Much of the preservation appeared past its prime, pelts flea-bitten and mangy, specimens closest to the body flecked with gore. The smell got the better of me and I ran out, retraced through the yard, sidled along two cars parked side by side in the driveway. The Forbishers’ bronze Cadillac CTS and a battered black Kia that had been Frankie DiMargio’s daily ride.

Even back at the curb, my nostrils remained saturated. I was twenty feet up the block and chewing my fourth breath mint when Milo joined me.

“You probably didn’t need that.”

“Glad I saw it.”

“Why?”

“Seeing the way she lived.”

“Meaning?”

“People with unusual interests often find others who share their tastes. Frankie sounds like a loner but there were times she came home late, so some sort of socializing was going on. Maybe you’ll find a tight little social group that can enlighten you.”

“Fellow formaldehyde freaks? Can’t wait.” He lit up another cigar. “All that dead stuff she collected. To me it’s like trivializing what I see every day.”

I said, “Obviously, death holds no fascination for you. Same for kids growing up on farms, or in places like India where bodies are displayed openly. But our culture hides it and that can make it even more terrifying. For some people, manipulating specimens helps by simulating control.”

He smoked. “Manipulation sounds like our bad boy. You see a suit like Fellinger hooking up with someone like Frankie?”

“Affairs of the heart, there’s no telling.”

“Seriously, Alex.”

“I mean it. One thing Frankie had in common with Kathy Hennepin is shyness. Someone—even a suit—who could make her feel comfortable might have an advantage.”

He took a few steps, reversed, returned. “The food, the whole staging thing. Seeing those specimens in there got me thinking. That’s what taxidermists do, right? Arrange bodies, create tableaus. What if Fellinger—or whoever—met Frankie through her hobby and decided she’d be his specimen?”

“Whoever? You’ve got new doubts about Fellinger?”

“Time to think gave me doubts. Nothing happened during surveillance and let’s face it, I’ve got nothing on him but theory.”

He dropped what was left of the cigar, ground it out with his shoe. “Another family to talk to, fun-time—let me ask you, amigo, what that tech said, everything tastes like chicken. You think chickens say everything tastes like corn?”

CHAPTER

17

By one thirty a.m., nothing new had emerged from Frankie DiMargio’s crime scene.

Milo said, “I’ll notify her parents tomorrow, give ’em a few more hours before their world changes.”

I said, “When?”

“I’m thinking nine, ten. You free?”

“Give me an hour to get ready.”

“Putting on your game face? Mine never seems to fit.”