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 renters, 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.
The doctor had kept a secret, and secrets were what haunted. Secrets were what hurt.
She should know.
He'd given them labels, she thought. Denying people a name dehumanized them.
They'd given her no name when she'd been born. Had given her none for the first eight years of her life while they had used and abused her. Dehumanizing her. Preparing her. Training her through rape and beatings and fear to make a whore of her. She'd been an investment, not a child.
And it was that not-quite-human thing that had broken, that had finally broken and killed what had tormented and imprisoned her.
Not the same. Roarke was right, it wasn't the same. There was no mention of rape in the notes. No physical abuse of any kind. On the contrary, care seemed to have been taken to keep them at the height of physical perfection.
But there were other kinds of abuse, and some of it looked so benign on the surface.
Somewhere in those notes was motive. Somewhere beyond them was more specific documentation. That's where she'd find Dolores.
«Eve.»
She turned at Mira's voice. Mira stood in the open doorway, hollow-eyed. «I came to apologize for brushing you off this morning.»
«Not a problem.»
«Yes, it is. Mine. I'd like to come in. Close the door.»
«Sure.»
«I'd like to see what you wanted to show me this morning.»
«I consulted another medical expert. It isn't necessary for you to—«
«Please.» Mira sat, folded her hands in her lap. «May I see?»
Saying nothing, Eve got the papers, gave them to Mira.
«Cryptic,» Mira said after a few moments of silence. «Incomplete. Wilfred was a meticulous man, in all areas of his life. Yet in their way these are meticulously cryptic.»
«Why aren't they named?»
«To help him keep his distance, his objectivity. These are long-term treatments. I would say he didn't want to risk emotional attachment. They're being groomed.»
«For?»
«I can't say. But they're being groomed, educated, tested, given the opportunity to explore their personal strengths and skills, improve their weaknesses. Those in the lower percentile are terminated as patients after it's deemed they're unlikely to improve. He sets the bar high. He would.»
«What would he need to pull this off?»
«I'm not sure what this is. But he'd need medical and laboratory facilities, rooms or dormitories for the patients, food preparation areas, exercise areas, educational areas. He would want the best. He'd insist on it. If these girls were indeed his patients, he would want them comfortable, stimulated, well treated.»
She looked up at Eve. «He would not abuse a child. He would not harm. I don't say this as his friend, Eve. I say this as a criminal profiler. He was a fiercely dedicated doctor.»
«Would he conduct experiments outside the law?»
«Yes.»
«You don't hesitate on that.»
«He would consider the science, the medicine, the benefits and the possibilities more important than law. Often, they are. And on some level, he would consider himself above the law. There was no violence or cruelty in him, but there was arrogance.»
«If he was spearheading, or even involved in a project that was grooming—as you said—young girls into what some might consider perfect women, would his son have known?»
«Without question. Their pride in each other—their affection for each other—was genuine and deep.»
«The kind of facility you've described, long-term treatment as indicated by the data, the equipment, the security. All of that would cost big.»
«I imagine it would.»
Eve leaned forward. «Would he agree to meet with… let's call her a graduate of his project? She was a label to him, a subject—and still he worked with her for several years, watched her progress. If she contacted him at some point after she was placed, would he meet her?»
«His professional instinct would be to refuse, but both his ego and his curiosity would war with that. Medicine is risk, day after day. I think he would have risked this for the satisfaction of seeing one of his own. If indeed she was.»
«Wasn't she? Isn't it more likely, given the method of the murder, that he knew her, and she him? She had to get close, had to want to. One stab wound, in the heart. No rage, but control. As he had control over her. A medical instrument as murder weapon, a clean cut. Objective, as he'd been objective.»
«Yes.» Mira closed her eyes. «Oh God, what has he done?»
7
Eve snagged Peabody at her desk in the bull pen. «We're going to spin that wheel. Mira's writing up a vic profile to add weight to what we've got. Then we're pushing for a search warrant.»
«I've got nothing that stands out on the financials,» Peabody told her.
«Daughter-in-law, grandkids?»
«Nothing out of line.»
«There's money somewhere. There always is. Guy has that many fingers in that many pies, he probably has some secret pies tucked away somewhere. For now, we're going back to the Center, talking to people—admin down.»
«Can I wear your new coat?»
«Sure, Peabody.»
Peabody's face beamed like the sun. «Really?»
«No.» With a roll of her eyes and a sweep of leather, Eve started out.
Peabody sulked after her. «You didn't have to get my hopes up.»
«If I don't get them up, how can I crush them? Where would I get my satisfaction?» She sidestepped for a pair of uniforms who were muscling a bruiser down the corridor. The bruiser sang obscenities at the top of his voice.
«Well, he can carry a tune,» Eve remarked.
«A very pleasant baritone. Can I try on the coat sometime when you're not wearing it?»
«Sure, Peabody.»
«You're getting my hopes up again, only to crush them, right?»
«Keep learning that fast, you may make Detective Second Grade one day.» Eve sniffed the air as she hopped on a glide. «I smell chocolate. Do you have chocolate?»