Dexter 4 - Dexter by Design (4 page)

I WAS NOT AT ALL CERTAIN I WAS GOING TO THE RIGHT PLACE until I got there and pulled up in front —it had seemed like such an unlikely destination before I got to where I could see the yellow crime-scene tape, the lights of the patrol cars flashing in the dusk, and the growing crowd of gawkers hoping to see something unforgettable. It was almost always crowded at Joe's Stone Crab, but not in July. The restaurant would not open again until October, which seemed like a long wait even for Joe's.

But this was a different crowd tonight, and they weren't here for stone crabs. They were hungry for something else tonight, something Joe would most likely prefer to take off his menu.

I parked and followed the trail of uniformed officers around to the back, where tonight's entree sat, leaning back against the wall beside the service door. I heard the sibilant interior chuckling before I actually saw any details, but as I got close enough, the lights strung up by the forensic team showed me plenty worth an appreciative smile.

His feet were crammed into a pair of those black, glove leather shoes that are usually Italian and most often worn for the sole purpose of dancing. He also wore a pair of very nice resort-style shorts in a tasteful cranberry color, and a blue silk shirt with a silver embossed palm tree pattern on it. But the shirt was unbuttoned and pulled back to reveal that the man's chest had been removed and the cavity emptied out of all the natural and awful stuff that should go in there. It was now filled instead with ice, bottles of beer, and what appeared to be a shrimp cocktail ring from the grocery store.

His right hand was clutching a fistful of Monopoly money, and his face was covered with another of those glued-on plastic masks.

Vince Masuoka crouched on the far side of the doorway spreading dust in slow, even strokes across the wall, and I stepped over beside him.

“Are we going to get lucky tonight?” I asked him.

He snorted. “If they let us take a couple of those free beers,” he said. “They're really cold.”

“How can you tell?” I asked.

He jerked his head toward the body. “It's that new kind, the label turns blue when it's cold,” he said. He wiped his arm across his forehead. “It's gotta be over ninety out here, and that beer would taste great right now.”

“Sure,” I said, looking at the improbable shoes on the body. “And then we could go dancing.”

“Hey,” he said. “You want to? When we're done?”

“No,” I answered. “Where's Deborah?” He nodded to his left. “Over there,” he said. “Talking to the woman who found it.”

I walked over to where Debs was interviewing an hysterical Hispanic woman who was crying into her hands and shaking her head at the same time, which struck me as a very difficult thing to do, like rubbing your belly and patting your head. But she was doing it quite well, and for some reason Deborah was not impressed with the woman's wonderful coordination.

“Arabelle,” Debs was saying, “Arabelle, please listen to me.” Arabelle was not listening, and I didn't think my sister's vocal tone of combined anger and authority was well calculated to win over anyone —especially not someone who looked like she had been sent over from a casting office to play the part of a cleaning woman with no green card. Deborah glared at me as I approached, as if it was my fault that she was intimidating Arabelle, so I decided to help.

It is not that I think Debs is incompetent —she is very good at her job; it's in her blood, after all. And the idea that to know me is to love me is one that has never crossed the shadowed threshold of my mind. Just the opposite, in fact. But Arabelle was so upset, it was clear that she was not filled with the thrill of discovery. Instead she was several steps over the edge into hysteria, and talking to hysterical people, like so much of ordinary human interaction, isn't most people's favorite thing to do, happily for Dark and Dismal Dexter.

It was all technique, a craft and not an art, and that put it squarely inside the expertise of anyone who has studied and copied human behavior. Smile in the right places, nod your head, pretend to listen -1 had mastered it ages ago.

“Arabelle,” I said in a soothing voice and with the proper Central American accent. She stopped shaking her head for a moment.

“Arabelle, necesitamos descubrir este monstruo.” I looked over at Debs and said, “It is a monster that did this, right?” and she snapped her chin up and down in a nod of agreement.

“Digame, por favor,” I said soothingly, and Arabelle very gratifyingly lowered one hand from her face.

“Si?” she said shyly, and I marveled once again at the power of my totally smarmy synthetic charm. And in two languages, too.

“En Ingles?” I said with a really good fake smile. “Porque mi hermana no habla Espanol.” I said nodding at Deborah. I was sure that referring to Debs as “my sister', rather than “the authority figure with a gun who wants to send you back to El Salvador after she has seen you beaten and raped', would help to open her up a little bit.

“Do you speak English?”

“Lee-tell beet,” she said.

“Good,” I said. “Tell my sister what you saw.” And I took a step back, only to find that Arabelle had shot out a hand and clamped it onto my arm.

