Frankenstein: The Complete 5-Book Collection. Dean Koontz
take-out containers.
Strolling along the sidewalk were young couples hand-in-hand. Musicians in black suits and porkpie hats hurried past, carrying instrument cases, shouldering between slower-moving older Cajun men in chambray shirts and Justin Wilson hats. Groups of young women showed more skin than common sense, and drag queens enjoyed the goggling of tourists.
Somewhere good jazz was playing. Through the night air wove a tapestry of talk and laughter.
Carson said, “What pisses me off about guys like Harker and Frye—”
“This’ll be an epic list,” Michael said.
“—is how I let them irritate me.”
“They’re cheesed off because no one makes detective as young as we did.”
“That was three years ago for me. They better adjust soon.”
“They’ll retire, get shot. One way or another, we’ll eventually have our chance to be the old cranks.”
After savoring a forkful of corn maque choux, Carson said, “It’s all about my father.”
“Harker and Frye don’t care about what your father did or didn’t do,” Michael assured her.
“You’re wrong. Everyone expects that sooner or later it’ll turn out I carry the dirty-cop gene, just like they think he did.”
Michael shook his head, “I don’t for a minute think you carry the dirty-cop gene.”
“I don’t give a shit what you think, Michael, I know what you think. It’s what everyone else thinks that makes this job so much harder for me than it ought to be.”
“Yeah, well,” he said, pretending offense, “I don’t give a shit that you don’t give a shit what I think.”
Chagrined, Carson laughed softly. “I’m sorry, man. You’re one of a handful of people I do care what they think of me.”
“You wounded me,” he said. “But I’ll heal.”
“I’ve worked hard to get where I am.” She sighed. “Except where I am is eating another meal on my feet, in the street.”
“The food’s great,” he said, “and I’m glittering company.”
“Considering the pay, why do we work so hard?”
“We’re genuine American heroes.”
“Yeah, right.”
Michael’s cell phone rang. Licking Creole tartar sauce off his lips, he answered the call: “Detective Maddison.” When he hung up moments later, he said, “We’re invited to the morgue. No music, no dancing. But it might be fun.”
CARESSED BY CANDLELIGHT, the chased surfaces of classic silver seemed perpetually about to melt.
“With five movers and shakers and their spouses gathered in his dining room, Victor looked forward to stimulating conversation that he could guide subtly into channels that would serve his interests long after the mayor, the district attorney, the university president, and the others had left his table. To Victor, every social occasion was primarily an opportunity to influence political and cultural leaders, discreetly advancing his agenda.
Initially, of course, the talk was of frivolous things, even among such accomplished guests. But Victor fancied himself to be as capable of light chatter as anyone and could enjoy this witty froth because it sharpened his anticipation for meatier discussion.
William and Christine served the soup, the butler holding the tureen while the maid ladled a creamy pink richness into the bowls.
This was Erika’s third dinner party in the five weeks since she had risen from the tank, and she exhibited some improvement in her social skills, though less than he had hoped.
He saw her frown as she noticed that the flower arrangements were different from those that she had painstakingly created. She possessed the good sense to say nothing of the change.
When his wife glanced at him, however, Victor said, “The roses are perfect,” so she would learn from her error.
District Attorney Watkins, whose once-patrician nose had begun subtly to deform as inhaled cocaine ate away supporting cartilage, used one hand to fan the rising aroma from the bowl to his nostrils. “Erika, the soup smells delicious.”
John Watkins’s opponent in the next election – Buddy Guitreau – was one of Victor’s people. With all the dirt about Watkins that Victor could provide, Buddy would romp to victory at the polls. In the months until then, however, it was necessary to flatter Watkins with dinner invitations and to work with him.
“I love lobster bisque,” said Pamela Watkins. “Is this your recipe, Erika?”
“No. I found it in a magazine, but I added some spices. I doubt I’ve improved it, probably the opposite, but I like even lobster bisque to have a little bite.”
“Oh, it’s divine,” the university president’s wife declared after her first taste.
This compliment, at once echoed by others, brought a glow of pride to Erika’s face, but when she herself raised a spoonful to her mouth, she took it with a soft, protracted slurp.
Appalled, Victor watched her dip the spoon into the bowl once more.
Soup had not been on the menu at either of their previous dinner parties, and Victor had taken a meal with Erika only twice otherwise. Her faux pas surprised and unsettled him.
She sucked in the second spoonful no less noisily than she had the first.
Although none of the guests appeared to notice this ghastly play of tongue and lips, Victor took offense that as his wife she should risk being mocked. Those who might laugh at her behind her back would also laugh at him.
He announced, “The bisque is curdled. William, Christine, please remove it at once.”
“Curdled?” the mayor’s wife asked, bewildered. “Not mine.”
“Curdled,” Victor insisted as the servants quickly retrieved the soup bowls. “And you don’t want to eat a lobster dish when it might be in any way off.”
Stricken, Erika watched as the bowls were removed from the table.
“I’m sorry, Erika,” Victor said, into an awkward silence. “This is the first time I’ve ever found fault with your cooking – or with anything about you.”
John Watkins protested, “Mine was delicious.”
Although she might not have understood the cause of Victor’s action, Erika recovered quickly. “No, John. You’ve always got my vote for district attorney. But in culinary matters, I trust Victor. His palate is as refined as any chef’s.”
Victor felt his clenched jaw relaxing into a genuine smile. In part, Erika had redeemed herself.
THE GRAY VINYL-TILE FLOOR squeaked under Carson’s and Michael’s shoes. Although subtle, the sounds seemed loud in the otherwise silent hallway.
The forensic pathology unit appeared to be deserted. At this hour, staffing should have been reduced but not this drastically.
They found Jack Rogers where he said he’d be – in Autopsy Room Number 2. With him were the professionally fileted corpse of Bobby Allwine, supine upon a guttered steel table, and a lanky young assistant whom Jack introduced as Luke.
“Trumped