temporary cover, with nothing inside it.”
“Next image, Peabody,” Eve said before Quincy could interrupt. “This is a student ID image, from Brookhollow. Age twelve.”
“We’ve established the woman known as Deena Flavia attended the Academy,” Quincy began.
“Yes, we have. But this isn’t Deena Flavia. This is Diana Rodriguez, currently age twelve, currently a student at Brookhollow Academy, and identified through computer verification of image matching and aging programs as Deena Flavia.”
“Could be her kid,” Quincy murmured.
“Computer puts them as the same person. But if this is her offspring, it still leaves the question of false identification and data records on this minor female. It still leaves the question of how a minor was allowed to become impregnated and give birth—off the records—at a respected institution. There are no records of adoption or guardianship. There are fifty-five more matches, just like this, of former students of Brookhollow and current minor females attending same. What do you figure the odds might be for fifty-six students giving birth to fifty-six female offsprings who so perfectly replicate their physical appearance?”
Eve waited a beat, and was met with silence. “All one hundred and twelve of them educated or being educated at the same i
nstitution, none of the data on the offspring indicating adoption, guardianship, or fostering that included their true biological parents.”
“I wouldn’t put money on it,” Tibble murmured. “You’ve bottled some lightning here, Lieutenant. We’re going to have to figure out how to keep it from frying our asses. Quincy.”
He was rubbing his fingers down the bridge of his nose. “We need to see them all.” He lifted his hand up before Eve could speak. “We have to verify every one if we’re going to the wall on this.”
“All right.” She felt time dribbling away from her. “Next images, Peabody.”
15
AT THE CENTER, ROARKE ALLOWED THE EFFICIENT Carla Poole to guide them through elaborate imaging and simulations labs, into state-of-the-art examination and procedure areas.
He noted the cameras, particularly the ones that were prominently displayed. And the security at every egress. He made comments, asked the occasional question, but let Louise take the lead.
“Your patient analysis facilities are superb.” Louise stood, looking around a large room equipped with a contour exam chair, medical and imaging computers, body and face scanners.
“We have twelve rooms for this purpose, each of which is individually controlled and can be adjusted to meet patient or client needs or demands. The subject’s vital signs, brain wave patterns, and so on are monitored, analyzed, and documented throughout the examination or consult.”
“And the VR options?”
“As you know, Doctor, any procedure, however minor, causes stress in the client or patient. We find offering a selection of VR programs helps the client relax during the examination. We can also personalize a program to allow the client to see and feel how he or she will appear post-treatment.”
“You’re also associated with the adjoining hospital and emergency facilities.”
“Yes. In case of injury, if reconstruction is necessary or desired, the patient might be brought here after stabilization in our emergency sector. A full medical and technical team is assigned to each patient, chosen by an analysis of that patient’s needs. The same is provided for clients.”
“But a patient or client can certainly select his or her primary doctor.”
“Of course,” Poole said smoothly. “If, after our recommendation, the subject wishes alternate medical personnel, we bow to their wishes.”
“Observation privileges?”
“Limited due to our privacy policies. But we do permit, with the subject’s consent, some observation for teaching purposes.”
“But the procedures are recorded.”
“As the law demands,” Poole said smoothly. “Those records are then sealed, to be opened only at patient request or due to litigation. Now I believe you’d be very interested in seeing one of our surgical rooms.”
“I would,” Louise agreed. “But I’m so interested in your research areas. What the Icoves and this center accomplished, well, it’s legendary. I’d love to have a look at the labs.”
“Of course.” She didn’t miss a beat. “Some of those areas are restricted, due to the sensitivity of the research, contamination or security. But there are several levels I believe you’ll find interesting.”
She did, and found the sheer volume of space, personnel, equipment astonishing. The lab area they were shown was fashioned like a sunburst, with individual rays spreading out from a hub where six people worked at screens, facing out along their channel. High walls framed each ray, and counters, workstations, screens. The walls in each sector were color coded, and the techs within wore lab coats of the same hue.
There was no access, Roarke noted, between rays.
She led them to a clear door at the wide end of the blue ray, and used her security card and palm print for access.
“Each section here is specific to its own research area and team. I’m not able to explain all the work being done, but we have clearance for this. As you see, several medical droids are undergoing treatment or analysis. The droids here have been programmed not only to feed data into the core center, headed by each section’s chief, but to internally access response and reaction on human patients. It was through this process that the technology for what is commonly called derma was developed. Its use on burn victims, as you know, Dr. Dimatto, was revolutionary.”
Roarke tuned them out, all the while portraying absolute attention. He had labs of his own, and recognized some of the sims and tests under way. He was more interested, just now, in the structure, the setup, the security.
And the fact that he recognized the chief tech of the blue ray from the alumni data of Brookhollow College.
