«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 masses 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 in the street and keep walking. He took his car today. Underground or 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.