t."
"True. You could tell them that due to my obsessive involvement in a juicy murder case, Thanksgiving's been cancelled. No turkey for you. See,, then it's all on me. Me bloody wife's driving me starkers," she said in an exaggerated Irish accent while she waved the water glass around. The lieutenant, she's working all the day and half the night as well, and not giving me five minutes of her precious time. What's a man to do, then? Bugger it."
He sat silent a moment, just staring at her. "I don't sound a bit like that, nor does anyone of my acquaintance."
"You haven't heard yourself when you're drunk, which you would be out of frustration with my selfish behavior." She shrugged, drank some water. "Problem solved."
"Not nearly, but thanks for the strange and generous offer. Well. Back to murder, which as it happens is a simpler matter for both of us to deal with."
"Got that right."
"Why do you suppose a man of Icove's stature would dabble, if your theory's correct, in gray medicine?"
"Because he could, that's one. And because he was hoping to build a-what do you call it?-better mousetrap. The human body's flawed, right. It breaks down, needs regular repair and maintenance. It's fragile. He grew up seeing its fragility with his parents' work. Then, with his mother's accident and subsequent suicide. His wife's death, and the whole ugly nightmare of the Urbans. So how much of a rush would it be to try to make it perfect, to make it stronger, more durable, smarter? You've already done considerable work toward that goal, and gotten accolades for it. Gotten way rich for it. Why not take it up a level?"
"With only women?"
"I don't know." She shook her head. "Maybe he had a thing for women. His mother, his wife. Maybe he focused on women because his women had proven too fragile.
"And rich or not, he's got to have income to sustain the work. Probably, that's more your area than mine. It's still easier to sell a female than a male. There are still more female LCs than male. Sexual predators are most usually male. You guys equate sex with power or virility, even life. Punishment, if you're twisted. Women, mostly, equate it with emotion first. Or see it as a commodity or bargaining tool."
"Or weapon."
"Yeah, that, too. It's how the machine ticks. See . .." She ate without thinking about it now that the pieces of the case were shifting around in her mind. "You've got this big-deal doc-big brain, big name, big bucks. Big ego. You get that."
Roarke smiled. "Naturally."
"He's already got a lot under his belt. Lots of good, public work, lots of important slaps on the back. And a hell of a good lifestyle. But there's always more. More to do, more to want to do. More to just want. "That Frankenstein guy, he must've been pretty smart."
He loved watching her wind her way through a case, he thought. The way her brain picked at details and knitted them together. "Well, creating life out of dead body parts."
'Okay, disgusting, but smart. Lots of medical, scientific, technological advances come through little bits of craziness, a lot of ego."
"Or happy accidents," Roarke pointed out.
She nodded toward the candles burning on the table. "Bet the first guy who made fire figured he was a god, and the other cavemen bowed down to him."
"Or bashed him in the head with a rock and stole his burning stick." She had to laugh. "Yeah. Well, yeah, but you get me. So you make fire, then, hey, let's see what we can do with this. Wow, no more raw mastodon! Make mine medium-well. Oh shit, I set Joe on fire!"
Now Roarke's laugh rolled out, and made her grin. "Oops, sorry, Joe," she continued. "So now you have to figure out how to treat a burn. And how to deal with somebody who likes to set Joe on fire, and maybe torch the village. Next thing you know, you've got hospitals and cops and climate control and-" She forked up more meat. "Roast pig on demand."
"A fascinating capsule view of civilization."
"I think I got off my point somewhere around the mastodon. Anyway, what I'm saying is, you do something big-universal big, life-and-death big, and get known for it. What's next?"
"Bigger."
When her 'link beeped, she snatched it up. "Dallas."
"You'd better be right." Reo's Southern-comfort voice was all busies. "Because our asses are sharing the same sling."
"Just shoot me the paper."
"No, I'm bringing the warrant personally. I'll meet you at Icove Jr.'s evidence in twenty minutes. Oh, and Dallas, if that sling rips, I'm tossing you out and using you to break my fall."
"Fair enough." She clicked off, glanced at Roarke. "Well, here we go," she said, and beeped Peabody.
She beat Reo and Peabody, and used her waiting time to study Icove's home. There was a light on, third-floor window. Home office, bedroom? Another, giving a backwash of pale light, second floor. Probably a hall light left burning for convenience.