Frankenstein: The Complete 5-Book Collection. Dean Koontz

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 pegs you and Frye for glory hogs.”

      “Envy,” Harker said dismissively. “We close more cases than anyone.”

      “Sometimes by popping the suspect,” Michael said, referring to a recent officer-involved shooting for which Harker had narrowly avoided being brought up on charges.

      Harker’s smile was contemptuous. “You want my theory about the library security guard?”

      Michael said, “Do I want pancreatic cancer?”

      “The black rooms are a death wish,” Harker conjectured.

      “Damn,” Carson said.

      “He tried to slash his wrists with each of those razor blades in the bathroom wall,” Harker continued. “But he just couldn’t find the courage.”

      “You and Frye went to Allwine’s apartment?”

      “Yeah. You two,” Harker said, “you’re our babies, and we sometimes feel the need to burp you.”

      He pushed between them, walked away, glanced back after a few steps. “When you have a theory, I’ll be happy to listen to it.”

      To Carson, Michael said, “I’ve got a short list of hearts I’d like to cut out.”

       CHAPTER 20

      AFTER VICTOR LEFT the master suite, Erika slipped into a St. John dress that managed to be sensational yet respectable, subtly sexy but classy.

      Standing in front of a full-length mirror in her enormous walk-in closet, which was as big as most master bedrooms, she knew that she looked enchanting, that she would leave an indelible impression on every man at the dinner. Nevertheless, she felt inadequate.

      She would have tried other dresses if the first guests had not been scheduled to arrive in mere minutes. Victor expected her to be at his side to greet each arrival, and she dared not fail him.

      All of her clothes were behind doors or in drawers along three aisles. She owned literally hundreds of outfits.

      She hadn’t shopped for any of them. Having created her to his ideal measurements, Victor had purchased everything while she had still been in the tank.

      Perhaps he’d bought some of these things for the previous Erika. She didn’t like to think about that.

      She hoped that someday she would be allowed to shop for herself. When Victor allowed that, she would know she had at last met his standards and earned his trust.

      Briefly, she wondered what it would be like not to care what Victor – or anyone – thought of her. To be herself. Independent.

      Those were dangerous thoughts. She must repress them.

      At the back of the closet, perhaps two hundred pairs of shoes were stored on canted shelves. Although she knew that time was of the essence, she dithered between Gucci and Kate Spade.

      Behind her in the closet, something rustled, something thumped.

      She turned to look back at the center aisle but saw only closed cherrywood doors behind which hung some of her seasonal wardrobe, and pale yellow carpet. She peeked into the right-hand aisle, then into the left, but they were also deserted.

      Refocusing on her dilemma, she finally resolved it by choosing the Kate Spades. Carrying them in one hand, she hurried out of the closet into her dressing room.

      Entering, she thought she saw movement from the corner of her eye, on the floor at the open doorway to the bedroom. When she turned her head, nothing was there.

      Curious, she went into the bedroom nevertheless – just in time to see the silk spread flutter behind something that had just slipped under the king-size bed.

      They had no house pets, no dog, no cat.

      Victor would be furious if it turned out that a rat had gotten into the house. He had zero tolerance for vermin.

      Erika had been made to be cautious of danger but to fear nothing in the extreme – although her programmed respect for her maker came close to fear at times.

      If a rat had gotten into the house and if now it hid under the bed, she would not hesitate to snare it and dispose of it.

      She set aside the Kate Spades and dropped to her knees beside the bed. She had no doubt that her reflexes were quick enough to snatch a scurrying rat.

      When she lifted the spread and looked under the bed, her superb vision required no flashlight. But nothing lurked beneath the boxed springs.

      She got to her feet and turned, surveying the room. She sensed that something was here, but she didn’t