Read Online Origin in Death by J. D. Robb - Free Book Online
Authors: J. D. Robb
Tags: Fiction, General, detective, Suspense, Science-Fiction, Romance, Mystery & Detective, American Mystery & Suspense Fiction, Women Sleuths, Mystery, Mystery Fiction, Police, Political, Mystery & Detective - Women Sleuths, Fiction - Mystery, New York, New York (State), New York (N.Y.), Policewomen, Police - New York (State) - New York, Mystery & Detective - Series, Eve (Fictitious character), Dallas, Eve (Fictitious charac, Dallas; Eve (Fictitious Character)
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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 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
"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 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
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