Darkly dreaming Dexter

“Which means you see a chance to do some of your own? Bravo, Debs.”

“And it also means I need your help like never before.” She put a hand out and squeezed mine. “Please, Dexy?”

I don't know what shocked me more—her insight, her hand-squeezing, or her use of the nickname

“Dexy.” I hadn't heard her say that since I was ten years old. Whether she intended it or not, when she called me Dexy she put us both firmly back in Harry Land, a place where family mattered and obligations were as real as headless hookers. What could I say?

“Of course, Deborah,” I said. Dexy indeed. It was almost enough to make me feel emotion.

“Good,” she said, and she was all business again, a wonderfully quick change that I had to admire.

“What's the one thing that really sticks out right now?” she asked with a nod toward the second floor.

“The body parts,” I said. “As far as you know, is anybody looking for them?”

Deborah gave me one of her new Worldly Cop looks, the sour one. “As far as I know, there are more officers assigned to keeping the TV cameras out than to doing any actual work on this thing.”

“Good,” I said. “If we can find the body parts, we might get a small jump on things.”

“Okay. Where do we look?”

It was a fair question, which naturally put me at a disadvantage. I had no idea where to look. Would the limbs be left in the killing room? I didn't think so—it seemed messy to me, and if he wanted to use that same room again, it would be impossible with that kind of nasty clutter lying around.

All right, then I would assume that the rest of the meat had gone somewhere else. But where?

Or perhaps, it slowly dawned on me, the real question should be: Why? The display of the heads was for a reason. What would be the reason for putting the rest of the bodies somewhere else? Simple concealment? No— nothing was simple with this man, and concealment was evidently not a virtue he prized too highly. Especially right now, when he was showing off a bit. That being the case, where would he leave a stack of leftovers?

“Well?” Deborah demanded. “How about it? Where should we look?”

I shook my head. “I don't know,” I said slowly. “Wherever he left the stuff, it's part of his statement.

And we're not really sure what his statement is yet, are we?”

“Goddamn it, Dexter—”

“I know he wants to rub our noses in it. He needs to say that we did something incredibly dumb, and even if we hadn't he's still smarter than we are.”

“So far he's right,” she said, putting on her grouper face.

“So . . . wherever he dumped the stuff, it has to continue that statement. That we're stupid— No, I'm wrong. That we DID something stupid.”

“Right. Very important difference.”

“Please, Deb, you'll hurt your face like that. It is important, because he's going to comment on the ACT, and not on the ACTORS.”

“Uh-huh. That's really good, Dex. So we should probably head for the nearest dinner theater and look around for an actor with blood up to his elbows, right?”

I shook my head. “No blood, Deb. None at all. That's one of the most important things.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because there's been no blood at any of the scenes. That's deliberate, and it's vital to what he's doing.

And this time, he'll repeat the important parts, but comment on what he's already done, because we've missed it, don't you see?”

“Sure, I see. Makes perfect sense. So why don't we go check Office Depot Center? He's probably got the bodies stacked up in the net again.”

I opened my mouth to make some wonderfully clever reply. The hockey rink was all wrong, completely and obviously wrong. It had been an experiment, something different, but I knew he wouldn't repeat it. I started to explain this to Deb, that the only reason he would ever repeat the rink would be— I stopped dead, my mouth hanging open. Of course, I thought. Naturally.

“Now who's making a fish face, huh? What is it, Dex?”

For a moment I didn't say anything. I was far too busy trying to catch my whirling thoughts. The only reason he would repeat the hockey rink was to show us we had the wrong guy locked up.

“Oh, Deb,” I said at last. “Of course. You're right, the arena. You are right for all the wrong reasons, but still—”

“Beats the hell out of being wrong,” she said, and headed for her car.

CHAPTER 21

“YOU DO UNDERSTAND IT'S A LONG SHOT?” I SAID. “Probably we won't find anything at all.”

“I know that,” Deb said.

“And we don't actually have any jurisdiction here. We're in Broward. And the Broward guys don't like us, so —”

“For Christ's sake, Dexter,” she snapped. “You're chattering like a schoolgirl.”

Perhaps that was true, although it was very unkind of her to say so. And Deborah, on the other hand, appeared to be a bundle of steely, tightly wrapped nerves. As we turned off the Sawgrass Expressway and drove into the parking lot of the Office Depot Center she bit down harder. I could almost hear her jaw creak. “Dirty Harriet,” I said to myself, but apparently Deb was eavesdropping.

“Fuck off,” she said.

I looked from Deborah's granite profile to the arena. For one brief moment, with the early-morning sunlight hitting it just right, it looked like the building was surrounded by a fleet of flying saucers. Of course it was only the outdoor lighting fixtures that sprouted around the arena like oversized steel toadstools. Someone must have told the architect they were distinctive. “Youthful and vigorous,” too, most likely. And I'm sure they were, in the right light. I did hope they would find the right light sometime soon.

We drove one time around the arena, looking for signs of life. On the second circuit, a battered Toyota pulled up beside one of the doors. The passenger door was held closed with a loop of rope that ran out the window and around the doorpost. Opening the driver's door as she parked, Deborah was already stepping out of the car while it was still rolling.

“Excuse me, sir?” she said to the man getting out of the Toyota. He was fifty, a squat guy in ratty green pants and a blue nylon jacket. He glanced at Deb in her uniform and was instantly nervous.

“Wha'?” he said. “I din't do nothin'.”

“Do you work here, sir?”

“Shoor. 'Course, why you think I'm here, eight o'clock in the morning?”

“What's your name, please sir?”

He fumbled for his wallet. “Steban Rodriguez. I got a ID.”

Deborah waved that off. “That's not necessary,” she said. “What are you doing here at this hour, sir?”

He shrugged and pushed his wallet back into the pocket. “I s'posed to be here earlier most days, but the team is on the road—Vancouver, Ottawa, and L.A. So I get here a little later.”

“Is anyone else here right now, Steban?”

“Naw, jus' me. They all sleep late.”

“What about at night? Is there a guard?”

He waved an arm around. “The security goes around the parking lot at night, but not too much. I the first one here mos' days.”

“The first one to go inside, you mean?”

“Yeah, tha's right, what I say?”

I climbed out of the car and leaned across the roof. “Are you the guy who drives the Zamboni for the morning skate?” I asked him. Deb glanced at me, annoyed. Steban peered at me, taking in my natty Hawaiian shirt and