The In Death Collection Books 21-25 - J. D. Robb [49]
“Maybe you could make some pretense about actually being on duty,” Eve suggested. “Just for the frigging record.”
“Just saying.” She glanced around as they turned toward the third-floor stairway. “Big place. Nice colors, pretty art. Quiet.”
“Wife and kids are supposedly tucked into their summer house. I’d imagine his office is soundproofed. Deactivates his household droid for the night, puts a no-pass on his security. Yeah, he’s serious about not being disturbed.”
The third floor had been reconfigured into three rooms. She noted the play area—kid world—with high-end arcade games, entertainment screen, lounging chairs, snack bar. Beside it was an area more adult, and more female by Eve’s gauge. A kind of woman’s sitting room/office done in pastels with arches and curves.
Across from it, a door was closed. Assuming soundproofing, she didn’t knock, but pressed the intercom button. “Dr. Icove, this is Lieutenant Dallas. I’m accompanied by two detectives and an assistant prosecuting attorney. We’ve entered the residence with a warrant to search. You are legally obligated to open this door and cooperate.”
She waited a beat, heard no response. “Should you refuse to cooperate, we are authorized to bypass the locks and enter. You may contact your attorney or representative for verification. You may request that your attorney or representative be present to supervise said search.”
“Silent treatment,” Peabody commented after a moment.
“Let the record show that Dr. Icove has been informed and has refused to respond verbally. We are entering without his acknowledgment.”
Eve dug out her master, slid it through the standard interior lock.
“Dr. Icove, this is the police. We’re coming in.”
She opened the door.
The first thing she heard was music, the soft, mindless mush often played in elevators or on ’link holds. The desk stood in front of a trio of windows. If he’d been working there, there was no sign. A door to the left opened into what she could see was a bath. Beside the door was a mood screen, set on a soft, mindless mush of colors to match the music.
There was art, and books, family photographs, what she assumed were awards, diplomas.
The privacy screens were engaged on the glass, the lights were on low, and the room was comfortably warm.
A sitting area was stylishly arranged in the right front corner. On the table were a glossy black thermal pot, a plate of fruit and cheese, an oversized white cup and saucer, and a pale green cloth napkin.
On a long merlot-colored sofa, its leather as rich as her coat, lay Wilfred B. Icove, Jr. His feet were bare, and a pair of black slippers were neatly tucked at the end of the sofa. He wore dark gray lounging pants and a pullover in a lighter tone.
The heart blood stained the sweater, and the handle of the scalpel gleamed silver in the light.
“Field kits,” Eve snapped out to Peabody. “Call it in. Have McNab seal up and hit the security discs right now. Seal the house.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Son of a bitch,” Eve said softly when she was alone. “Son of a bitch. Victim visually identified by investigating officer is Icove Jr., Dr. Wilfred B. Victim is DOS, visual determination. Until investigators are sealed, the body will not be examined, nor will the room be entered to avoid contamination of scene. What appears to be a medical scalpel, of similar or same type used in the case of Icove Sr., has been inserted in victim’s chest. It’s heart blood. As seen on record, victim is in a reclining position on a sofa in his home office. The door to the office was secured, lights were on low setting, privacy screens on all windows engaged.”
She held up a hand as she heard footsteps—high heels. “APA Reo approaching scene. No entry, Reo. We seal up first.”
“What’s happened? Peabody said Icove’s dead. I don’t—”
She broke off, looking around Eve into the room. Her eyes tracked, from the bath, across the room, to the sofa.
Then they rolled back in her head as she made a small sound, like a balloon