Origin in Death (In Death #21)(16)

"Now and again."

She went to the AutoChef, programmed two cups. "I could use some help understanding the vic and getting a profile on the killer. If you tell me you're able to work the case, then you're able to work the case."

"Thank you."

"Did you see the victim much in the last few years?"

"Not really." Mira accepted the coffee. "A few times a year socially. Dinner, or a dinner party, cocktails, the occasional medical conference. He had offered me the position of head of psychiatric at his center, and was disappointed, perhaps a little annoyed, when I declined. So we haven't consulted professionally in some time, but maintained a social relationship."

"You know the family."

"Yes, his son's another brilliant mind, and seems the perfect choice to carry on his father's work. His daughter-in-law is a talented artist."

"Doesn't do much with it now."

"No, I suppose not. I have one of her early works. Two grandchildren, about nine and six, I believe. Girl and boy. Wilfred doted on them. He always had new holos or photographs to show off. He adores children. The center here has the finest pediatric reconstructive department in the world, in my opinion."

"He have enemies?"

Mira sat back. She looked tired, Eve noted. Grief, she knew, could sap the system, or energize it.

"There are some who envy him-his talent, his vision-and some who've questioned it along the way. But no, I don't know of any in our community who would have wished him harm. No one in the social circle I shared with him either."

"Okay. I might need some help going through his medical files. Interpreting the lingo."

"I'm happy to give you as much time as you need. It certainly isn't my area of expertise, but I can help you understand his notes, I'd think, and his case files."

"It looks professional. Looks like a hit."

"Professional?" Mira set the untouched coffee aside. "That seems impossible. Even ludicrous."

"Maybe not. Doctors who build medical empires, financially lucrative empires, generate not only a lot of money, but a lot of politics, power, a lot of influence. Somebody may have wanted him taken out. The suspect used a bogus ID, claimed to be a citizen of Spain. That mean anything?"

"Spain." Mira ran a hand over her hair, over her face. "No, not immediately."

"Late twenties, an eye-popper." She dug in her bag to give Mira a copy of the photo. "Never flicked an eyelash going through security. Stabbed him through the heart with a medical scalpel, timing it so his admin was at lunch, giving her time to exit the building-which she did, again without a flick. I'd consider droid, but that would've popped on the body scan. But that's how cool she was-before, apparently during, and certainly after."

"Well planned, organized, and controlled. No reaction." Mira nodded, and seemed steadier with work to balance her. "Possible sociopathic tendencies. The single wound would also indicate control, efficiency, and lack of emotion."

"It's likely the weapon was planted. Ladies' room. Which means someone inside, or with access inside, was an accessory or the driving force. They do a sweep of the building every week, and the cleaning system all but sterilizes the place every night. That weapon hadn't been there long."

"You have the log?"

"Yeah. I'm checking it out. A couple of patients, his staff. But other departmental staffer employees don't log in if they pop up there. Then there's the cleaning crew, maintenance. I'll be running the security discs for the forty-eight hours prior to the murder, see what I see. I doubt the weapon was there longer than that. If it was there at all. Maybe she just had to pee." Eve shrugged. "I'm sorry about your friend, Dr. Mira."

"So am I. If there's anyone I'd want standing for a friend under these circumstances, it would be you." She rose. "Anything you need from me, you have only to ask."

"Your other friend, the one who got smashed up back a ways, how'd she do?"

"He gave her her face back, and that-along with several years of therapy-helped her get her life back. She moved to Santa Fe and opened a little art gallery. Married a watercolorist and had a daughter."

"How about the guy who smashed her?"

"Apprehended, tried, and convicted. Wilfred testified regarding her injuries. The bastard's still in Rikers."

Eve smiled. "I like happy endings."

Chapter Three

EVE SWUNG INTO EDD, WHERE, IN HER MIND, the cops dressed more like club patrons and vid stars than civil servants. Clothes were painfully trendy, hair was colorful, and gadgets were everywhere.

Several detectives swaggered, swayed, or shimmied around the room, talking into headsets or reciting incomprehensible codes into their handhelds. The few who worked at desks or cubes seemed oblivious to the constant chatter of voices and clicks and hums of equipment.

Like a hive of overactive bees, Eve thought, and knew she'd go crazy before the end of a single shift with the e-squad.

Feeney, however-whom she considered the most sensible and stable of cops-seemed to thrive there. He sat at his desk in his wrinkled shirt, sucking on coffee as he worked.

Some things you could count on, Eve thought, and walked in. So intent was his concentration that she'd skirted around his desk to take a look at his desk screen before he registered her presence.