Dexter 4 - Dexter by Design (9 page)

“That's right.”

Cappuccio leaned in and said, “But you said in your statement that Sergeant Morgan showed her badge.”

“Yes” I said. I saw her.”

“And he was sitting in the car, how far away?” Simeon said. “Do you know what I could do with that in court?” Matthews cleared his throat. “Let's not, um —court is not, uh, we don't have to assume this will end in court” he said.

I was a lot closer when he tried to stab me” I said, hoping to be a little helpful.

But Simeon waved that off. “Self-defense,” he said. “If she failed to properly identify herself as an officer of the law, he had every right to defend himself!”

“She showed her badge, I'm sure of it” I said.

“You can't be sure —not from fifty feet away!” Simeon asserted.

I saw it” I protested, and hoped I didn't sound petulant.

“Besides, Deborah would never forget that —she's known the correct procedure since she could walk.” Simeon waved a very large index finger at me. “And that's another thing I really don't like here —exactly what is your relationship to Sergeant Morgan?”

“She's my sister,” I said.

“Your sister,” he said, making it sound somehow like he was saying, “Your evil henchman.” He shook his head theatrically, and looked around the room. He definitely had everyone's attention, and he was clearly enjoying it. “This just gets better and better,” he said, with a much nicer smile than Cappuccio's.

Salguero spoke up for the first time. “Deborah Morgan has a clean record. She comes from a police family, and she is clean in every way, and always has been.”

“A police family does not mean clean” Simeon said. “What it means is the Blue Wall, and you know it. This is a clear case of self defense, abuse of authority, and cover-up.” He threw his hands up and went on, “Obviously, we are never going to find out what really happened, not with all these Byzantine family and police department connections. I think we will just have to let the courts figure this out.”

Ed Beasley spoke up for the first time, in a gruff and non hysterical way that made me want to give him a hearty handshake.

“We have an officer in intensive care” he said. “Because your client stuck a knife in her. And we don't need a court to figure that out, Kwami.”

Simeon turned a row of bright teeth on Beasley. “Maybe not, Ed” he said. “But until you guys succeed in throwing out the Bill of Rights, my client has that option.” He stood up. “In any case” he said, I think I have enough to get my client out on bail.” He nodded at Cappuccio and left the room.

There was a moment of silence, and then Matthews cleared his throat. “Does he have enough, Irene?” Cappuccio snapped the pencil she was holding. “With the right judge? Yeah” she said. “Probably.”

“The political climate is not good right now” Beasley said.

“Simeon can stir things up and make this stink. And we can't afford another stink right now.”

“All right then, people” Matthews said. “Let's batten down the hatches for the coming shit-storm. Lieutenant Stein, you've got your work cut out for you. Get something on my desk for the press ASAP —before noon.”

Stein nodded. “Right” he said.

Israel Salguero stood up and said, I have my work, too, Captain.

Internal Affairs will have to start a review of Sergeant Morgan's behavior right away.”

“All right, good” Matthews said, and then he looked at me.

“Morgan” he said, shaking his head. I wish you could have been a little more helpful.”

So Alex Doncevic was out on the street long before Deborah was even awake. In fact, Doncevic was out of the detention center at 5.17 that afternoon, which was only an hour and twenty-four minutes after Deborah opened her eyes for the first time.

I knew about Deborah because Chutsky called me right away, as excited as if she had just swum the English Channel towing a piano. “She's gonna be okay, Dex” he said. “She opened her eyes and looked right at me.”

“Did she say anything?” I asked.

“No” he said. “But she squeezed my hand. She's gonna make it.” I was still not convinced that a wink and a squeeze were accurate signs that a complete recovery was at hand, but it was nice to know that she had made some progress. Especially since she would need to be fully conscious to face Israel Salguero and Internal Affairs.

I knew when Doncevic was released from the Detention center because in the time between the meeting in the conference room and Chutsky's call I had made a decision.

I have said before that I do not actually feel emotions. That's fine with me, since I have noticed that they are never particularly helpful to those who do feel them. But throughout that long and weary day I had noticed a strange sensation in the pit of my stomach that blossomed right after Matthews had called me unhelpful. The feeling grew throughout the rest of the morning, until it felt something like severe indigestion, although I am sure it had nothing to do with the Bavarian Creme doughnut I'd eaten, which had been quite good.

No, at the center of this new and unpleasant sensation was the thought that, for the first time ever, it bothered me that life was not fair.

Dexter is not delusional; he knows better than most that “fair” is a relatively new and stupid idea. Life is not fair, can never be fair, shouldn't even pretend to be fair, and so humans invented the idea to try to level the playing field and make things a little more challenging for the predators. And that's fine. Personally, I welcome the challenge.

But although Life is not fair, Law and Order was supposed to be. And the idea that Doncevic might go free while Deborah wasted away in a hospital just seemed so very, kind of —all right, I will say it: it wasn't fair. I mean, I am sure there are other available words here, but Dexter will not dodge merely because this truth, like most others, was a relatively ugly one. I felt a sharp sense of not-fairness to the whole thing, and it made me ponder what I might do to set things back in their proper order.