“You no go?” she said shyly.

I stay here,” I said. She looked at me searchingly for a moment.

I don't have any idea what she was looking for, but she apparently thought she saw it. She let go of my arm, dropped both hands to clasp them in front of her, and faced Deborah, standing almost at attention.

I looked at Deborah, too, and found her staring at me with a look of disbelief on her face. “Jesus,” she said. “She trusts you and not me?”

“She can tell that my heart is pure,” I said.

“Pure what?” Debs said, and she shook her head. “Jesus. If only she knew.”

I had to admit there was some truth in my sister's ironic observation.

Still, what I was had all been sanctioned and set up by her father, Saint Harry, and even in death his was not an authority that Debs would question —nor would I, for that matter. But her tone of voice was a little sharp for someone who was counting on me for help, and it stung just a little. “If you like,” I said, I can leave and let you do this alone.”

“No!” said Arabelle, and once again her hand flew over and attached itself to my arm. “You say that you stay,” she said, accusation and near-panic in her voice.

I raised an eyebrow at Deborah.

She shrugged. “Yeah,” she said. “You stay.” I patted Arabelle's hand and pried it off me. “I'll be right here,” I said, adding, “Espero aqui,” with another completely artificial smile that for some reason seemed to reassure her. She looked into my eyes, smiled back, took a deep breath and faced Debs.

“Tell me,” she said to Arabelle.

I get here same hour, like every time,” she said.

“What hour is that?” Deborah asked.

Arabelle shrugged. “Five o'clock,” she said. “Threes time a week now, because is close en Julio, but they wan keep it clean. No coke-roachess.” She looked at me and I nodded; coke-roachess bad.

“And you went to the back door?” Deborah asked.

“Esway, es ...” She looked at me and made an awkward face. “Siempre?”

“Always,” I translated.

Arabelle nodded. “Always back door,” she said. “Frawnt ees close hasta octuobre!

Deborah cocked her head for a moment, but then got it: front closed until October. “Okay,” she said. “So you get here, you go around to the back door, and you see the body?” Arabelle covered her face again, just for a moment. She looked at me and I nodded, so she dropped her hands. “Yes.”

“Did you notice anything else, anything unusual?” Debs asked, and Arabelle looked at her blankly. “Did you see something that shouldn't be there?”

“El cuerpo,” Arabelle said indignantly, pointing at the corpse. “He no shood be there.”

“And did you see anybody else at all?” Arabelle shook her head. “Nobody. Me only”

“How about nearby?” Arabelle looked blank, and Deborah pointed. “Over there? On the sidewalk? Anybody at all over there?” Arabelle shrugged. “Turistas. Weeth cameras.” She frowned and lowered her voice, speaking confidentially to me. “Creo que muy probablemente eran maricones,” she said, shrugging.

I nodded. “Gay tourists,” I said to Deborah.

Deborah glared at her, then turned it on me, as if she could scare one of us into thinking up another really good question. But even my legendary wit had run dry, and I shrugged. “I don't know,” I said.

“She probably can't tell you any more than that.”

“Ask her where she lives,” Deborah said, and an expression of alarm flitted across Arabelle's face.

I don't think she'll tell you,” I said.

“Why the fuck not?” Deborah demanded.

“She's afraid you'll tell la Migra,” I said, and Arabelle visibly jumped when I said it. “Immigration.” I know what the fuck la Migra means,” Deborah snapped. “I live here, too, remember?”

“Yes,” I said. “But you refused to learn Spanish.”

“Then ask her to tell you,” Deborah said.

I shrugged and turned to Arabelle. “Necesito su direccion,” I said.

“Por que?” she said rather shyly.

“Vamos a bailor,” I said. We'll go dancing.

She giggled. “Estoy casada,” she said. I'm married.

“Por favor?” I said, with my very best one hundred watt smile, and I added, “Nunca para la Migra, de verdad.” Arabelle smiled, leaned forward, and whispered an address in my ear. I nodded; it was in an area flooded with Central American immigrants, several of them here legally. It made perfect sense for her to live there, and I was certain she was telling me the truth. “Gracias,” I said, and as I started to pull away, she grabbed my arm again.

“Nunca para la Migra?” she asked.

“Never,” I agreed. “Solamente para pillar este asesino.” Only to catch this killer.

She nodded as if that made sense, that I needed her address to find the killer, and gave me her shy smile again. “Gracias,” she said. “Te creo.” I believe you. Her faith in me was really quite touching, especially considering there was no reason for it, beyond the fact that I had given her a completely phony smile. It made me wonder if a career change was in order —perhaps I should sell cars, or even run for president.

