I looked at him sitting there at my desk, in my chair, drinking from my mug, and I discovered that I did not want to have a pleasant chat with someone who was working so hard to become me. But what I really wanted to do with him required a little more privacy than we had here in the heart of police headquarters, as well as a long stretch of uninterrupted time and a few rolls of duct tape. But of course, someone at the network might miss Robert sooner or later, and so the realities of civilized discourse left me no choice except to play the game properly. So I reached across the desk—my desk—and grabbed a pastelito from the box.
“All work and no play,” I said, taking a bite of the pastry. “I’m afraid it was very dull.”
“No, no, not at all,” Robert said. “I mean, spending time with your kids, that’s … You know. It’s important.”
“I guess it is,” I said, and I took another bite. It was pretty good. “And you?” I said, out of mere politeness. “How was your weekend?”
“Oh,” he said, and shrugged. “I flew down to Mexico.”
“Really,” I said. “And you lived?”
He sipped coffee—from my mug!—and looked away. “It’s, uh,” he said. “I go there all the time. There’s a place where, you know.” He sipped again. “It’s a, um. Kind of a private resort. They know me there, and I can just, um. Relax. No biggie. So,” he said, slapping the desk and turning back to me with a bright smile. “What’d you do with your kids? You said there’s three of ’em?”
I looked at him sitting there at my desk, and clearly trying very hard to pretend he was interested in my little life—at the same time underplaying the whole idea that he was the kind of guy who flew to Mexico for the weekend and it was no biggie. And because I really was starting to dislike him a lot, I decided not to let him.
“Wow,” I said. “That must be expensive. Airline tickets on a whim—and you would have to fly first-class, wouldn’t you? I mean, just so nobody would bother you. So t
hat’s probably, what. A couple of thousand dollars? And then a private resort? I’ve never even heard of such a thing. That can’t be cheap, either.”
He looked away again, and to my great delight he began to blush under his perfect tan. He cleared his throat and looked very uncomfortable. “That’s … that’s … you know,” he said. “The, uh, frequent-flier miles …” He waved his hand in a kind of spastic dismissal, unfortunately forgetting that he was still holding my coffee mug. A glob of coffee spattered onto my desk, and he gaped at it with his mouth hanging open a half inch or so. “Oh, shit,” he said. “I’m sorry.” He lurched up out of the chair and plunged past me through the door. “I’ll get some paper towels,” he said over his shoulder.
I watched him go for a second, marveling that such a truly awkward performance came so easily to such an apparently perfect man. It was so odd that for a moment I thought it had to be deliberate—perhaps a way to change the subject? Could he really be that uncomfortable talking about his affluent ways? Or was he hiding something even more nefarious than wealth?
But of course that was absurd. I was just being my normal, nasty, and suspicious self, seeing wickedness lurking in every shadow—even when there wasn’t actually a shadow. I pushed the thought away and stepped over to my desk to see whether any real damage had been done. The coffee had spilled right in the center of the blotter, which was lucky. One small tendril had splatted onto a file folder on the right-hand side, but only enough to leave a small stain on the outside, and not enough to soak through to the papers inside.
Robert hustled back clutching a fistful of paper towels, and I stepped away to let him blot up his mess, which he did with a jerky frenzy, the whole time muttering, “Sorry. Damn. I’m sorry.” It was a pathetic performance, almost enough to make me feel sorry for him. But of course, feeling sorry is not something I can actually do, and even if I could, I wouldn’t waste it on Robert. So I just stood and watched him, and for the most part I managed not to smirk.
Robert had most of the spill wiped up when the phone on my desk rang. I reached past him and picked up the receiver. “Morgan,” I said.
“I need you in my office,” said a familiar voice that was grumpy but authoritative. “Bring the case file.”
“What case file?” I said.
“The girl in the Dumpster,” Deborah hissed at me. “Jesus, Dexter.” She hung up, and I stared at the phone for a moment, wondering what my sister was up to. This was not her case—Anderson had the lead, and Deborah was theoretically not involved in it at all, except as an observer, a guide assigned to take Jackie Forrest through the maze of her first real homicide case. Perhaps she was going to show Jackie what the forensic file looked like. That probably meant that Jackie was there with her now, and at that thought a small sparkle of anticipation lurched up inside me, until I remembered I was angry with her for making me think of her so often and so pleasantly. But I couldn’t ignore Deborah’s summons without risking one of her blistering arm punches, so I would just have to take the chance of being assailed by more of the dreadful human feelings of delight caused by exposure to Jackie.
I hung up the phone. Robert had finished his cleanup and stood behind the desk with the wad of coffee-soaked paper towels in his hand. “What’s up?” he said.
I pulled the coffee-stained blotter off my desk and dumped it into the trash can. “We have been summoned,” I said. “Bring the pastries.”
SIX
DEBORAH’S DESK WAS IN AN AREA OF THE SECOND FLOOR where the homicide cops clustered. Like me, she kept a folding chair for her visitors, and as I led Robert in, that chair was occupied by Jackie Forrest. Her hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail that did nothing to hide the glow that seemed to come out of each individual strand of it. If she was wearing makeup I couldn’t see it, but her face was smooth and flawless, her eyes sparkled with intelligence and wit, and she looked so perfect she might have been some kind of idealized picture of what DNA could do if it was really trying. She looked up as we came in and gave me a bright smile, and then turned away with a frown when she saw Robert trailing in behind me.
“What took you so long?” Deborah said, and I was touched by the warmth of her greeting.
“Traffic was a bitch,” I said. “And how was your weekend?”
She snatched the case file from my hand and flung it on her desk. “This fucking case,” she said.
I had known that Deborah would be bothered by the unusual brutality of this murder, enough to want to do something about it—but technically speaking, she couldn’t. “I thought this was Anderson’s case,” I said.
“Anderson couldn’t find an ocean of shit if he was swimming in it,” she said.
“Detective Anderson?” Robert said. “He seems like a good guy.”
Deborah flicked a quick glance at Robert; Jackie rolled her eyes. I took the high road and simply ignored him.
“Well,” I said, “even Anderson has to get lucky sometime. And it’s his case.”