Origin in Death (In Death 21)

Of course, being a humanitarian, he could have taken some of them on for free. But she read through the data, found no gaps.

Still, it was a thought to go down on her list. Something else to fiddle with.

Curious, she brought up Lee-Lee Ten's data. She and Will Icove had seemed pretty damn chummy.

Born in Baltimore, no sibs. Raised by mother after termination of legal cohab with father. First professional modeling, age six months.

Six months? What the hell did a six-month-old model? she wondered.

Modeled, did screen ads, baby bits in vids.

Jesus, Eve thought, reading. The woman had worked her entire life. No placement possibilities there, she decided. None of Icove's records listed placements before the age of seventeen.

But she ran the name through the Center's records and noted Lee-Lee had had a number of "tune-ups" over the years.

Was no one satisfied with the package God put her in?

She ran probabilities on her computer, toying with various scenar­ios. Nothing rang for her. She got coffee, then settled in to wade through Icove's many properties, arms, connections, looking for locations that might provide him with privacy for side projects.

She found dozens: homes, hospitals, offices, treatment and health renters, research facilities, physical, mental, emotional rehabilitation centers, and combinations thereof. Some he owned outright, some were owned by his foundation, others he had interests in, or was affili­ated with, or served in some capacity.

She separated them into her own priorities, concentrating first on lo­cations where Icove had held full control.

Then she rose and paced. She couldn't discount the sites that were out of the country, even off planet. Nor could she positively state she wasn't chasing the wild goose by concentrating on this single angle.

But she wasn't, Eve thought as she stared out at the bleak November sky through her skinny window.

The doctor had kept a secret, and secrets were what haunted. Se­crets were what hurt.

She should know.

He'd given them labels, she thought. Denying people a name de­humanized them.

They'd given her no name when she'd been born. Had given her none for the first eight years of her life while they had used and abused her. Dehumanizing her. Preparing her. Training her through rape and beatings and fear to make a whore of her. She'd been an investment, not a child.

And it was that not-quite-human thing that had broken, that had fi­nally broken and killed what had tormented and imprisoned her.

Not the same. Roarke was right, it wasn't the same. There was no mention of rape in the notes. No physical abuse of any kind. On the contrary, care seemed to have been taken to keep them at the height of physical perfection.

But there were other kinds of abuse, and some of it looked so benign on the surface.

Somewhere in those notes was motive. Somewhere beyond them was more specific documentation. That's where she'd find Dolores.

"Eve."

She turned at Mira's voice. Mira stood in the open doorway, hollow-eyed. "I came to apologize for brushing you off this morning."

"Not a problem."

"Yes, it is. Mine. I'd like to come in. Close the door."

"Sure."

"I'd like to see what you wanted to show me this morning."

"I consulted another medical expert. It isn't necessary for you to-"

"Please." Mira sat, folded her hands in her lap. "May I see?"