«Did you apply?»
«Most of that process is, thankfully, a blur. Mrs. Whitney would remember.»
«Sir, speaking of Mrs. Whitney…« Touchy, touchy. «I've sent Baxter in on an informal recon, under, as a potential client. Get him in, tour the facilities, check out the system. However, I wondered, should it become necessary, would Mrs. Whitney agree to talk with me about her, um, experience?»
He looked, for a moment, as pained as Eve felt. «She won't care for it, but she's a cop's wife. If you need a statement, she'll give you one.»
«Thank you, Commander. I doubt I will. I hope I won't.»
«So, Lieutenant, do I. More than you know.»
From there, she went to Mira's office, wheedled her way past the admin between patients. She didn't sit, though Mira gestured to a chair.
«You okay?» Eve asked her.
«A bit dented, actually. Both of them gone. I knew Will, enjoyed him and his family on the occasions we got together.»
«How would you characterize his relationship with his wife?»
«Affectionate, a bit old-fashioned, happy.»
«Old-fashioned in what sense?»
«My impression is that he very much headed the house. That it ran around his needs and routine, but my impression is also that the dynamic suited them. She's a very loving and devoted mother, and enjoyed being a doctor's wife. She has talent, but seemed happy to dabble with her art rather than passionately pursue it.»
«And if I told you she had a part in the murders?»
Mira's eyes blinked, then widened. «On the basis of my professional evaluation of her character, I would disagree.»
«You saw them socially—now and then. You saw them as they wanted to be seen. Would you agree?»
«Yes, but… Eve, my profile of the killer indicates a cool-headed, efficient, highly controlled individual. My impressions of Avril Icove— and these come over years—is of a soft-hearted, mild-tempered woman who was not only content with her life but enjoyed living it.»
«He raised her for his son.»
«What?»
«I know it. Icove molded her, educated her, trained her, he all but fucking created her as the perfect mate for his son. He wasn't a man to settle for less than perfect.»
She sat now, leaned forward. «He sent her to school—small, exclusive, private, where he had control. He, and his friend and associate, Jonah Wilson. A geneticist.»
«Wait.» Mira held up both hands. «Wait. Are you talking about gene manipulation? She was five or more when Wilfred took over her guardianship.»
«Maybe, or maybe there was an interest in her long before. There's a relationship between her and Wilson's wife. They share a family name, yet there's no data on the connection. There had to be a relationship between her mother and Icove, who became her guardian. Wilson and his wife founded the school—Icove sent Avril there.»
«There may very well be some connection, which might very well be why he chose the school. The simple fact that he knew or had an association with a geneticist—«
«There are bans on gene manipulations that veer outside of disease and defect control. Put there because people, and science, always want more. If you can cure or fix an embryo, why not make it to order? I'll have a girl, thanks, blonde, blue eyes, and give her a pert little nose while you're at it. People pay a hell of a lot for perfection.»
«These are huge leaps, Eve.»
«Maybe. But you've got a geneticist, a reconstruct surgeon, a very private school. With those building blocks I don't have to leap too far to wonder. I know what it's like to be trained.» She sat back now, gripped the arms of her chair.
«You can't imagine that a man like Wilfred would physically, sexually abuse a child.»
«Cruelty is only one training method. You can do it with kindness. Sometimes he brought me candy. Sometimes he gave me a present after he raped me. Like you give a dog a treat for doing a trick.»
«She was fond of him. Eve, I saw it. Avril thought of Wilfred as a father. She wasn't locked away. If she'd wanted to leave, she could have done so.»
«You know better,» Eve replied. «The world's full of people who are locked away without any bars. I'm asking you if he could have done something like this. Could the pull of it, the science, the thrill of perfecting have pushed him into manipulating a child, turning her into wife for his son, a mother for his grandchildren.»
Mira closed her eyes a moment. «The science of it would, certain-have intrigued him. Coupled with his perfectionist tendencies, it may have seduced him. If you're right on any level, on any level at all, he would have seen what he was doing as being for the greater good.'
Yeah, Eve thought. Self-made gods always did.
12
When Eve jumped on the glide, Baxter clomped on just behind her. «That place is a racket.»
«Why? What have you got?»
«What I don't have is an asymmetrical nose that unbalances the proportions of my jaw, chin, brow ratio. That's crap.»
Frowning, she studied him. «I don't see anything wrong with your nose.»
«There isn't.»
«It's right in the middle of your face where it belongs.» She got off the glide on their level, pointed to the soft drink machine, then passed him credits.
«Get me a tube of Pepsi.»
«You're going to have to interact with the vending machines again sooner or later.»
«Why? Did they give you a hard sell?» she asked. «Pressure you, push you to sign a contract.»
«Depends on your point of view. I figured you wanted me to play some rich asshole, so I sprang for the electro-imaging analysis. Five bills, and I'm putting in for it.»
«Five? Five? Shit, Baxter.» She thought of her budget, grabbed her tube and the spare credits she'd given him. «Buy your own drink.»
«You wanted me in, getting a good look at the client areas and routine.» He pouted over the credits, then just plugged in his code and came up with a cream soda. «You're lucky I didn't go for phase two and the full-body imaging program. That's a grand. They put you up on-screen, magnified. My pores looked like moon craters, for crissake. And they're drawing these lines over me, showing how my nose is off and my ears should be closer to my head. My ears are fine. And talking about derma resurfacing. Nobody's resurfacing my derma.»
Eve just leaned against the wall and let him go.
«And after they're done destroying your self-esteem, they show you how you'd look after. I played like: Wow, I gotta have that, ever, though there was no difference. Hardly. Barely noticeable. It was tribute to my prevarication skills. I sweet-talked the tech into showing me around, and the place is plush. Ought to be, for what they charge. The quote on the work they want to do on me? Twenty large. Two-oh and look at me.» He threw out his arms. «I'm a damn good-looking son of a bitch.»
«Get over yourself, Baxter. Did you feel anything off?»
«Place was like a tomb. Penthouse of tombs if you get me. All the staff—everyone—wearing a black armband. I asked the tech what was up, and she got teary. Sincerely. She told me about the murders, at which time I pulled out my thespian skills. She thinks it's a failed medical student turned serial killer targeting doctors out of professional jealousy.»
«I'll be sure to put that one in the hat. Did you speak to one of the surgeons?»
«Being charming as well as a damned handsome son of a bitch, I got her to squeeze me into a Dr. Janis Petrie's consult schedule. Or as I call her, Dr. Bombshell. She's a walking ad for her trade, and touted to be one of their best. I got the murders into the conversation again, making like I was nervous to be there, or to consider treatment there, with what was going on.»
He took a slug of cream soda. «Damp eyes again. She assured me that the Icove Center was the finest reconstructive and sculpting facility in the country, and that even with the tragedies, the center was in good hands. My continued nerves got me a tour through security with two guards. It's solid. Couldn't talk my way into any of the staffer med areas. Absolutely no patients, clients or potentials, allowed.»