Fifty-six perfect matches,” Eve concluded. “In addition to this substantial evidence, we add that thirty-eight percent of Brookhollow graduates are now employed in some capacity at one of Icove’s facilities. Another fifty-three percent are married or cohabitating, and have been so engaged from the year of their departure from the college.”
“Pretty high ratio of marriages or cohabbing,” Reo commented.
“Well over the national average,” Eve agreed, “and off the probability scale. The remaining nine percent of students, like Deena Flavia, fell off the radar.”
“No data?” Whitney asked.
“None. Captain Feeney and Detective McNab will run search matches through imaging. Though there is no relation listed, on official data, both Avril Icove and Eva Samuels carried the same family name of Hannson. It’s the conclusion of this investigative team, and all probabilities run, that entrance to the Icove residence on the night of Icove’s murder was gained through inside assistance, and that Icove himself knew his killer with some degree of intimacy.”
“He knew Deena Flavia.” Reo nodded. “It makes sense.”
“No, I don’t think so. I don’t think Deena Flavia killed Wilfred Icove, Jr. I think his wife did.”
“She wasn’t in the city at the designated time,” Reo pointed out. “Her alibi is solid.”
“Seems to be. But what if there’s more of her?”
“Oh.” Reo’s jaw dropped. “Holy, please pardon me, shit.”
“You think Icove cloned his own daughter-in-law?” Whitney sat back until his chair creaked. “Even if he went that far, the clone would be a child.”
“Not if he cloned an infant. His early work, his predominant interest, was in children. He set up facilities, specifically for children during the wars. A lot of injured children then. A lot of orphaned children. She was his ward, since childhood, which separates her from the rest of the field. Something about her was special to him, or remarkable. Could he then resist creating her, replicating her? Dr. Mira.”
“Given what we know and suspect, no. She was, in a very real sense, his child. He had the skill, the knowledge, the ego, and the affection. And she would know,” she continued before Eve could ask. “His affection would also demand she knew. She would have been trained, programmed if you will, to accept this, perhaps even to celebrate it.”
“And if that programming broke down?” Eve asked. “If she no longer accepted?”
“She may have been compelled to eliminate what bound her to that secret, that training, that life. If she was no longer able to accept what had been done to her as a child, by the man she should have been able to trust most, she may have killed.”
Quincy held up a hand. “Why aren’t there—if this data is correct—more of her at the school?”
“If this data is correct,” Mira repeated, and seemed to Eve to be holding on to the hope that it was flawed, “she married his son, gave him grandchildren. His son may have requested there be no further artificial twinning on his wife—or either or both of them may have her cells preserved for a future procedure. A kind of insurance. A kind of immortality.”
“Dr. Mira.” Tibble folded his hands, tapped them on his bottom lip. “In your professional opinion, does Lieutenant Dallas’s theory have weight?”
“Given the data, the evidence, the circumstances, the personalities of those
involved, I would come to the same conclusions as the lieutenant.”
Tibble got to his feet. “Quincy, let’s go get Lieutenant Dallas her warrant. Lieutenant, arrange for transportation for your team and APA Reo. Jack, you’re with me. Let’s see what we can do about keeping this mess from exploding in our faces.”
He blew out a breath. “I’m not yet calling any federal agency. At this time, this continues to be a homicide investigation. Any criminal activity discovered through that investigation falls, until we’re boxed, within the aegis of the NYPSD. If you find what you’re looking for, Dallas, if it becomes necessary to shut those schools down, to take minors into protective custody, we’re going to have to alert Federal.”
“Understood, sir. Thank you.”
She waited until Tibble, Whitney, and Quincy left the room. “He bought us some time, so let’s use it. Peabody, field kits. Feeney, we need portable electronics—scanners, keys, data analyzers and retrievers—whatever you’ve got in your bag of tricks. The best you’ve got. We’ve taken a lot of time here, so I’m tapping my source. We’ll meet up on the main helipad, twenty minutes.”
“Already on the way. Kid.” Feeney jerked a thumb toward the door for McNab.
McNab headed out, then stopped and turned back. “I know this is inappropriate, but I gotta say, this is freaking arctic.”
He zipped out before Eve could dress him down, but she figured she could leave that to Feeney.
“I’m not part of your on-site team,” Mira began. “I’m consult, and I know those limitations. But it would be a great favor to me if I could go with you. I may be able to help. And if not . . . it would be a great favor to me.”
“You’re in. Twenty minutes.”
She pulled out her ’link, contacted Roarke on his personal.
“Just got me,” he said. “We’ve only just left the Center.”
“You can fill me in later, I’m going to New Hampshire. I need fast transpo, big enough to carry six people and portable electronics. And I need it here.”
“I’ll have a jet-copter to you within thirty.”