I pondered through several hours of routine paperwork and three cups of somewhat horrible coffee. And I pondered through a below average lunch at a small place claiming to be Mediterranean, which was only true if we accept that stale bread, clotted mayonnaise and greasy cold cuts are Mediterranean. Then I pondered through another few minutes of pushing things around on the desk in my little cubby.

It occurred to me after all this pondering that my once-powerful brain was not functioning at its former dizzying heights. In fact, it was barely functioning at all. Perhaps the interlude in Paris had softened it. More likely, though, it had grown feeble from the long forced absence from its favorite pastime, my own personal form of sudoku, finding and flensing the wicked unpunished. It had been far too long since I'd had a Dexter's Night Out, and I was quite sure the resulting tension was causing my current feeble-mindedness. If I had been firing on all my dark cylinders I like to believe I would have seen the obvious a great deal sooner.

But finally, somewhere in the distant fog of Dexter's diminished brainscape a small and faint gong sounded a tiny tinny note. “Bong” it said softly, and murky light slowly flooded into Dexter's Dim Noggin.

It may seem difficult to believe that it took so long for the wicked nickel to drop, but I can only say that it had been too long and I was tired, and out of sorts from the very bad lunch. Once the nickel did, in fact, drop, it dropped very smoothly and well and with a delightful sound of solid and pleasing chimes.

I had been scolded for being not very helpful, and I believe that I had been feeling the truth of that accusation. Dexter had not, in fact, been helpful; he had been sulking in the car when Debs was hurt, and he had failed to protect her once again from the attack of the shiny-headed lawyer.

But there was a way I could be very very helpful, and it was something that I was particularly good at. I could make a whole handful of problems go away: Deborah's, the department's, and my own very special ones, all at the same time with one smooth stroke or several choppy ones, if I was feeling particularly playful. All I had to do was relax and be wonderful special Me, while helping poor deserving Doncevic to see the error of his ways.

I knew Doncevic was guilty -1 had seen him stab Deborah with my own eyes. And so it followed that there was also a very good chance he had killed and arranged the bodies that were causing such an uproar and harming our vital tourist economy. Disposing of Doncevic was practically my civic duty. Since he was out on bail, if he turned up missing, everyone would assume he had run. The bounty hunters would make a stab at finding him, but no one would care when they failed.

I felt a very strong satisfaction with this solution: it's nice when things can work out so nicely, and the neatness of it appealed to my inner monster, the tidy one that likes to see problems properly bagged up and thrown away. Besides, it was only fair.

Wonderful: I would spend some quality time with Alex Doncevic.

I began by checking online to see his status, and re-checking every fifteen minutes when it became clear that he was about to be released. At 4.32 his paperwork was in its final stages, and I moseyed down to the parking lot and drove over to the front door of the detention center.

I got there just in time, and there were plenty of people there ahead of me. Simeon really knew how to throw a party, especially if the press were involved, and they were all there waiting in a huge, unruly mob, the vans and satellite dishes and beautiful haircuts all competing for space. When Doncevic came out on Simeon's arm there was a clatter of cameras and the multiple thud of many elbows trying to clear a way, and the crowd surged forward like a pack of dogs pouncing on raw meat.

I watched from my car as Simeon made a long and heartwarming statement, answered a few questions, and then pushed through the crowd towing Doncevic with him. They got into a black Lexus SUV and drove away. After a moment, I followed.

Following another car is relatively simple, particularly in Miami, where there is always traffic, and it always acts irrationally.

Since it was rush hour, it was even worse. I just had to stay back a bit, leaving a couple of cars between me and the Lexus. Simeon did nothing to show that he thought he was being followed. Of course, even if he spotted me he would assume I was a reporter hoping for a candid shot of Doncevic weeping with gratitude, and Simeon would do nothing more than make sure his good side was to the camera.

I followed them across town to North Miami Avenue, and dropped back a little as they turned onto NE 40th Street. I was fairly confident I knew where they were going now, and sure enough, Simeon pulled over in front of the building where Deborah had first met my new friend Doncevic. I drove past, circled the block once, and came back in time to see Doncevic get out of the Lexus and head into the building.

Happily for me, there was a parking spot where I could see the door. I pulled into it, turned off the engine, and waited for darkness, which would come as it always did, to find Dexter ready for it. And tonight, at last, after such a long and dreary stay in the daytime world, I was ready to join with it, revel in its sweet and savage music, and play a few chords of Dexter's own minuet. I found myself impatient with the ponderous, slowly sinking sun, and eager for the night. I could feel it stretching out for me, leaning in to spread through me, flexing its wings, easing the knots out of the too-long unused muscles and preparing to spring My phone rang.

“It's me” said Rita.

“I'm sure it is” I said.

I think I have a really good —what did you say?”

“Nothing” I said. “What's your really good?”

“What?” she said. “Oh —I've been thinking about what we said.

About Cody?”

I pulled my mind back from the pulsing darkness I had been feeding and tried to remember what we had said about Cody. It had been something about helping him come out of his shell, but I did not remember that we had actually decided anything beyond a few vague platitudes designed to make Rita feel better while I carefully placed Cody's feet on the Harry Path. So I just said, “Oh, right. Yes?” in the hope of drawing her out just a bit.

