In Death 21 - Origin in Death

will find that the younger Dr. Icove ..."
    Oh shit.
    "The younger Dr. Icove, with the victim as consultant, executed
    some minor cosmetic procedures on Mrs. Whitney."
    Mrs. Whitney. Thank God, Eve thought, and felt her stomach unclench. She'd been terrified her commander had been about to tell her he'd used the Center's services himself.
    "Okay. Excuse me. Yes, sir."
    "My wife, as you may suspect, would prefer to keep this matter private. I'm going to ask you, as a personal favor, Lieutenant, that unless you see a connection between Mrs. Whitney's ... what she calls her tune-ups," he said with obvious embarrassment, "and your investigation, you keep this matter, and this conversation, to yourself."
    "Absolutely, Commander. Certainly I see no relation between, um, the aforesaid tune-ups and the murder of Wilfred Icove, Sr. If it would be: helpful, please assure Mrs. Whitney of my discretion in this matter."
    "Damn right I will." He pressed his fingers to his eyes. "She's hounded me via 'link since she heard about it on the media report. Vanity, Dallas. comes at considerable price. So who killed Dr. Perfect?"
    Sir." "Anna mentioned that some of the nurses called him that-
    affectionately. He's known for being a perfectionist, and expecting the
    same from those who work with him."
    "Interesting. And it fits what I've learned about him so far." Deciding the personal aspect of the report was over, she got to her feet, gave her report.
    It was well past end of shift when she headed home. Not that it was unusual, she decided. And with Roarke out of town, she had less motivation to go home. Nobody there but the pain in her ass, in the form of Roarke's majordomo, Summerset.
    He'd make some crack when she walked in, she thought. About her being late, not informing him-as if she'd voluntarily speak to him. He'd probably sneer, and congratulate her on making it home without getting blood on her shirt.
    She had a comeback for that one ready. Oh yeah. She'd say there was still time, fuckhead. No, no, fuckface. Still time, fuckface. Planting my fist through your needle-dick nose ought to get some blood on my shirt.
    Then she'd start up the stairs, stop like she'd just thought of something, and say: Oh wait, you don't run on blood, do you? I'd just end up with viscous green goo all over me.
    She entertained herself all the way uptown with varieties of the same theme, and alternate intonations.
    The gates opened for her, and lights bloomed on to illuminate the curving drive that wound through the grounds toward the house.
    Part fortress, part castle, part fantasy, it was home now. Its peaks and towers, its juts and terraces silhouetted against the broody night sky. Windows, countless windows, glowed against the gloom of the evening in a kind of welcome she'd never known before he'd come into her life.
    Had never expected to know.
    Seeing it, the house, the lights, the strength and beauty of what he'd built, what he'd made, what he'd given to her, she missed him outrageously. She very nearly drove around the loop, headed out again.
    She could go see Mavis. Wasn't her friend and music disc star in town? She was pregnant-a lot pregnant now, Eve calculated. If she went to see Mavis, she'd have to run the gauntlet first-touch the scary belly, listen to knocked-up talk, be shown strange little clothes and weird equipment.
    After that, it would be fine, it would be good.
    But she was too damn tired to go through the hoops first. Besides, she had work to do.
    She grabbed the loaded disc and file bag, left her car at the steps- mainly because it annoyed Summerset-and headed inside, somewhat cheered she'd be able to use her stored insults.
    She stepped inside, into the warmth of the grand foyer, into light and fragrance. Deliberately she stripped off her jacket, tossed it over the newel post-another little poke at Summerset.
    But he didn't ooze like evil fog out of the walls or woodwork. He always oozed like evil fog out of the walls or woodwork. She had a moment to be puzzled, then irritated, then mildly concerned he'd dropped dead during the day.
    Then her heart picked up a beat, something shivered along her skin. She looked up, and saw Roarke at the top of the stairs.
    He couldn't have become more beautiful than he'd been a week before, but it seemed to her, in that shimmering light, that he had.
    His face-the strength, power, and yes, the beauty of a fallen angel with no regrets-was framed by the thick black of his hair. His mouth-full,