In Death 21 - Origin in Death

several years, watched her progress. If she contacted him at some point after she was placed, would he meet her?"
    "His professional instinct would be to refuse, but both his ego and his curiosity would war with that. Medicine is risk, day after day. I think he would have risked this for the satisfaction of seeing one of his own. If indeed she was."
    "Wasn't she? Isn't it more likely, given the method of the murder, that he knew her, and she him? She had to get close, had to want to. One stab wound, in the heart. No rage, but control. As he had control over her. A medical instrument as murder weapon, a clean cut. Objective, as he'd been objective."
    "Yes." Mira closed her eyes. "Oh God, what has he done?"
     
    EVE SNAGGED PEABODY AT HER DESK IN THE
    bull pen. "We're going to spin that wheel. Mira's writing up a vie profile to add weight to what we've got. Then we're pushing for a search warrant."
    "I've got nothing that stands out on the financials," Peabody cold her.
    "Daughter-in-law, grandkids?"
    "Nothing out of line."
    "There's money somewhere. There always is. Guy has that many ringers in that many pies, he probably has some secret pies tucked away somewhere. For now, we're going back to the Center, talking to people-admin down."
    "Can I wear your new coat?"
    "Sure, Peabody."
    Peabody's face beamed like the sun. "Really?"
    "No." With a roll of her eyes and a sweep of leather, Eve started out.
    Peabody sulked after her. "You didn't have to get my hopes up."
    "If I don't get them up, how can I crush them? Where would I get my satisfaction?" She sidestepped for a pair of uniforms who were muscling a bruiser down the corridor. The bruiser sang obscenities at the top of his voice.
    "Well, he can carry a tune," Eve remarked.
    "A very pleasant baritone. Can I try on the coat sometime when you're not wearing it?"
    "Sure, Peabody."
    "You're getting my hopes up again, only to crush them, right?"
    "Keep learning that fast, you may make Detective Second Grade one day." Eve sniffed the air as she hopped on a glide. "I smell chocolate. Do you have chocolate?"
    "If I did, I wouldn't give it to you," Peabody muttered.
    Eve sniffed again, then followed the aroma trail with her eyes. She spotted Nadine Furst crammed on the upcoming glide. The Channel 75 on-air reporter had her streaky hair swept up in some sort of twisty roll, wore a canary-yellow trench coat over a dark blue suit. And carried a hot-pink bakery box.
    "If you're taking that bribe to my department," Eve called out. "there'd better be some left for me."
    "Dallas?" Nadine squeezed through the jam of bodies. "Damn it. Wait. Wait at the bottom. Oh my God, the coat! Wait. I need five minutes."
    "Heading out. Later."
    "No, no, no." As they passed, nearly shoulder to shoulder, Nadine managed to shake the box. "Brownies. Triple chocolate."
    "Bitch." Eve sighed. "Five minutes."
    "Surprised you didn't just rip it out of her hands, then thumb your nose at her," Peabody commented.
    "Considered, rejected. Too many witnesses." Besides, Eve thought, she might be able to use Nadine as much as she could use a triple chocolate brownie.
    Nadine's shoes matched her coat, and both the heels and toes looked sharp enough to sever a jugular. Yet somehow she managed to stride along in them as if they were as comfy as Peabody's airskids.
    "Show me the chocolate," Eve said without preamble. Obliging, Nadine lifted the lid of the box. Eve gave a brief nod. "Good bribe. “Walk and talk."
    "The coat." Nadine said it like a woman praying. "It's extreme."
    "Keeps the rain off." Eve swiveled her shoulder when Nadine stroked a hand over the leather covering it.
    "Don't pet it."
    "It's like smooth black cream. I'd give an astounding sexual performance for a coat like this."
    "Thanks, but you're not my type. Is my coat going to be the topic of discussion during your five minutes?"
    "I could talk about that coat for days, but no. Icove."
    "The dead one or the live one?"
    "Dead. We've got bio data up the ying, and we'll be using it. Wilfred Benjamin Icove, medical pioneer, healer, and humanitarian. Philanthropist and philosopher. Loving father, doting granddad. Scientist and scholar, yaddah, blah. His life's going to be covered endlessly by every media outlet on and off planet. Tell me how he got dead."
    "Stabbed through the heart. Give me a brownie."
    "Forget it." And Nadine hooked both arms around the box to prevent a snatch-and-run. "A voice-cracking on-air for his high school data screen's got