In Death 21 - Origin in Death

get pissy." She sat on the corner of his desk, helped herself to some of the sugared nuts he kept in a bowl. "Who the hell is she? Somebody who kills like that and doesn't blip on the radar anywhere?"
    "Maybe a spook." He scooped up a handful of nuts himself. "Maybe your vic was a sanctioned hit."
    "Doesn't play. Not off the data I have on Icove, not with this method. If you're a deep underground government spook, why do you walk through heavy security? Flash your face around? Easier, cleaner, to take him out on the street somewhere. Or his apartment. Security there's a hell of a lot lighter than it is at the Icove Center."
    "Rogue?"
    "If she'd gone rogue, all the more reason to keep your face off the radar screen."
    He shrugged, crunched. "Just tossing them at you, kid."
    "She makes an appointment, goes through security, uses ID that masses their system. She knows when the admin's going to be out for an hour, giving her a clear road out before the body's discovered. The weapon was previously planted-had to be. It's all slick as spit. But..."
    Feeney rolled his shoulders, waited for her to finish.
    "Why there? No matter how you slice and serve it, taking him out in his office was more complicated than doing him at home. Plus the guy walks to work, barring inclement. You're that good, you stick him n the street and keep walking. He took his car today. Underground or in his building. You could get to him there-security, sure, but still easier than his office."
    "She had a reason to take him there."
    "Yeah. And maybe she had something to say to him before she killed him. Or something she wanted him to tell her. Anyway, if this was her first time, she had some major beginner's luck. No missteps, Feeney, not one. Not a single bead of sweat on her delicate brow after she stabs a
    guy through the heart. Dead through, too. Like he had a fucking target over it. Insert blade here."
    "Practiced."
    "Bet your ass. But jabbing a droid or a dummy or a sim, doing it in a holo, whatever.... It's not the same as flesh and blood. You know that. We know that."
    She munched, considered. "And the vic? He's nearly as unreal as she is. Not a smudge, not a smear in eighty years of living, more than a half century of medical practice. Sure he's got a few suits filed against him along the way, but they're outweighed by good works and professional kudos. His apartment? It's like a stage set. Nothing out of place, and I’m pretty sure the guy's got more suits than Roarke."
    "Not possible."
    "Pretty sure. Of course, he's got close to fifty years on Roarke, so that could be the difference. He doesn't gamble, he doesn't cheat, he doesn't screw his neighbor's wife-at least not so it shows. His son will benefit somewhat financially by his death, but it doesn't fit. He's solid in that area, and was at this point basically running the show at the Center. Center staff so far interviewed sings the vic's praises to the point of hallelujahs."
    "Okay. There's a skeleton in his closet, some dirt under his rug." She absolutely beamed as she punched Feeney's arm. "Thank you! That's what I say. Nobody's that clean. No fricking body. Not in my world. The kind of money this guy generated, he could've greased the right palms to get something expunged from his data. Plus, he's got too much downtime, the way I see it. Can't figure what he did with it. Nothing shows in his office or his apartment. His appointment book shows at least two days and three evenings a week where he's got nothing going. What does he do, where does he go?"
    She checked her wrist unit. "I've got to go fill in the commander. Then I'm taking my toys and going home to play with them. Anything pops for you, I'm ready to hear it."
    She traveled the maze of Central to Commander Whitney's office and was shown right in. He was at his desk, a big man with big shoulders that bore the weight of his authority. Over time, that authority had carved lines into his dark face and threaded some gray through his hair.
    He gestured to a chair, and Eve had to control a frown. After more than ten years as her commander, he knew she preferred giving her orals standing.
    She sat.
    "Before you begin," he said, "there's a somewhat delicate matter I need to address."
    "Sir?"
    "During the course of your investigation you will likely be required to review the patient list for the Icove Center, cross-referencing names with the victim, and with his son."
    Oh-oh. "Yes, sir, that's my intention."
    "During this process, you