I was talking to Susan? You know, over on 137th? With the big dog” she said.

“Yes” I said. I remember the dog.” As indeed I did —it hated me, like all domestic animals do. They all recognize me for what I am, even if their masters do not.

“And her son, Albert? He's been having a really positive experience with the Cub Scouts. And I thought that might be just right for Cody”

At first the idea didn't make any sense at all. Cody? A cub scout?

It seemed like serving cucumber sandwiches and tea to Godzilla.

But as I stammered for a reply, trying to think of something that was neither outraged denial nor hysterical laughter, I actually caught myself thinking that it was not a bad idea. It was, in fact, a very good idea that would mesh perfectly with the plan to make Cody fit in with human children. And so, caught halfway between irritated denial and enthusiastic acceptance, I quite distinctly said, “Hi didda yuh-kay”

“Dexter, are you all right?” Rita said.

I, uh, you caught me by surprise” I said. “I'm in the middle of something. But I think it's a great idea.”

“Really? You really do?” she said.

“Absolutely” I said. “It's the perfect thing for him.” I was hoping you'd say so,” she said. “But then I thought, I don't know. What if -1 mean, you really do think so?” I really did, and eventually I made her believe me. But it took several minutes, since Rita is able to speak without breathing and, quite often, without finishing a sentence, so that she got out fifteen or twenty disconnected words for every one of mine.

By the time I finally persuaded her and hung up, it was slightly darker outside, but unfortunately much lighter inside me. The opening notes of “Dexter's Dance Suite” were muted now, some of the rising urgency blurred by the soundtrack of Rita's call. Still, it would come back, I was quite sure.

In the meantime, just to look busy, I called Chutsky.

“Hey, buddy” he said. “She opened her eyes again a few minutes ago. The doctors think she's starting to come around a little bit.”

“That's wonderful” I said. “I'm coming by a little later. I just have some loose ends to take care of.”

“Some of your people have been coming by to say hi” he said.

“Do you know a guy named Israel Salguero?” A bicycle went by me in the street. The rider thumped my side mirror and went on past. I know him” I said. “Was he there?”

“Yeah” said Chutsky. “He was here.” Chutsky was silent, as if waiting for me to say something. I couldn't think of much, so finally he said, “Something about the guy”

“He knew our father” I said.

“Uh-huh” he said. “Something else.”

“Um” I said. “He's from Internal Affairs. He's investigating Deborah's behavior in this whole thing.” Chutsky was silent for a moment. “Her behavior?” he said at last.

“Yes” I said.

“She got stabbed.”

“The lawyer said it was self-defense” I said.

“Son of a bitch” he said.

“I'm sure there's nothing to worry about” I said. “It's just regulations, he has to investigate.”

“Son of a goddamn bitch,” Chustky said. “And he comes around here? With her in a fucking coma?”

“He's known Deborah a long time” I said. “He probably just wanted to see if she was okay.” There was a very long pause, and then Chutsky said, “Okay, buddy. If you say so. But I don't think I'm going to let him in here next time.”

I was not really sure how well Chutsky's hook would match up with Salguero's smooth and total confidence, but I had a feeling it would be an interesting contest. Chutsky, for all his bluff and phony cheerfulness, was a cold killer. But Salguero had been in Internal Affairs for years, which made him practically bullet proof. If it came to a fight, I thought it might do quite well on pay per view. I also thought I should probably keep that idea to myself, so I just said, “All right. I'll see you later” and hung up.

And so, with all the petty human details taken care of, I went back to waiting. Cars went by. People walked past on the sidewalk.

I got thirsty, and found half a bottle of water on the floor in the back seat. And finally, it got completely dark.

I waited a little longer to let the darkness settle over the city, and over me. It felt very good to shrug into the cold and comfy night jacket, and the anticipation grew strong inside with whispered encouragement from the Dark Passenger, urging me to step aside and give it the wheel.

And finally, I did.

I put the careful noose of nylon fishing leader and a roll of duct tape in my pocket, the only tools I had in my car at the moment, and got out of the car.

And hesitated. Too long since the last time, far too long since Dexter had done the deed. I had not done my research and that was not good. I had no plan and that was worse. I did not really know what was behind that door or what I would do when I got inside.

I was uncertain for a moment and I stood beside the car and wondered if I could improvise my way through the dance. The uncertainty ate away my armor and left me standing on one foot in the dangerous dark without a way to move forward with the first knowing step.

But this was silly, weak and wrong —and very much Not Dexter.

The Real Dexter lived in the dark, came alive in the sharp night, took joy in slashing out from the shadows. Who was this standing here hesitating? Dexter did not dither.

I looked up into the night sky and breathed it in. Better. There was only a piece of rotten yellow moon but I opened up to it and it howled at me, and the night pounded through my veins and throbbed into my fingertips and sang across the skin stretched tight on my neck and I felt it all change, all grow back into what We must be to do what We would do, and then We were ready to do it.