Origin in Death (In Death #21)(14)

"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. "Pass-coded. 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 br**sts 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."