he sawed at his Cuban steak. “No shit,” he
said. He was about to say more, but the fork clamped in his prosthetic left
hand slipped sideways. “Goddamn it,” he said, and I realized that
they had a great deal more in common than I had thought. Deborah leaned over
and helped him straighten the fork. “Thanks,” he said, and shoveled
in a large bite of the pounded-flat meat.
“There, you see?” I said brightly. “All you needed was
something to take your mind off your own problems.”
We were sitting at a table where we had probably eaten
a hundred times. But Deborah was rarely troubled by sentiment; she straightened
up and slapped the battered Formica tabletop hard enough to make the sugar bowl
jump.
“I want to know who talked to that asshole Rick Sangre!” she
said. Sangre was a local TV reporter who believed that the gorier a story was,
the more vital it was for people to have a free press that could fill them in
on as many gruesome details as possible. From the tone of her voice, Deborah
was apparently convinced that Rick was my new best friend.
“Well, it wasn't me,” I said. “And I
don't think it was Doakes.”
“Ouch,” said Chutsky.
“And,” she said, “I want to find those
fucking heads!”
“I don't have them, either,” I said.
“Did you check lost and found?”
“You know something, Dexter,” she said.
“Come on, why are you holding out on me?”
Chutsky looked up and swallowed. “Why should he know something you
don't?” he asked. “Was there a lot of spatter?”
“No spatter at all,” I said. “The
bodies were cooked, nice and dry.”
Chutsky nodded and managed
to scoop some rice and beans onto his fork. "You're a sick bastard, aren't
you?“ ”He's worse
than sick,“ Deborah said. ”He's holding out something.“
”Oh,“ Chutsky said through a mouthful of food. ”Is this his
amateur profiling thing again?" It was a small
fiction; we had told him that my hobby was actually
analytical, rather than hands-on. “It is,” Deborah said. “And he
won't tell me what he's figured out.” “It might be hard to believe,
Sis, but I know nothing about this. Just…” I shrugged, but she was already
pouncing. “What! Come on, please?” I
hesitated again. There was no good way to tell her that the Dark Passenger had
reacted to these killings
in a brand-new and totally
unsettling way. “I just get a feeling,” I said. "Something is a
little off with this
one.“ She snorted. ”Two burned headless
bodies, and he says something's a little off. Didn't you used to be
smart?"
I took a bite of my
sandwich as Deborah frittered away her precious eating time by frowning.
"Have you
identified the bodies yet?“ I asked. ”Come on, Dexter.
There's no heads, so we got no dental records. The bodies were burned, so
there's no fingerprints. Shit, we don't even know what color their hair was.
What do you want me to do?"
“I could probably help, you know,” Chutsky
said. He speared a chunk of fried maduras and popped it into his mouth. “I
have a few resources I can call on.” “I don't need your help,”
she said and he shrugged. “You take Dexter's help,” he said.
“That's different.” “How is that different?” he asked, and
it seemed like a reasonable question.
“Because he gives me
help,” she said. “You want to solve it for me.” They locked eyes
and didn't speak for a long moment. I'd seen them do it before, and it was
eerily reminiscent of the nonverbal conversations Cody and Astor had. It was
nice to see them so clearly welded together as a couple, even though it
reminded me that I had a wedding of my own to worry about, complete with an
apparently insane high-class caterer. Happily, just before I could begin to
gnash my teeth, Debs broke the eerie silence.
“I won't be one of
those women who needs help,” she said. “But I can get you information
that you can't get,” he said, putting his good hand on her arm.
“Like what?” I asked
said. He was about to say more, but the fork clamped in his prosthetic left
hand slipped sideways. “Goddamn it,” he said, and I realized that
they had a great deal more in common than I had thought. Deborah leaned over
and helped him straighten the fork. “Thanks,” he said, and shoveled
in a large bite of the pounded-flat meat.
“There, you see?” I said brightly. “All you needed was
something to take your mind off your own problems.”
We were sitting at a table where we had probably eaten
a hundred times. But Deborah was rarely troubled by sentiment; she straightened
up and slapped the battered Formica tabletop hard enough to make the sugar bowl
jump.
“I want to know who talked to that asshole Rick Sangre!” she
said. Sangre was a local TV reporter who believed that the gorier a story was,
the more vital it was for people to have a free press that could fill them in
on as many gruesome details as possible. From the tone of her voice, Deborah
was apparently convinced that Rick was my new best friend.
“Well, it wasn't me,” I said. “And I
don't think it was Doakes.”
“Ouch,” said Chutsky.
“And,” she said, “I want to find those
fucking heads!”
“I don't have them, either,” I said.
“Did you check lost and found?”
“You know something, Dexter,” she said.
“Come on, why are you holding out on me?”
Chutsky looked up and swallowed. “Why should he know something you
don't?” he asked. “Was there a lot of spatter?”
“No spatter at all,” I said. “The
bodies were cooked, nice and dry.”
Chutsky nodded and managed
to scoop some rice and beans onto his fork. "You're a sick bastard, aren't
you?“ ”He's worse
than sick,“ Deborah said. ”He's holding out something.“
”Oh,“ Chutsky said through a mouthful of food. ”Is this his
amateur profiling thing again?" It was a small
fiction; we had told him that my hobby was actually
analytical, rather than hands-on. “It is,” Deborah said. “And he
won't tell me what he's figured out.” “It might be hard to believe,
Sis, but I know nothing about this. Just…” I shrugged, but she was already
pouncing. “What! Come on, please?” I
hesitated again. There was no good way to tell her that the Dark Passenger had
reacted to these killings
in a brand-new and totally
unsettling way. “I just get a feeling,” I said. "Something is a
little off with this
one.“ She snorted. ”Two burned headless
bodies, and he says something's a little off. Didn't you used to be
smart?"
I took a bite of my
sandwich as Deborah frittered away her precious eating time by frowning.
"Have you
identified the bodies yet?“ I asked. ”Come on, Dexter.
There's no heads, so we got no dental records. The bodies were burned, so
there's no fingerprints. Shit, we don't even know what color their hair was.
What do you want me to do?"
“I could probably help, you know,” Chutsky
said. He speared a chunk of fried maduras and popped it into his mouth. “I
have a few resources I can call on.” “I don't need your help,”
she said and he shrugged. “You take Dexter's help,” he said.
“That's different.” “How is that different?” he asked, and
it seemed like a reasonable question.
“Because he gives me
help,” she said. “You want to solve it for me.” They locked eyes
and didn't speak for a long moment. I'd seen them do it before, and it was
eerily reminiscent of the nonverbal conversations Cody and Astor had. It was
nice to see them so clearly welded together as a couple, even though it
reminded me that I had a wedding of my own to worry about, complete with an
apparently insane high-class caterer. Happily, just before I could begin to
gnash my teeth, Debs broke the eerie silence.
“I won't be one of
those women who needs help,” she said. “But I can get you information
that you can't get,” he said, putting his good hand on her arm.
“Like what?” I asked
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