Frankenstein Special Edition: Prodigal Son and City of Night. Dean Koontz

polished. The pungent smell of ammonia allowed no intrusion of the scent of licorice.

      Opposite the vanity mirror, hundreds of single-edged razor blades bristled from the wall. Each had been pressed at the same angle into the sheetrock, leaving half of the blade exposed, like a wicked silver fang. Row after row after row of clean, sparkling, unused razor blades.

      “Seems like,” she said, “the victim was even crazier than his killer.”

       CHAPTER 18

      IN NEW ORLEANS uptown society, formal dinner parties were a political necessity, and Victor took his responsibilities seriously.

      Inside the sprawling Garden District mansion, his housekeepers—Christine and Sandra—and his butler, William, had spent the day preparing for the evening’s event. They cleaned every room, added flowers and candles, swept the covered porches. Gardeners tended to the lawn, trees, flower beds, and shrubs.

      These people were all his creations, made at the Hands of Mercy, and were therefore tireless and efficient.

      In the formal dining room, the table was set for twelve with Pratesi linens, Buccelatti silverware, Limoges china, historic Paul Storr silver chargers, and a monumental Storr candelabrum featuring Bacchus and attendants. The sparkle factor was greater—and embodied greater value—than any display case of diamonds at Tiffany’s.

      The housekeepers and butler awaited their master’s inspection. He entered the dining room, already dressed for dinner, and considered the preparations.

      “Sandra, you’ve selected the right china for tonight’s guests.”

      His approval drew a smile from her, though it was uneasy

      “But, William, there are fingerprints on a couple of these glasses.”

      At once the butler took the indicated glasses away.

      Two centerpieces of cream-colored roses flanked the candelabrum, and Victor said of them, “Christine, too much greenery Strip some of it out to emphasize the blooms.”

      “I didn’t arrange the roses, sir,” she said, and seemed to be dismayed to have to reveal that his wife had taken charge of the roses. “Mrs. Helios preferred to do it herself. She read a book on flower arranging.”

      Victor knew that the staff liked Erika and worried that she should do well.

      He sighed. “Redo the arrangements anyway, but don’t say anything to my wife.” Wistfully, he removed one of the white roses and slowly turned it between thumb and forefinger. He sniffed it, noting that a few of the petals already showed early signs of wilt. “She’s so…young. She’ll learn.”

      AS THE HOUR drew near, Victor went to the master bedroom suite to determine what had delayed Erika.

      He found her in the dressing room, at her vanity. Her shoulder-length bronze hair was as lustrous as 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.”

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