Origin in Death - Softcover

Robb, J. D.

Softcover

ISBN 10: 042520426X ISBN 13: 9780425204269

Verlag: Berkley, 2006

Inhaltsangabe

Detective Eve Dallas tracks the cunning, cold-blooded killer of a doctor and his son in this novel in the #1 New York Times bestselling In Death series.

A pioneer of modern reconstructive and cosmetic surgery, Dr. Wilfred B. Icove, is found dead in his office—murdered in a chillingly efficient manner: one swift stab to the heart. Struck by the immaculate condition of the crime scene, Dallas suspects a professional killing. Security disks show a stunningly beautiful woman calmly entering and leaving the building—the doctor’s final appointment.

Known as “Dr. Perfect,” the saintly Icove devoted his life to his family and his work. His record is clean. Too clean for Dallas. She knows he was hiding something and suspects that his son—and successor—knows what it is. Then, like father, like son, the young Dr. Icove is killed…with the same deadly precision.

But who is the mystery woman—and what was her relationship with the good doctors? While her husband, Roarke, works behind the scenes, Dallas follows her darkest instincts into the Icoves’ pasts. What she discovers are men driven to create perfection—playing fast and loose with the laws of nature, the limits of science, and the morals of humanity…

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

J. D. Robb is the pseudonym for a #1 New York Times bestselling author of more than 200 novels, including the bestselling In Death series. There are more than 500 million copies of her books in print.

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Blood is thicker than water.
—JOHN RAY

There will be time to murder and create.
—T.S. ELIOT

PROLOGUE

DEATH SMILED AT HER, AND KISSED HER GENTLY ON THE cheek. He had nice eyes. She knew they were blue, but not like the blue in her box of crayons. She was allowed to draw with them for one hour every day. She liked coloring best of all.

She could speak three languages, but she was having trouble with the Cantonese. She could draw the figures, and loved to make the lines and shapes. But it was hard for her to see them as words.

She couldn’t read very well in any of the languages, and knew the man she and her sisters called Father was concerned.

She forgot things she was supposed to remember, but he never punished her—not like others did when he wasn’t there. She thought of them as The Others, who helped the father teach her and care for her. But when he wasn’t there, and she made a mistake, they did something that hurt her, and made her body jump.

She wasn’t allowed to tell the father.

The father was always nice, just like he was now, when he sat beside her, holding her hand.

It was time for another test. She and her sisters took a lot of tests, and sometimes the man she called Father got wrinkles in his forehead, or a sad look in his eyes when she couldn’t do all the steps. In some of the tests he had to stick her with a needle, or hook machines to her head. She didn’t like those tests very much, but she pretended she was drawing with her crayons until they were over.

She was happy, but sometimes she wished they could go outside instead of pretending to go outside. The hologram programs were fun, and she liked the picnic with the puppy best of all. But whenever she asked if she could have a real puppy, the man she called Father just smiled and said, “Some day.”

She had to study a lot. It was important to learn all that could be learned, and to know how to speak and dress and play music, and discuss everything she’d learned or read or seen on-screen during her lessons.

She knew her sisters were smarter, faster, but they never teased her. They were allowed to play together for an hour in the morning and an hour before bed, every day.

That was even better than the picnic with the puppy.

She didn’t understand loneliness, or might have known she was lonely.

When Death took her hand, she lay quietly and prepared to do her best.

“This will make you feel sleepy,” he told her in his kind voice.

He’d brought the boy today. She liked when he brought the boy, though it made her feel shy. He was older, and had eyes the same color blue as the man she called Father. He never played with her or her sisters, but she always hoped he would.

“Are you comfortable, sweetheart?”

“Yes, Father.” She smiled shyly at the boy who stood beside her bed. Sometimes she pretended the little room where she slept was a chamber, like the ones in the castles she sometimes read about or saw on-screen. And she was the princess of the castle, under a spell. The boy would be the prince who came to save her.

But from what, she wasn’t sure.

