Origin in Death (In Death #21)(29)

"You say. Lot of high-powered, famed names on his patient and consult lists. So it's interesting that he keeps coded files in his home office."

She filled him in, then gave him copies on the off chance he might see or find anything on them she'd missed.

When he left her office, Eve was curious enough to look up Jasmina Free on Icove's records.

Thoughtfully she studied the images. As Louise had verified, there were several, before and after, every procedure, various angles. She didn't see anything wrong with the br**sts in the before, but was forced to admit they were a reckoning force in the after.

Now that she saw the image she recognized the vid star. She supposed people in Free's profession looked at tit jobs and lip fattening as job security.

A lot of young girls fantasized about being vid stars, she supposed. Or music stars like Mavis.

Placement.

Create perfect specimens then place them in their fantasy. But what teenager has the money for that?

Rich parents. The newest underground method of fulfilling your little darling's fondest wish.

Happy birthday, honey! We got you some rocking new br**sts.

Not much more out there than Roarke's Frankenstein theory.

Following through, she brought up Free's official data.

Born twenty-six years ago in Louisville, Kentucky, one of three children. Father a retired city cop.

Forget that theory as applies to Free, Eve decided. Cops didn't make enough for big doctor's fees.

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."