Dearly Devoted Dexter by Jeff Lindsay

Rolls-Royces. Even so, the attendant did not actually decline to park it for me, although he must have guessed that it would not result in the kind of tip he was used to. I suppose my bowling shirt and khaki pants were an unmistakable clue that I didn’t have even a single bearer bond or Krugerrand for him.
    The restaurant itself was dark and cool and so quiet you could hear an American Express Black Card drop. The far wall was tinted glass with a door that led out to a terrace. And there was Deborah, sitting at a small corner table outside, looking out over the water. Across from her, facing back toward the door in to the restaurant, sat Kyle Chutsky, who would pick up the tab. He was wearing very expensive sunglasses, so perhaps he really would. I approached the table and a waiter materialized to pull out a chair that was certainly far too heavy for anyone who could afford to eat here. The waiter didn’t actually bow, but I could tell that the restraint was an effort.
    “Hey, buddy,” Kyle said as I sat down. He stretched his hand across the table. Since he seemed to believe I was his new best friend, I leaned in and shook hands with him. “How’s the spatter trade?”
    “Always plenty of work,” I said. “And how’s the mysterious visitor from Washington trade?”
    “Never better,” he said. He held my hand in his just a moment too long. I looked down at it; his knuckles were enlarged, as if he had spent too much time sparring with a concrete wall. He slapped his left hand on the table, and I got a glimpse of his pinkie ring. It was startlingly effeminate, almost an engagement ring. When he finally let go of my hand, he smiled and swiveled his head toward Deborah, although with his sunglasses it was impossible to tell if he was looking at her or just moving his neck around.
    Deborah smiled back at him. “Dexter was worried about me.”
    “Hey,” Chutsky said, “what are brothers for?”
    She glanced at me. “Sometimes I wonder,” she said.
    “Why Deborah, you know I’m only watching your back,” I said.
    Kyle chuckled. “Good deal. I got the front,” he said, and they both laughed. She reached across and took his hand.
    “All the hormones and happiness are setting my teeth on edge,” I said. “Tell me, is anybody actually trying to catch that inhuman monster, or are we just going to sit around and make tragic puns?”
    Kyle swiveled his head back to me and raised an eyebrow. “What’s your interest in this, buddy?”
    “Dexter has a fondness for inhuman monsters,” Deborah said. “Like a hobby.”
    “A hobby,” Kyle said, keeping the sunglasses turned to my face. I think it was supposed to intimidate me, but for all I knew his eyes could be closed. Somehow, I managed not to tremble.
    “He’s kind of an amateur profiler,” Deborah said.
    Kyle didn’t move for a moment and I wondered if he had gone to sleep behind his dark lenses. “Huh,” he finally said, and he leaned back in his chair. “Well, what do you think about this guy, Dexter?”
    “Oh, just the basics so far,” I said. “Somebody with a lot of training in the medical area and in covert activities who came unhinged and needs to make a statement, something to do with Central America. He’ll probably do it again timed for maximum impact, rather than because he feels he
has
to. So he’s not really a standard serial type of— What?” I said. Kyle had lost his laid-back smile and was sitting straight up with his fists clenched.
    “What do you mean, Central America?”
    I was fairly sure we both knew exactly what I meant by Central America, but I thought saying El Salvador might have been a bit too much; it wouldn’t do to lose my casual, it’s-just-a-hobby credentials. But my whole purpose for coming had been to find out about Doakes, and when you see an opening—well, I admit it had been a little obvious, but it had apparently worked. “Oh,” I said. “Isn’t that right?” All those years of practice in imitating