In Death 21 - Origin in Death

admitted. The man loved to have his space, and lots of toys and goodies to fill it up.
    He'd come from nothing, and so had she. She supposed they just had different ways of compensating for it. He'd bring gifts back from this business trip. He always managed to find time to buy things, and seemed amused with her discomfort at the constant shower of gifts.
    What about Wilfred B. Icove? she wondered. What had he come from? How did he compensate? What were his symbols?
    She sat at her desk, turned to her computer, and began the process of learning about the dead.
    While she gathered data on her computer, she tagged Feeney, Captain of the Electronic Detectives Division.
    He came on-screen, hangdog face, wiry ginger hair. His shirt looked as if he'd slept in it-which was, always, oddly comforting to Eve.
    "Need a run through IRCCA," she told him. "Big-deal face and body sculptor went out in his office this morning. Last appointment looks like our winner. Female, late twenties, name and address- which is Barcelona, Spain-"
    "Ole," he said dourly, and made her smile. "Gee, Feeney, I didn't know you spoke Spanish." "Had that vacation at your place in Mexico, picked up a few things." "Okay, how do you say 'bull's-eye in the heart with a small-bladed instrument'?"
    “Ole.”
    "Good to know. No passport under the listed name of Nocho-Alverez, Dolores. Addy in sunny Spain is bogus. She got in and out clean through heavy security."
    "You smelling pro?"
    "I've got a whiff, but no motive on my horizon. Maybe one of your boys can match her through the system, or through imaging."
    "Shoot me a picture, see what we can do."
    "Appreciate it. Sending now."
    She clicked off, sent the ID image, then, crossing fingers that her unit could handle another simultaneous task, fed the security disc from the Center into a slot to review.
    Eve hit her AutoChef up for coffee, sipped as she scanned. "There you are," she murmured, and watched the woman currently known as Dolores walk to a security station at the main level. She wore slim pants, a snug jacket, both in flashy red. Mile-high heels in the same shade.
    Not afraid to be noticed, are you, Dolores, Eve mused.
    Her hair was glossy black, wore long and loosely curled around a face with cut-glass cheekbones, lush lips-also boldly red-and heavy-lidded eyes nearly as dark as her hair.
    She passed through security-bag scan, body scan-without a hitch, then strolled at an easy, hip-swaying pace toward the bank of elevators that would take her to Icove's level.
    No hesitation, Eve noted, no hurry. No attempt to evade the cameras. No sweat. She was cool as a margarita sipped under a pretty umbrella on a tropical beach.
    Eve switched to the elevator disc and watched the woman ascend- serenely. She made no stops, made no moves, until she exited on Icove's floor.
    She approached reception, spoke to the person on duty, signed in, then walked a short distance down the corridor to the ladies' room.
    Where there were no cameras, Eve thought. Where she either retrieved the weapon where it had been planted for her, or removed it from her bag or person where it had been disguised well enough to beat security.
    Planted, most likely, Eve decided. Got somebody on the inside. Maybe the one who wanted him dead.
    Nearly three minutes passed, then Dolores stepped out, went directly to the waiting area. She sat, crossed her legs, and flipped through the selection of book and magazine discs on the menu.
    Before she could pick one, Pia came through the double doors to lead her back to Icove's office.
    Eve watched the doors close, watched the assistant sit at her own desk. She zipped through, while the stamp flashed the passage of time until noon, when the assistant removed a purse from her desk drawer, slipped on a jacket, and left for lunch.
    Six minutes later, Dolores came out as casually as she'd gone in. Her face showed no excitement, no satisfaction, no guilt, no fear.
    She passed the reception area without a word, descended, crossed to exit security, passed through, and walked out of the building. And into the wind, Eve thought.
    If she wasn't a pro, she should be.
    No one else went in or out of Icove's office until the assistant returned from lunch.
    With a second cup of coffee, she read through the extensive data on Wilfred B. Icove.
    Guy was a fricking saint," she said to Peabody. The rain had slowed to an irritating drizzle, gray as fog. "Came from little, did much. His parents were doctors, running clinics in