“All right,” Deborah said. “She can go home.” I nodded at Arabelle. “Vaya a casa,” I said.

“Gracias,” she said again. And she smiled hugely and then turned and almost ran for the street.

“Shit,” Deborah said. “Shit shit shit.” I looked at her with raised eyebrows, and she shook her head.

She seemed deflated, the anger and tension drained out of her. I know it's stupid,” she said. I just hoped she might have seen something. I mean ...” She shrugged and turned away, looking in the direction of the body in the doorway. “We'll never find the gay tourists, either. Not in South Beach,” she said.

“They can't have seen anything anyway,” I said.

“In broad daylight. And nobody saw anything?”

“People see what they expect to see,” I said. “He probably used a delivery van, and that would make him invisible.”

“Well, shit,” she said again, and it didn't seem like a good time to criticize her for such a limited vocabulary. She faced me again. I don't suppose you got anything helpful from looking at this one?”

“Let me take some pictures and think about it,” I said.

“That's a no, right?”

“It's not a stated no,” I said. “It's an implied no.” Deborah held up a middle finger. “Imply this,” she said, and turned away to look at the body again.

IT IS SURPRISING, BUT TRUE: COLD COQ AU VIN REALLY doesn't taste as good as it should. Somehow the wine gives off an odor of stale beer, and the chicken feels slightly slimy, and the whole experience becomes an ordeal of grim perseverance in the face of bitterly disappointed expectations. Still, Dexter is nothing if not persistent, and when I got home around midnight I worked through a large portion of the stuff with truly stoic fortitude.

Rita did not wake up when I slipped into bed, and I did not dawdle over long on the shores of sleep. I closed my eyes, and it seemed like almost immediately the clock radio beside the bed began to scream at me about the rising tide of dreadful violence threatening to overwhelm our poor battered city.

I pried open an eye and saw that it really was six o'clock and time to get up. It didn't seem fair, but I dragged myself out of bed and into the shower, and by the time I reached the kitchen Rita had breakfast on the table. I see you had some of the chicken,” she said, a little grimly, I thought, and I realized a little blarney was called for.

“It was wonderful,” I said. “Better than what we had in Paris.” She brightened a little, but shook her head. “Liar,” she said. “It never tastes right when it's cold.”

“You have the magic touch,” I said. “It tasted warm.”

She frowned and brushed a lock of hair off her face. “I know you have to, you know...” she trailed off. I mean, your job is... But I wish you could have tasted it when -1 mean, I really do understand,” she said, and I was not sure I could say the same thing. Rita put a plate of fried eggs and sausage in front of me and nodded at the small TV set over by the coffee maker. “It was all over the news this morning, about... That's what it was, wasn't it? And they had your sister on, saying that, you know. She didn't look very happy”

“She's not happy at all,” I said. “Which doesn't seem right, since she has a really challenging job, and her picture is on TV. Who could ask for more?”

Rita did not smile at my light-hearted jest. Instead she pulled a chair over next to mine and, sitting down and clasping her hands in her lap, she frowned even deeper. “Dexter,” she said, “we really need to talk.”

I know from my research into human life that these are the words that strike terror into men's souls. Conveniently enough, I have no soul, but I still felt a surge of discomfort at what those ominous syllables might mean. “So soon after the honeymoon?” I said, hoping to deflect at least some small bit of seriousness.

Rita shook her head. “It's not -1 mean ...” She fluttered one hand, and then let it drop back into her lap. She sighed deeply. “It's Cody,” she said at last.

“Oh,” I said, without even a clue of what sort of “it” Cody might be. He seemed perfectly all right to me —but then, I knew better than Rita that Cody was not at all the small, quiet human child he seemed to be, but instead a Dexter-in-training.

“He still seems, so ...” She shook her head again and looked down, her voice dropping. I know his ... father ... did some things that... hurt him. Probably changed him forever. But...” She looked up at me, her eyes bright with tears. “It isn't right; he shouldn't still be like this. Should he? So quiet all the time, and ...” She looked down again. “I'm just afraid for what, you know ...” A tear fell onto her lap and she sniffled. “He might be ... you know ... permanently ...”

Several more tears joined the first one, and even though I am generally helpless in the face of emotion, I knew that some kind of reassuring gesture was called for here.

“Cody will be fine,” I said, blessing my ability to lie convincingly.

“He just needs to come out of his shell a little bit.” Rita sniffled again. “Do you really think so?”

