Free Origin in Death by J. D. Robb Page B

her back. "So am I."

Chapter Four
    THEY SPLIT THE DISCS, ROARKE IN HIS ADJOINING office, Eve at her desk. Where Eve spent a frustrated ten minutes trying to cajole her unit into reading what turned out to be encoded data.
    "He's got a block on the discs," she called out. "Some sort of privacy protection thing. My unit won't accept or override."
    "Of course it will," Roarke said and had her frowning up at him. He'd come back into her office without her hearing him move. He only smiled, and laying a hand on her shoulder, rubbing a bit, scanned the screen. "Here you are, then." With a few keystrokes he bypassed the privacy mode and something resembling text popped onto her screen.
    "It's still coded," she pointed out.
    "Patience, Lieutenant. Computer, run deciphering and translation program. Display results."
    Working . . .
    "I guess you already did yours," Eve complained. "This unit's equipped to handle code, my technologically challenged cop. You've only to tell it what to do. And .. ."
    Task complete. Text displayed.
    "Fine. I've got it now. Or would if I was a frigging doctor. It's medical crap."
    He kissed the top of her head. "Good luck," he added, and strolled back to his own office.
    "Passcoded the unit," she muttered. "Privacy protected the discs, and coded them. Reasons for that." She sat back a moment, drummed her fingers. Could be just his perfectionist nature. Obsessive. Compulsive. Doctor-patient confidentiality. But it seemed like more.
    Even the text was secretive. No names, she noted. The patient was referred to throughout as Patient A-l.
    Eighteen-year-old female, she read. Height: five feet, seven inches. Weight: one hundred fifteen pounds.
    He listed her vitals, blood pressure, pulse rate, blood work, heart and brain patterns-all within normal range, as far as she could tell.
    The disc seemed to be a medical history, detailing tests, results, examinations. And grades, she realized. Patient A-l had excellent physical stamina, intelligence quotient, cognitive abilities. Why would he care about those things? she wondered. Eyesight corrected to 20/20.
    She read quick details on hearing tests, stress tests, more exams. Respiration, bone density.
    Then was thrown again by notes on mathematic abilities, language skills, artistic and/or musical talents, and puzzle-solving ability.
    She spent an hour with A-l, spanning three years of similar tests, notes, results.
    The text ended with a final note.
    A-1 treatment complete. Placement successful.
    She rapidly scanned another five discs, finding the same sorts of tests, notes, with occasional additions of surgical corrections. Nose planing, dental corrections, breast enhancements.
    Then she sat back, propped her feet on the desk, and stared up at the ceiling to think.
    Anonymous patients, all referred to by numbers and letters. No names. All females-at least in her stash. Treatment was either complete or terminated.
    There had to be more. More notes, more complete case files. If so, there had to be another place. Office, lab, something. Most of the face or body sculpting, which was supposed to be his specialty, was minor on these cases.
    Tune-ups, she mused.
    The records were more an ongoing evaluation: physical, mental, creative, cognitive.
    Placement. Where were they placed after treatment was complete? Where did they go if and when it was terminated?
    And what the hell had the good doctor been up to with more than fifty female patients?
    "Experiments," she said when Roarke came through the door. "These are like experiments, right? Is that how it reads to you?"
    "Lab rats," he agreed. "Nameless. And these notes strike me as being his quick reference guide, not his official charts."
    "Right. Just something he could flip through to check a detail or jog his memory. A lot of shields for something this vague, which is telling me it springs out of something more detailed. Still they fit my gauge of him. In each of the cases I reviewed, he's aiming for perfection. Body