Origin in Death (In Death 21)

"Why, why, why, does everybody have to change their hair? It cov­ers your scalp, keeps it from getting wet or cold."

"You're just scared that when I talk to Trina she's going to corner you and give you a treatment."

"I am not." She was, too.

It was a surprise to hear her name paged through the elevator's com­munication system. Frowning, Eve cocked her head.

"This is Dallas."

"Please, Lieutenant, Dr. Icove asks that you come, right away, to the forty-fifth floor. It's an emergency."

"Sure." She glanced at Peabody, shrugged. "Reroute to forty-five," she ordered, and felt the elevator slow, shift, ascend. "Something's up," she commented. "Maybe one of his beauty-at-any-price clients croaked."

"People hardly ever croak from face and body work." Peabody ran a considering finger down her nose again. "Hardly ever."

"We could all admire your skinny nose at your memorial. Damn shame about Peabody, we'd say, and dash the tears from our eyes. But that is one mag nose she's got in the middle of her dead face."

"Cut it out." Peabody hunched her shoulders, folded her arms over her chest. "Besides, you couldn't dash the tears away. You'd cry buck­ets. You'd be blinded by your copious tears and wouldn't even be able to see my nose."

"Which makes dying for it really stupid." Satisfied she'd won that round, Eve stepped off the elevator.

"Lieutenant Dallas. Detective Peabody." A woman with a- hmmm-chiseled nose and skin the color of good rich caramel rushed forward. Her eyes were black as onyx, and currently pouring tears. "Dr. Icove. Dr. Icove. Something terrible."

"Is he hurt?"

"He's dead. He's dead. You need to come, right away. Please, hurry."

"Jesus, we saw him five minutes ago." Peabody fell in beside Eve, moving quickly to keep up with the woman who all but sprinted through a hushed and lofty office area. The glass walls showed the storm still blowing outside, but here, it was warm, with subdued light­ing, islands of lush green plants, sinuous sculptures, and romantic paintings-all nudes.

"You want to slow down?" Eve suggested. "Tell us what hap­pened?"

"I can't. I don't know."

How the woman managed to stand much less sprint on whip-thin heels Eve would never understand, but she bolted through a pair of double doors of frosted sea green and into another waiting area.

Icove, pale as death but apparently still breathing, stepped out of an open doorway.

"Glad to see the rumors of your death are exaggerated," Eve began.

"Not me, not. .. My father. Someone's murdered my father."

The woman who'd escorted them burst into fresh and very noisy tears. "Pia, I want you to sit down now." Icove laid a hand on her shak­ing shoulder. "I need you to sit down and compose yourself. I can't get through this without you."

"Yes. All right. Yes. Oh, Dr. Will."

"Where is he?" Eve demanded.

"In here. At his desk, in here. You can .. ." Icove shook his head, gestured.

The office was spacious yet gave the feeling of intimacy. Warm col­ors here, cozy chairs. The view of the city came through tall, narrow windows in this room, and was filtered by pale gold screens. Wall niches held art or personal photographs.

Eve saw a chaise in buttery leather, a tray of tea or coffee that looked untouched on a low table.

The desk was genuine wood-good old wood by her estimate, in a masculine, streamlined style. The data and communication equipment on it was small and unobtrusive.

In the desk chair, high-backed and buttery leather like the chaise, Wilfred B. Icove sat.

His hair was a thick, snowy cloud crowning a strong, square face. He wore a dark blue suit, and a white shirt with thin red pencil stripes.