Prodigal Son by Dean Koontz Page B

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.”

CHAPTER 24
    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