In Death 25 - Creation in Death

he’s a doctor, or some sort of medical. Or managed to pose as one.” Good at posing, she thought. Good at his roles. “Could be he scored it from a hospital or medical facility. But he’s never used it before, so why would he have had it on hand? Wouldn’t,” she said before Morris could speak. “If he scored it, he scored it over the weekend, and in New York.”
    “Psychiatrics, primarily, would be the most logical source.”
    “Give this to Peabody, okay? I want a search on facilities in New York that carry those meds. Tell her to use Mira if she needs grease or an expert. Meds like that have to be, by law, under lock and fully accounted for.”
    “By law,” Morris agreed, “but not always strictly by practice.”
    “We track it down. Start by getting full accountings from those facilities of these drugs. Any deviation, we take another push.”
    “I can do this. A doctor for the dead’s still a doctor,” he added when she frowned at him. “I think I could help on this.”
    “Take it to Peabody,” Eve repeated. “Work with her. I’ll check back with you when I’m done in here.”
     
    I n the war room Roarke saved, copied, and printed out the real estate list. Curious, he took out his PPC to access the last few minutes of Eve’s briefing while he wandered out for another bottle of water. She looked, he thought, rough and tough—and if you knew her as he did, a little ragged around the edges.
    She’d make herself ill if this wasn’t over soon, he concluded. Push herself until she, very literally, collapsed.
    There was absolutely no point in nagging or browbeating her this time as he was in it too deeply himself. He switched off as she was finishing up, then shifted to communications.
    He thought if he ordered a dozen pizzas, she’d at least end up eating something. And he could damn well do with some food himself at this point.
    After returning to his station, he took a fresh look at his list. Lowell’s Funeral Home, Lower East location, he mused. Sarifina York’s memorial was being held there. Today, he remembered. He should go, pay his respects.
    He called up the funeral home on his comp to check the time of the service. If he couldn’t get away from the work—and the living took precedence over the dead—he could and would at least send flowers.
    He noted down the time, the address, the specific room where the memorial was scheduled to be held. Cleverly, he thought, the page linked to a local florist. Handy and quick, he decided, but he preferred to trust Caro for the floral tribute.
    Thoughtfully, he glanced at the link labeled “History,” and tapped it. It might tell him more than the standard data he’d already unearthed from the records.
    Moments later his eyes went cool, his blood went hot. Roarke glanced over at Feeney, who was pushing at his own search.
    “Feeney. I believe I have something.”

20
    EVE STOOD, HANDS FISTED ON HER HIPS, STUDYING the data Roarke ordered on wall screen.
    “The property didn’t pop in the initial searches as it’s been retitled a number of times, and not officially owned by the same person, persons, or company for the time period you asked I check. But with a deeper search, the ownership is—buried under some clever cover—held by the Lowell Family Trust.”
    “Funeral parlor. Death house.”
    “Indeed. As you see from the website history, the building first belonged to the Lowell family in the early nineteen-twenties, used both as a residence and as a funeral home. James Lowell established his business there, and lived in residence with his wife, two sons, and one daughter. The older son was killed in the Second World War, and the younger, Robert Lowell, joined the business, taking it over at his father’s death. He expanded, opening other locations in New York and New Jersey.”
    “Death’s a profitable business,” Eve commented.
    “So it is. And more so during wartime. Robert Lowell’s eldest son, another James, joined in the business, residing in their Lower West Side location—they had a second by that time. During the Urbans, this location, the original, was used as a clinic and base camp for the Home Force. Many of the dead were brought there, and tended to by the Lowells, who were reputed to be staunch supporters of the HF.”
    “The second James Lowell is too old.” With her hands on her hips, Eve studied the data. “There are some spry centurians, but not spry enough for this.”
    “Agreed. But he, in turn, had a