In Death 21 - Origin in Death

draped over the rail at the top.
    It hadn't taken a bloodhound to follow the trail, or to sniff out the activity.
    "He comes over, he comes in, they have a couple of drinks downstairs, sex comes into it. No evidence it wasn't consensual. No signs of struggle, and if the guy was going to rape her, he wouldn't bother to drag her up a flight of steps and take off her clothes."
    She forgot her image of the chair long enough to sit, "So they go up, slap the mattress. They end up downstairs, bloody in the kitchen. Droid hears a disturbance, comes out, finds her unconscious, him dead, calls for medical and police assistance."
    The kitchen had looked like a war zone. Everything white and silver, acres of room, and most of it splashed and splattered with blood. Speegal, the hunk of the year, had been facedown, swimming in it.
    Maybe it had reminded her, just a little too horribly, of the way her father had looked. Of course, the room in Dallas hadn't been so shiny, but the blood, the rivers of blood, had been just as thick, just as wet after she'd finished hacking the little knife into him.
    "Sometimes there's no other way," Peabody said quietly. "There's no other way to stay alive."
    "No." Edgy? Eve thought. More like losing her edge if her partner could see into her head that easily. "Sometimes there's not."
    She rose, relieved when the doctor stepped into the room.
    She'd done her homework on Wilfred B. Icove, Jr. He'd stepped competently into his father's footsteps, oversaw the myriad arms of the Icove Center. And was known as the sculptor to the stars.
    He was reputed to be discreet as a priest, skilled as a magician, and rich as Roarke-or nearly. At forty-four, he was handsome as a vid star with eyes of light, crystalline blue in a face of high, slashing cheekbones, square jaw, carved lips, narrow nose. His hair was full, swept back from his forehead in gilded wings.
    He had maybe an inch on Eve's five-ten, and his body looked trim and fit, even elegant in a slate gray suit with pearly chalk stripes. He wore a shirt the color of the stripes, and a silver medallion on a hair-thin chain.
    He offered Eve his hand, and an apologetic smile that showed perfect teeth. "I'm so sorry. I know you've been waiting. I'm Dr. Icove. Lee-Lee-Ms. Ten," he corrected, "is under my care."
    "Lieutenant Dallas, NYPSD. Detective Peabody. We need to speak with her."
    "Yes, I know. I know you've tried to speak with her before, and again, my apologies." His voice and manner were as groomed as the rest of him. "Her attorney's with her now. She's awake and stable. She's a strong woman, Lieutenant, but she's suffered severe trauma, physically and emotionally. I hope you can keep this brief."
    "That'd be nice for all of us, wouldn't it?"
    He smiled again, just a twinkle of humor, then gestured. "She's on medication," he continued as they walked down a wide corridor accented with art that highlighted the female form and face. "But she's coherent. She wants this interview as much as you do. I'd prefer it wait at least another day, and her attorney . .. Well, as I said, she's a strong woman."
    Icove passed the uniform stationed at his patient's door as if he were invisible. "I'd like to attend, monitor her during your interview."
    "No problem." Eve nodded to the uniform, stepped inside.
    It was luxurious as a suite in a five-star hotel, strewn with enough flowers to fill an acre of Central Park.
    The walls were a pale pink, sheened with silver, accented with paintings of goddesses. Wide chairs and glossy tables comprised a sitting area where visitors could gather to chat or pass the time with whatever
    was on-screen.
    Privacy screens on a sea of windows ensured the media copters or commuter trams that buzzed the sky were blinded to the room inside, while the view of the great park filled the windows.
    In a bed of petal pink sheets edged with snow-white lace, the famous face looked as if it had encountered a battering ram.
    Blackened skin, white bandages, the left eye covered with a protective patch. The lush lips that had sold millions in lip plumper, lip dye, lip ice, were swollen and coated with some sort of pale green cream. The luxurious hair, responsible for the production of bottomless vats of shampoo, conditioner, enhancements, was scraped back, a dull red mop.
    The single visible eye, green as an emerald, tracked over to Eve. A sunburst of color surrounded it.
    "My client is in severe pain," the lawyer began. "She is under medication and