"Yes, thank you. If you want to go home for-"
"No," Eve interrupted. "I need both of you to stay. I don't want either of you to make or receive any transmissions or speak with anyone-or each other-for the time being. Detective Peabody is going to set you both up in separate areas."
"Uniforms coming up," Peabody stated. "It's routine," she added. "There are things we need to do, then we'll need to talk to you both, get statements."
"Of course." Icove looked around, like a man lost in the woods. "I don't..."
"Why don't you both show me where you'd be most comfortable while we're taking care of your father?"
She glanced back at Eve, got the nod while Eve opened her field kit.
Alone, Eve sealed up, switched on her recorder, and for the first time moved over to examine the body.
"Victim is identified as Wilfred B. Icove, Doctor. Reconstructive and cosmetic surgery." Still, she took out her Identi-pad, checked his prints and his data. "Victim is eighty-two, widowed, one son-Wilfred B. Icove, Jr., also a doctor. There is no sign of trauma other than the death wound, no sign of struggle, no defensive wounds."
She took out tools, gauges. "Time of death, noon. Cause of death, insult to the heart-went right through this really nice suit and shirt with a small instrument."
She measured the handle, took images. "It appears to be a medical scalpel."
Manicured fingernails, she noted. Expensive, yet subtle, wrist unit. Obviously a proponent of his own medical area as he looked more a fit and toned sixty than eighty-plus.
"Run Dolores Nocho-Alverez," she ordered when she heard Peabody come back. "Either she stuck our friendly doctor, or she knows who did."
She stepped back, heard Peabody open a can of Seal-It. "One wound, only takes one when you know what you're doing. She had to get close, had to be steady. Controlled, too. No rage. Real rage doesn't let you just pop a blade in and walk away. Maybe pro. Maybe a hit. Woman's pissed off, she'd mess him up."
"No blood on her with that kind of wound," Peabody pointed out.
"Careful. Well thought out. In at eleven-thirty, out by, what, twelve-oh-five, max. She's through security at twelve-nineteen. It takes that long to get downstairs, through the scanners, just long enough to make sure he's dead."
"Nocho-Alverez, Dolores, age twenty-nine. Citizen of Barcelona, Spain, with an address in that city, another in Cancun, Mexico. Nice-looking woman-exceptionally nice." Peabody looked up from the screen of her hand unit. "Don't know why she'd need a consult for a face job."
"Gotta get a consult to get close enough to kill him. Check on her passport, Peabody. Let's see where Dolores has been staying in our fair city."
Eve circled the room. "Cups are clean. She doesn't sit and drink . . ." She lifted the top of the silver pot, wrinkled her nose. "Flower petal tea-and who can blame her? I bet she doesn't touch anything she doesn't need to touch, and deals with that when she's done. Sweepers won't find her prints. Sits there." She gestured to one of the visitor chairs facing the desk. "Has to go through the consult, talk. Has to fill thirty minutes until the assistant goes to lunch. How'd she know when the assistant goes to lunch?"
"Could have heard the vic and the admin talk about it," Peabody put in.
"No. She already knew. She's scoped it out, or had inside data. She knew the routine. Admin's at lunch till one, giving the killer plenty of time to do the job, get out of the building, before the body's discovered. Moved in close."
Eve walked around the desk. "Flirting with him, maybe, or giving him some sad tale of having one nostril a millimeter smaller than the other. Look, look at my face, Doctor. Can you help me? And slide that blade right into his aorta. Body's dead before his brain can catch up."
"There's no passport issued in the name of Dolores Nocho-Alverez, Dallas. Or any combination of those names."
"Smelling like pro," Eve murmured. "We'll run her face through 1RCCA when we get back to Central, see if we get lucky. Who'd put out a hit on nice old Dr. Wilfred?"
"Will Jr.?"
"That's where we start."
I
cove's office was bigger and bolder than his father's. He went for a sheer glass wall with wide terrace beyond, a silver console rather than a traditional desk. His seating area boasted two long, low sofas, a mood screen, and a fully stocked bar-health bar, Eve noted. No alcohol, at least visible.
There was art here as well, with one portrait dominating. She was a tall, curvy blonde with skin like polished marble and eyes the color of lilacs. She wore a long dress of the same hue that seemed to float around her, and carried a wide-brimmed hat with purple ribbons trailing. She was surrounded by flowers, and the astonishing beauty of her face was luminous with laughter.
"My wife." Icove cleared his throat, gestured with his chin toward the portrait Eve studied. "My father had it done for me as a wedding gift. He was like a father to Avril, too. I don't know how we'll get through this."
"Was she a patient-client?"