Dark Rivers of the Heart by Dean Koontz Page B

thirties, was at the same time an elf and a succubus. Her green eyes were large and guileless—yet simultaneously smoky, mysterious. Her nose was pert—but her mouth was sensuous, the essence of all erotic orifices. She had large breasts, a slim waist, and long legs—but she chose to conceal those attributes in loose white blouses, white lab coats, and baggy chinos. In her scuffed Nikes, her feet were no doubt so feminine and delicate that Roy would have been delighted to spend hours kissing them.
    He had never made a pass at her, because she was reserved and businesslike—and because he suspected that she was a lesbian. He had nothing against lesbians. Live and let live. At the same time, however, he was loath to reveal his interest only to be rejected.
    Melissa said crisply, “Good morning, Roy.”
    “How have you been? Good heavens, you know that I haven’t been in L.A., haven’t seen you since—”
    “I was just examining the file.” Straight to business. She was never interested in small talk. “We have a finished enhancement.”
    When Melissa was talking, Roy was never able to decide whether to look at her eyes or her mouth. Her gaze was direct, with a challenge that he found appealing. But her lips were so deliciously ripe.
    She pushed a photograph across the desk.
    Roy looked away from her lips.
    The picture was a drastically improved, full-color version of the shot that he had seen on his attaché case computer terminal the night before: a man’s head from the neck up, in profile. Shadows still dappled the face, but they were lighter and less obscuring than they had been. The blurring screen of rain had been removed entirely.
    “It’s a fine piece of work,” Roy said. “But it still doesn’t give us a good enough look at him to make an identification.”
    “On the contrary, it tells us a lot about him,” Melissa said. “He’s between twenty-eight and thirty-two.”
    “How do you figure?”
    “Computer projection based on an analysis of lines radiating from the corner of his eye, percentage of gray in his hair, and the apparent degree of firmness of facial muscles and throat skin.”
    “That’s projecting quite a lot from such few—”
    “Not at all,” she interrupted. “The system makes analytic projections operating from a ten-megabyte database of biological information, and I’d pretty much bet the house on what it says.”
    He was thrilled by the way her supple lips formed the words “ten-megabyte database of biological information.” Her mouth was better than her eyes. Perfect. He cleared his throat. “Well—”
    “Brown hair, brown eyes.”
    Roy frowned. “The hair, okay. But you can’t see his eyes here.”
    Rising from her chair, Melissa took the photograph out of his hand and put it on the desk. With a pencil, she pointed to the beginning curve of the man’s eyeball as viewed from the side. “He’s not looking at the camera, so if you or I examined the photo under a microscope, we still wouldn’t be able to see enough of the iris to determine color. But even from an oblique perspective like this, the computer can detect a few pixels of color.”
    “So he has brown eyes.”
    “Dark brown.” She put down the pencil and stood with her left hand fisted on her hip, as delicate as a flower and as resolute as an army general. “Absolutely dark brown.”
    Roy liked her unshakable self-confidence, the brisk certitude with which she spoke. And that
mouth.
    “Based on the computer’s analysis of his physical relationship to measurable objects in the photograph, he’s five feet eleven inches tall.” She clipped her words, so the facts came out of her with the staccato energy of bullets from a submachine gun. “He weighs one hundred and sixty-five, give or take five pounds. He’s Caucasian, clean-shaven, in good physical shape, recently had a haircut.”
    “Anything else?”
    From the file folder, Melissa removed another photograph. “This is him. From the front,