Shadowfires by Dean Koontz Page A

the stark fluorescent light imparted a wintry sheen to the stainless-steel gurneys and to the bright stainless-steel handles and hinges on the cabinets along the walls. The glossy white enamel finish of the chests and cabinets, though surely no thicker than an eighth of an inch, had a curiously deep—even bottomless—appearance similar to the mysterious, lustrous depth of a landscape of moon-washed snow.
    She tried not to look at the shrouded bodies and refused to think about what might lie in some of the enormous cabinet drawers.
    The fat man in the madras jacket was Ronald Tescanet, an attorney representing the city’s interests. He had been called away from dinner to be on hand when Rachael spoke with the police and, afterward, to discuss the disappearance of her husband’s body. His voice was too mellifluous, almost greasy, and he was so effusively sympathetic that his condolences poured forth like warm oil from a bottle. While the police questioned Rachael, Tescanet paced in silence behind them, frequently smoothing his thick black hair with his plump white hands, each of which was brightened by two gold and diamond rings.
    As she had suspected, the two men in dark suits were plainclothes police. They showed Rachael their ID cards and badges. Refreshingly, they did not burden her with unctuous sympathy.
    The younger of the two, beetle-browed and burly, was Detective Hagerstrom. He said nothing at all, leaving the questioning entirely to his partner. He stood unmoving, like a rooted oak, in contrast to the attorney’s ceaseless roaming. He watched with small brown eyes that gave Rachael the impression of stupidity at first; but after a while, on reconsideration, she realized that he possessed a higher than average intelligence which he kept carefully veiled.
    She worried that somehow Hagerstrom, by virtue of a cop’s almost magical sixth sense, would pierce her deception and see the knowledge that she was concealing. As inconspicuously as possible, she avoided meeting his gaze.
    The older cop, Detective Julio Verdad, was a small man whose complexion was the shade of cinnamon and whose black eyes had a vague trace of purple like the skins of ripe plums. He was a sharp dresser: a well-tailored blue suit, dark but summerweight; a white shirt that might have been silk, with French cuffs held together by gold and pearl cuff links; a burgundy necktie with a gold tie chain instead of a clip or tack; dark burgundy Bally loafers.
    Although Verdad spoke in clipped sentences and was almost curt, his voice was unfailingly quiet and gentle. The contrast between his lulling tone and his brisk manner was disconcerting. “You’ve seen their security, Mrs. Leben.”
    “Yes.”
    “And are satisfied?”
    “I suppose.”
    To Benny, Verdad said, “You are?”
    “Ben Shadway. An old friend of Mrs. Leben’s.”
    “Old school friend?”
    “No.”
    “A friend from work?”
    “No. Just a friend.”
    The plum-dark eyes gleamed. “I see.” To Rachael, Verdad said, “I have a few questions.”
    “About what?”
    Instead of answering at once, Verdad said, “Like to sit down, Mrs. Leben?”
    Everett Kordell said, “Yes, of course, a chair,” and both he and the fat attorney, Ronald Tescanet, hurried to draw one away from a corner desk.
    Seeing that no one else intended to sit, concerned about being placed in a position of inferiority with the others peering down at her, Rachael said, “No, thank you. I’ll stand. I can’t see why this should take very long. I’m certainly in no mood to linger here. What is it you want to ask me, anyway?”
    Verdad said, “An unusual crime.”
    “Body snatching,” she said, pretending to be both baffled and sickened by what had happened. The first emotion had to be feigned; the second was more or less genuine.
    “Who might have done it?” Verdad asked.
    “I’ve no idea.”
    “You know no one with a reason?”
    “Someone with a motive for stealing Eric’s body? No, of course not,”