She hardly felt the needle stick. He was so gentle.

There was a screen in the ceiling over her bed, and today the man she called Father had programmed it with famous paintings. Hoping to please him, she began to name them as they slid on, then off.

“Garden at Giverny 1902, Claude Monet. Fleurs et Mains, Pablo Picasso. Figure at a Window, Salvador Da . . . Salvador . . .”

“Dalí,” he prompted.

“Dalí. Olive Trees, Victor van Gogh.”

“Vincent.”

“I’m sorry.” Her voice began to slur. “Vincent van Gogh. My eyes are tired, Father. My head feels heavy.”

“That’s all right, sweetheart. You can close your eyes, you can rest.”

He took her hand while she drifted off. He held it tenderly in his while she died.

She left the world five years, three months, twelve days, and six hours after she’d come into it.

1

WHEN ONE OF THE MOST FAMOUS FACES ON OR off planet was beaten to a bloody, splintered pulp, it was news. Even in New York City. When the owner of that famous face punctured several vital organs of the batterer with a fillet knife, it was not only news, it was work.

Getting an interview with the woman who owned the face that had launched a thousand consumer products was a goddamn battle.

Cooling her heels in the plush-to-the-point-of-squishy waiting area of the Wilfred B. Icove Center for Reconstructive and Cosmetic Surgery, Lieutenant Eve Dallas was fully prepared to go to war.

She’d had just about enough.

“If they think they can turn me out a third time, they’re ignorant of the greatness of my wrath.”

“She was unconscious the first time.” Content to lounge in one of the luxurious, overstuffed chairs and sip some complimentary tea, Detective Delia Peabody crossed her legs. “And heading into surgery.”

“She wasn’t unconscious the second time.”

“Recovery and Observation. It’s been less than forty-eight, Dallas.” Peabody sipped more tea and fantasized what she would have done if she were here for face or body sculpting.

Maybe she’d just start with hair extensions. No pain, some gain, she decided, combing her fingers through her dark, bowl-cut ’do.

“And self-defense looks pretty clear.”

“She put eight holes in him.”

“Okay, maybe a little excessive, but we both know her lawyer’s going to claim self-defense, fear of bodily harm, diminished capacity—all of which any jury’s going to buy.” Maybe blonde hair extensions, Peabody thought. “Lee-Lee Ten is an icon. Perfection of female beauty, and the guy played a mighty tune on her face.”

Broken nose, shattered cheekbone, broken jaw, detached retina. Eve ran through the list in her head. She wasn’t looking to hang a homicide on the woman, for God’s sake. She’d interviewed the medical tech who’d treated Ten on-scene, and she’d investigated and documented the scene itself.

But if she didn’t close this case down today, she was going to be dealing with the drooling hounds of the media yet again.

If it came to that, she’d be tempted to play a tune on Ten’s face herself.

“She talks to us today, and we shut this down. Or I’m slapping her bevy of attorneys and reps with obstruction of justice.”

“When’s Roarke due home?”

With a frown, Eve stopped pacing long enough to look at her partner. “Why?”

“Because you’re getting a little edgy . . . edgier than usual. I think you have Roarke-withdrawal.” Peabody let out a wistful sigh. “Who could blame you?”

“I’m not having anything-withdrawal.” She muttered it, and began pacing again. She had long legs on a long body, and felt a little confined in the overly decorated space. Her hair was shorter than her partner’s, a deer-hide brown worn carelessly choppy around a lean face with large brown eyes.

Unlike many of the patients and clients of the Wilfred B. Icove Center, physical beauty wasn’t one of her priorities.

Death was.

Maybe she missed her husband, she admitted. It wasn’t a crime. In fact, it was probably one of those marriage rules she was still trying to learn...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Berkley
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2006
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 042520426X
• ISBN 13: 9780425204269
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 384
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: preigu; mail@preigu.de; ; Lengericher Landstr. 19; Osnabrück; 49078; Deutschland