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

"I'd say it was a big bruise to warrant murder."

"People kill for a chipped fingernail, but you're right there. This was big enough to do something showy. Because under the efficiency, the tidiness, this was showing off."

Eve snagged another fry. "Take a look at her. Computer," she ordered, "display ID image, Nocho-Alverez, Dolores, on wall screen one.

When it flashed on, Roarke lifted his eyebrows. "Beauty is often deadly."

"So why would somebody who looks like that consult with a face and body sculptor? Why would he take her?"

"Beauty's often irrational as well. She may have convinced him she wanted something more, something else. Being a man, and one who obviously appreciates beauty and perfection, he might have been curious enough to take the appointment. You said he was all but retired. Time enough to spend an hour with a woman who looks like that one."

"That's one of the things. Too much time. A guy who's spent all of his life working, dedicated, striving, making history-in his field- what does he do when he's not working? I can't find playtime for this guy. What would you do?"

"Make love with my wife, steal her away for long, indulgent holidays. Show her the world."

"He doesn't have a wife, or a specific lover. Not that I can find. Long blocks of time blank on his appointment calendar. He did something with it. Something on those discs. Somewhere."

"We'll have a look then." He polished off his beer. "How did you sleep while I was gone?"

"Fine. Okay." She rose, figuring since he got the meal, she had to clear it away.

"Eve." He laid a hand over hers to stop her, bring her eyes to his.

"I bunked in here some nights, in the sleep chair. You can't worry about that. You've got business out of town, you've got to go. I can handle it."

He brought her hand to his lips. "You had nightmares. I'm sorry."

She was plagued with them, but they were worse when he wasn't with her. "I can deal." She hesitated. She'd sworn she would go to her grave telling no one. But he'd be weighed down with guilt, she knew. "I slept in your shirt." She tugged her hand free, gathered up dishes to keep the confession light. "It smelled like you, so I slept better."

He rose, took her face in his hands and said, softly, "Darling Eve."

"Don't get sloppy. It's just a shirt." She stepped back, walked around him. Then stopped at the entrance to the kitchen. "But I'm glad you're home."

He smiled at her back. "So am I."

Chapter Four

THEY SPLIT THE DISCS, ROARKE IN HIS ADJOINING office, Eve at her desk. Where Eve spent a frustrated ten minutes trying to cajole her unit into reading what turned out to be encoded data.

"He's got a block on the discs," she called out. "Some sort of privacy protection thing. My unit won't accept or override."

"Of course it will," Roarke said and had her frowning up at him. He'd come back into her office without her hearing him move. He only smiled, and laying a hand on her shoulder, rubbing a bit, scanned the screen. "Here you are, then." With a few keystrokes he bypassed the privacy mode and something resembling text popped onto her screen.

"It's still coded," she pointed out.

"Patience, Lieutenant. Computer, run deciphering and translation program. Display results."

Working . . .

"I guess you already did yours," Eve complained. "This unit's equipped to handle code, my technologically challenged cop. You've only to tell it what to do. And .. ."

Task complete. Text displayed.

"Fine. I've got it now. Or would if I was a frigging doctor. It's medical crap."

He kissed the top of her head. "Good luck," he added, and strolled back to his own office.

"Passcoded the unit," she muttered. "Privacy protected the discs, and coded them. Reasons for that." She sat back a moment, drummed her fingers. Could be just his perfectionist nature. Obsessive. Compulsive. Doctor-patient confidentiality. But it seemed like more.

Even the text was secretive. No names, she noted. The patient was referred to throughout as Patient A-l.

Eighteen-year-old female, she read. Height: five feet, seven inches. Weight: one hundred fifteen pounds.

He listed her vitals, blood pressure, pulse rate, blood work, heart and brain patterns-all within normal range, as far as she could tell.

The disc seemed to be a medical history, detailing tests, results, examinations. And grades, she realized. Patient A-l had excellent physical stamina, intelligence quotient, cognitive abilities. Why would he care about those things? she wondered. Eyesight corrected to 20/20.

She read quick details on hearing tests, stress tests, more exams. Respiration, bone density.

Then was thrown again by notes on mathematic abilities, language skills, artistic and/or musical talents, and puzzle-solving ability.

She spent an hour with A-l, spanning three years of similar tests, notes, results.

The text ended with a final note.

A-1 treatment complete. Placement successful.

She rapidly scanned another five discs, finding the same sorts of tests, notes, with occasional additions of surgical corrections. Nose planing, dental corrections, breast enhancements.

Then she sat back, propped her feet on the desk, and stared up at the ceiling to think.