“Absolutely,” I said, putting a hand over hers, as I had seen in a movie not too long ago. “Cody is a great kid. He's just maturing a little slower than others. Because of what happened to him.” She shook her head and a tear hit me in the face. “You can't know that,” she said.

I can,” I told her, and oddly enough, now I was actually telling the truth. “I know perfectly well what he's going through, because I went through it myself.” She looked at me with very bright, wet eyes. “You —you never talked about what happened to you,” she said.

“No,” I said. “And I never will. But it was close enough to what happened to Cody, so I do know. Trust me on this, Rita.” And I patted her hand again, thinking, Yes, trust me. Trust me to turn Cody into a well-adjusted, smoothly functioning monster, just like me.

“Oh, Dexter” she said. I do trust you. But he's so ...” She shook her head again, sending a spray of tears around the room.

“He'll be fine,” I said. “Really. He just needs to learn to be with other kids his own age.” And learn to pretend to be like them, I thought, but it didn't seem terribly comforting to say aloud, so I didn't.

“If you're sure,” Rita said with a truly enormous snuffle.

“I'm sure,” I said.

“All right,” she said, reaching for a napkin off the table and blotting at her nose and eyes. “Then let's just ...” Sniffle. Honk. I guess we just think of ways to get him to mix with other kids.”

“That's the ticket,” I said. “We'll have him cheating at cards in no time.”

Rita blew her nose a last, long time.

“Sometimes I couldn't tell that you're being funny,” she said. She stood up and kissed me on the top of the head. “If I didn't know you so well.”

Of course, if she really knew me as well as she thought, she would stab me with a fork and run for her life, but maintaining our illusions is an important part of life's work, so I said nothing, and breakfast went on in its wonderfully soothing monotony. There is a real pleasure in being waited upon, especially by someone who really knows what she's doing in the kitchen, and it was worth listening to all the chatter that went with it.

Cody and Astor joined us as I started my second cup of coffee, and the two of them sat side by side with identical expressions of heavily sedated incomprehension on their faces. They didn't have the benefit of coffee, and it took them several minutes to realize that they were, in fact, awake. It was Astor, naturally enough, who broke the silence.

“Sergeant Debbie was on TV” she said. Astor had developed a strange case of hero-worship for Deborah, ever since she found out that Debs carried a gun and got to boss around big beefy uniformed cops.

“That's part of her job” I said, even though I realized it would probably feed the hero-worship.

“How come you're never on TV, Dexter?” she said accusingly.

I don't want to be on TV” I said, and she looked at me like I had suggested outlawing ice cream. “It's true” I said. “Imagine if everybody knew what I look like. I couldn't walk down the street without people pointing at me and talking behind my back.”

“Nobody points at Sergeant Debbie” she said.

I nodded. “Of course not”1 said. “Who would dare?” Astor looked like she was ready to argue, so I put my coffee cup down with a bang and stood up. “I'm off to another day of mighty work defending the good people of our city” I said.

“You can't defend people with a microscope” Astor said.

“That's enough, Astor” Rita said, and she hustled over to plant another kiss on me, on the face this time. I hope you catch this one, Dexter” she said. “It sounds awful.” I rather hoped we would catch this one, too. Four victims in one day seemed a little bit overzealous, even to me, and it would certainly create a city-wide atmosphere of paranoid watchfulness that would make it almost impossible for me to have any quiet fun of my own.

So it was with a real determination to see justice done that I went in to work. Of course, any real attempt at justice would have to start with the traffic, since Miami drivers have long ago taken the simple chore of going from one place to another and turned it into a kind of high-speed, heavily armed game of high stakes bumper cars. It's even more interesting because the rules change from one driver to the next. For example, as I drove along in the tight bundle of cars on the expressway, a man in the next lane suddenly started honking his horn. When I turned to look, he flipped me off, yelled, “Maricon!” and forced his way in front of me, and then over on to the shoulder, where he accelerated away.

I had no idea what had caused the display, so I simply waved at his car as it vanished in a distant concerto of honking and shouting.

The Miami Rush Hour Symphony.

I arrived at work a little bit early, but the building was already buzzing with frantic activity. The press room was overflowing with more people than I had ever seen before —at least, I assumed they were people, although with reporters you can never be sure. And the true seriousness of the situation hit me when I realized that there were dozens of cameras and microphones and no sign of Captain Matthews.

More unprecedented shocks awaited: a uniformed cop stood at the elevator and demanded to see my credentials before he let me past, even though he was a guy I knew slightly. And even worse when I finally got to the lab area, I found that Vince had actually brought in a bag of croissants.

