Free Prodigal Son by Dean Koontz Page A

silk. The exquisite form and buttery smoothness of her bare shoulders stirred him.
    Unfortunately, she had too much enthusiasm for the effects of makeup.
    “Erika, you can’t improve on perfection.”
    “I so much want to look nice for you, Victor.”
    “Then wash most of that stuff off. Let your natural beauty shine through. I’ve given you everything you need to dazzle.”
    “How sweet,” she said, but she seemed uncertain whether she had been complimented or criticized.
    “The district attorney’s wife, the university president’s wife—none of them will be painted like pop-music divas.”
    Her smile faltered. Victor believed that directness with a subordinate—or a wife—was always preferable to criticism couched to spare feelings.
    Standing close behind her, he slid his hands along her bare shoulders, bent close to smell her hair. He pulled that glorious mane aside, kissed the nape of her neck—and felt her shiver.
    He fingered her emerald necklace. “Diamonds would be a better choice. Please change it. For me.”
    In the vanity mirror, she met his eyes, then lowered her gaze to the array of makeup brushes and bottles before her. She spoke in a whisper: “Your standards for everything are…so high.”
    He kissed her neck again and matched her whisper: “That’s why I made you. My wife.”

CHAPTER 19
    IN THE CAR, on the way to the Quarter for a grab-it dinner in Jackson Square, Carson and Michael ping-ponged the case.
    She said, “Allwine wasn’t chloroformed.”
    “We don’t have blood results yet.”
    “Remember his face. He wasn’t chloroformed. That makes him and the dry cleaner, Chaterie, the exceptions.”
    “The other male, Bradford Walden,
was
chloroformed,” Michael said. “Otherwise, those three make a set.”
    “The Surgeon took their internal organs as souvenirs.”
    “But from the women he only takes ears, feet, hands…. Did Nancy Whistler e-mail you that list of people with library keys?”
    “Yeah. But after seeing Allwine’s apartment, I think he opened the door for the killer, the guy didn’t need a key.”
    “How do you get to that?”
    “I don’t know. It’s just a feeling.”
    “Let’s do some victimology analysis,” Michael suggested. “First…I’ve given up on the idea the victims are connected to one another somehow. They’re random prey.”
    “How did you analyze your way to that?”
    “Now and then,” he said, “I have a feeling of my own.”
    “Any significance to which body part he takes from any particular victim?”
    “Elizabeth Lavenza, swimming without her hands. Are hands of special importance in her life, her work? Is she a pianist? Maybe an artist? Maybe a massage therapist?”
    “As you know, she was a clerk in a bookstore.”
    “Meg Saville, the tourist from Idaho.”
    “Took her feet.”
    “She wasn’t a ballet dancer. Just a receptionist.”
    “He takes a nurse’s ears, a university student’s legs,” Carson said. “If there’s significance, it’s inscrutable.”
    “He takes the dry cleaner’s liver, the bartender’s kidney. If he’d carved the bartender’s liver, we might build a theory on that.”
    “Pathetic,” she said.
    “Totally,” he agreed. “The bartender had a Goth lifestyle, and Allwine lived in black. Is that a connection?”
    “I didn’t get
Goth
from his apartment, just
crazy.
”
    She parked illegally in Jackson Square, near a Cajun restaurant favored by cops.
    Just as they reached the entrance, Harker exited the place with a large bag of takeout, bringing with him the mouthwatering aroma of blackened catfish, reminding Carson that she’d skipped lunch.
    As if not in the least surprised to see them, as if picking up in midconversation, Harker said, “Word is the mayor might push for a task force as early as the weekend. If we’ll be teaming this later, we might as well start swapping thoughts now.”
    To Harker, Carson said, “Surely you gotta know your reputation. Everyone in the department