Origin in Death (In Death #21)(22)

Anonymous patients, all referred to by numbers and letters. No names. All females-at least in her stash. Treatment was either complete or terminated.

There had to be more. More notes, more complete case files. If so, there had to be another place. Office, lab, something. Most of the face or body sculpting, which was supposed to be his specialty, was minor on these cases.

Tune-ups, she mused.

The records were more an ongoing evaluation: physical, mental, creative, cognitive.

Placement. Where were they placed after treatment was complete? Where did they go if and when it was terminated?

And what the hell had the good doctor been up to with more than fifty female patients?

"Experiments," she said when Roarke came through the door. "These are like experiments, right? Is that how it reads to you?"

"Lab rats," he agreed. "Nameless. And these notes strike me as being his quick reference guide, not his official charts."

"Right. Just something he could flip through to check a detail or jog his memory. A lot of shields for something this vague, which is telling me it springs out of something more detailed. Still they fit my gauge of him. In each of the cases I reviewed, he's aiming for perfection. Body type, facial structure-which would be his deal. Then he veers off to stuff like cognitive skills and whether they can play the tuba."

"You got a tuba?"

"Just a for instance," she said with a wave of her hand. "What does he care? What does it matter if the patient can do calculus or speak Ukrainian or whatever? I've got nothing that indicates he worked on brain sectors. Oh, and they're all right-handed. Every one, which goes against the law of averages. They're all female-interesting-and all between the ages of seventeen and twenty-two when the notes end. With either 'placement' or 'treatment terminated.'"

"Placement's an interesting word, isn't it?" Roarke eased a hip onto the corner of her desk. "One might assume employment. If one weren't of a cynical bent."

"Which you are, which makes you a good match for me. Some people would pay a lot of money for a perfect woman. Maybe running a slavery ring was Icove's little hobby."

"Possibly. Where does he get the goods?"

"I'm going to do a search. Coordinate the dates of the case notes with missing persons and kidnappings."

"There's a start. Eve? It'd be a hell of an operation to keep this many people under control, and to keep such a thing concealed. Can you consider it might be voluntary?"

"I'm going to volunteer to be sold to the highest bidder?"

He shook his head. "Consider. A young girl, for whatever reason unhappy with her appearance or her lot, or simply looking for more. He might pay them as well. Earn money while we make you beautiful. Then we'll match you up with a partner. One with enough money to afford the service, one who selects you out of all the others. Heady stuff for the impressionable."

"So he's creating, basically, licensed companions, with their consent?"

"Or spouses, for all we know. Both, either. Or-a thought that hit my perhaps overactive brain-hybrids."

Her eyes rounded. "What, half-LC, half-spouse? A guy's wet dream."

He laughed, shook his head. "You're tired. I was thinking more along the lines of an old, classic plotline. Frankenstein."

"The monster guy?"

"Frankenstein was the mad doctor guy who created the monster."

She swung her feet off the desk. "Hybrids. Part droid, part human? And way, way illegal? You thinking he might dabble in hybridizing humans? That's out there, Roarke."

"Agreed, but there were experiments a few decades ago. Military, primarily. And we see it every day on another level. Artificial hearts, limbs, organs. He made his name with his reconstructive surgery techniques. Man-made is often used in that area."

"So maybe he's making women?" She thought of Dolores, absolutely calm before and after a murder. "And one of them turns on him. One of them isn't happy with her placement, and comes back to the creator. He agrees to see her because she's his work. It's not bad." she decided. "Out there, but not altogether bad."

She slept on it, and woke so early Roarke was just out of bed and pulling on sweats.

"You're awake. Well then, let's have a workout and a swim."

"A what?" She blinked groggy eyes at him. "It's not morning."

"It's after five." He stepped back up to the bed, hauled her out. "It'll clear your mind."

"Why isn't there coffee?"

"There will be." He bundled her into the elevator and had it heading for the home gym before her brain woke fully.

"Why am I working out at five in the morning?"

"Five-fifteen, actually, and because it's good for you." He tossed her a pair of shorts. "Suit up, Lieutenant."

"When do you leave town again?"

He tossed a top into her face.

She dragged on the clothes, then set her equipment for a beach run. If she was going to work out before the sun came up, at least she could pretend she was at the beach. She liked the feel of sand under her feet, and the sounds and scents and sights of surf.

Roarke set up next to her with the same program. "We could make this a reality after the holidays."