“Good lord” I said, gazing at the flakes of crust that covered Vince's shirt front. I was just kidding, Vince.” I know” he said. “But it sounded kind of classy, so ...” He shrugged, which caused a trickle of croissant flakes to fall off him and onto the floor. “They make “em with chocolate filling” he said.

“And ham and cheese, too.”

“I don't think they'll approve of that in Paris” I said.

“Where the fuck have you been?” Deborah snarled from behind me as she snatched up a ham and cheese croissant.

“Some of us like to sleep from time to time” I said.

“Some of us don't get to sleep” she said. “Because some of us have been trying to work, surrounded by camera crews from fucking Brazil and who knows where.” She took a savage bite of croissant and, with a full mouth, looked at the rest of it in her hand and said, “Jesus Christ, what is this thing?”

“It's a French doughnut” I said.

Debs threw the rest of it at a nearby trash can and missed by about four feet. “Tastes like shit” she said.

“Would you rather try some of my jelly roll?” Vince asked her.

Debs didn't even blink. “Sorry, I'd need at least a mouthful, which you ain't got” she said, and she grabbed my arm. “Come on.” My sister led me down the hall to her cubicle and flung herself into the chair at her desk. I sat in the folding chair and waited for whatever onslaught of emotion she might have prepared for me.

It came in the form of a stack of newspapers that she started to throw at me, saying, “LA Times; Chicago Sun-Times; New York fucking Times; Der Spiegel; Toronto Star.” Just before I vanished completely under a pile of papers, battered insensible, I reached across and grabbed her arm, stopping her from flinging the Karachi Observer at me. “Debs” I said. I can see them better if they're not wedged into my eye sockets.”

“This is a shit-storm” she said, “like no shit-storm you have ever seen before.”

Truthfully, I had not seen many actual shit-storms, although one time in middle school Randy Schwartz flushed a cherry bomb down a full toilet in the boys rest room, forcing Mr O'Brien to go home early to change clothes. But clearly Debs was in no mood for fond reminiscence, even though neither of us had liked Mr O'Brien.

“I gathered that” I said, “from the fact that Matthews is suddenly invisible.”

She snorted. “Like he never existed.” I never thought we'd see a case so hot the captain didn't want to be on TV” I said.

“Four fucking bodies in one fucking day” she spat out. “Like nothing anybody has ever seen, and it lands in my lap.”

“Rita says you looked very nice on television” I said encouragingly, but for some reason that caused her to swipe at the pile of newspapers and knock several more onto the floor.

I don't wanna be on fucking television” she said. “Fucking Matthews has thrown me to the lions, because this is absolutely the biggest, most bad-ass godawful goddamn story in the whole fucking world right now, and we haven't even released any pictures of the bodies but somehow everybody knows there's something weird going on, and the mayor is having a shit-fit, and the fucking governor is having a shit-fit, and if I personally do not solve this thing by lunchtime the whole fucking state of Florida is going to fall into the ocean and I am going to be underneath it when it happens.” She slapped at the pile of newspapers again and this time at least half of them fell to the floor. That seemed to take all the fury out of her, because she slumped over and suddenly looked drained and exhausted. “I really need some help here, bro. I hate it like hell that I have to ask you, but —if you could ever really figure one of these out, this is the time.”

I wasn't really sure what to make of the fact that suddenly she “hated like hell” to ask me —after all, she had asked before, several times, apparently without hate. She seemed to be getting a little odd and even snarky lately on the subject of my special talents. But what the hell. While it is true that I am without emotion, I am not immune to being manipulated by it, and the sight of my sister so obviously at the end of her rope was more than I could comfortably side-step.

“Of course I'll help, Debs” I said. “I just don't know how much I can really do.”

“Well, fuck, you have to do something” she said. “We're going under here.”

It was nice that she said “we” and included me, although I had not been aware until right now that I, too, was going under. But the added sense of belonging did very little to jar my giant brain into action. In fact, the huge cranial complex that is Dexter's Cerebral Faculty was being abnormally quiet, just as it had been at the crime scenes. Nevertheless, it was clear that a display of good old team spirit was called for, so I closed my eyes and tried to look like I was thinking very hard.

All right then: if there were any real, physical clues, the tireless and dogged heroes of forensics would find them. So what I needed was some kind of hint from a source that my coworkers could not tap —the Dark Passenger. The Passenger, however, was being uncharacteristically silent, except for its mildly savage chuckling, and I wasn't sure what that meant. Normally, any display of predatory skill would evoke some kind of appreciation that quite often provided a small stab of insight into the killing. But this time, any such comment was absent. Why?