Quotes from Jeff Lindsay

The killer wanted to be noticed—by all of us, of course, which was why the body had been displayed so publicly. But far more important, he had wanted the victim to pay attention to him, truly and completely see him, appreciate his significance. I thought about that for a minute, and it felt right. You should have noticed me, but you didn't. You ignored me and now your eye will pay for what your eyes failed to do.

First, it was entirely coincidental. This was Miami, after all. Random murders happen all the time, and they have to happen somewhere. The killers had simply chosen the handiest room, and that just happened to be mine. I thought about that for nearly a full second before concluding that it was nearly as likely that the sun would come up in the west, and just stay there for a few weeks.

Standing beside her was a man I can only describe as a generic fed, with a gray suit and white shirt and shiny black shoes. They were both facing my sister, Sergeant Deborah, and another man I didn't know. He was blond, about six feet tall, muscular, and absurdly good-looking in a rugged, masculine way, as if God had taken Brad Pitt and decided to make him really handsome.

Charming woman," Brian said, watching Rose disappear back into the kitchen. "You haven't seen anything yet," I told him. "Wait till you see how she puts a plate on the table." "I can hardly wait," he said. I

Camilla Figg was already there, crawling across the floor very slowly on all fours on the right side of the room and avoiding the left side altogether. That was a very good idea, because the left side of the room was so spattered with blood that it looked like a large animal had exploded. The blood glistened, still moist, and I felt a twitch of unhappiness that there could be so much of the awful stuff.

Would she really abandon me, her own dear brother? Leave me to a fate worse than death, although certainly including it? I didn't think she would, not willingly. I took a sip of water and tried to think it through. She

Kraunauer smiled, and now the wolf fangs were out for all to see. "Let's just put it this way," he said. "If you're still sitting here in TGK tomorrow at this time, it means I'm dead." He closed the folder and allowed his smile to get much, much broader. "And I don't plan on dying anytime soon, Mr. Morgan.

Does that look like a fucking kidnapping to you?" Deborah demanded. "Not a very efficient one," I said, looking at the huge smear of blood. "They left almost half of their victim behind.

The elevator made a muted ding sound to announce its arrival at last, but I was no longer interested, because I had a thought. Every now and then I do have thoughts. Most of them never make it all the way to the surface, probably because of a lifetime of trying to seem human. But this one came slowly up and, like a gas bubble bursting through mud, popped brightly in my brain. "Saturday morning?" I said. "Do you remember what time?

I had just forgotten, somehow, that life was struggle, and the only reward was to be allowed to live a little longer and struggle harder.

Whatever," I said. "The point is, if it's a child small enough to throw, then she lost so much blood here she has to be dead." "She's eighteen years old," Debs said. "Almost nineteen." "Then assuming she's average size, I don't think we want to try to catch somebody who could throw her that hard. If you shoot him, he might get very annoyed and pull off your arms." Deborah

And I hear something in the next room, and I sneak to the doorway and peek— The counter. There's a hand lying there. A human hand. But it's not attached to anything. This doesn't make sense. And right next to it that's a foot, also not attached. And other parts, too, and oh holy shit that's the head right there on top, eyes wide-open and looking right at me and all I can do is stare back— And

Rita was not in the waiting room when I stepped off the elevator, so I sat down and thumbed through a copy of GOLF magazine. There were several articles on improving my short game that would have been much more interesting if only I played golf. The large golden clock on the wall said it was exactly two thirty-six when the elevator doors slid open and Rita stepped out. "Oh, Dexter, you're here already," she said. I

But I barely had time to put my coffee cup down on my desk when I received a visitation from the Ghost of Christmas Gone Terribly Wrong, in the person of Israel Salguero, from Internal Affairs.

loud musical voices from the bottom floor of your brain that try to send you reeling along the path, no matter how urgent they have become in the rippling light of the moon.

But on the plus side, I was living like a millionaire without paying higher taxes, and I got to hang out with a Real Live Hollywood Star and eat haute cuisine. Of

It's the tensile strength," she said in her loud voice. "Like surface cohesion in a cup of water. We did this in physics." I

The Priest used to try to scare us with these pictures of the Devil. Horns and red face and evil stare—but this guy is scarier, because he's just so fucking ordinary-looking and real but so totally fucking evil and really, really happy about that, and about being there with this chopped-up body. And

Of course, there was Lily Anne, the living extension of all that is Me, my DNA shipment into the future. And

The idea of a large number of vampires in Miami, whether actual or fake, was a little bit alarming—even if only for aesthetic reasons. I

I flipped through my file and found his name: George Kukarov. He lived on Dilido Island, a very nice Beach address not too far from his club.

Acosta's house was in a section of the Gables that would have been a walled community if it was built today. The houses were large, and many of them, like Acosta's, were built in the Spanish style out of large blocks of coral rock. The lawn looked like a putting green and there was a two-story garage on the side, attached to the house by a breezeway. Deborah

Sure," Chutsky said dubiously. "But you're still out there in the open." She

Is he here right now?" Deborah asked the maid. She nodded her head jerkily. "Creo que sí," she said. She licked her lips again and then, with a sort of spasmodic lurch, she pushed the door closed, not quite slamming it. Deborah looked at the shut door for a moment, then shook her head. "What was she so scared of?" she said. "Deportation?" I said. She