“It’s bullshit, Dexter,” Deborah said. “Unless you got something concrete to back it up.”
“You’ve got the dates and places,” I said. “And the victims all look like her.”
Deborah shook her head, lips pursed. “Lots of women look like her,” she said.
“Deborah, I’m sure about this—”
“Well, I’m not,” she snapped. “You got nothing to go on but one of your … hunches? And that’s not enough. I can’t go to the captain and say, ‘Look what we found when Dexter closed his eyes.’ Not when it isn’t even my case. I need evidence. Not just more of your psychic detective crap.”
It stung a little more than it should have. After all, she was the one who had forced me to perform, far too publicly for my liking, and now she was scolding me for doing something I hadn’t wanted to do at all. And I had done it just for her, because family is supposed to count for something—and done it quite well, too. And now she spurned me, mocked me, accused me of sophistry. So I reached down deep for a truly hurtful comeback, something that would really smack her down. But before I could even say, “Oh, yeah?” Jackie spoke.
“Oh, shit,” she said, staring at me and shaking her head jerkily from side to side. “Oh, my God, Deborah …” She twitched her head sideways and said, “I mean, Sergeant. I mean— Oh, shit.”
“What?” Deborah said.
Jackie continued her series of quick, jerky shakes of her head. “I think he’s right,” she said in a very small voice.
“Why?” Deborah demanded.
Jackie finally realized that she was still shaking her head and stopped. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, opened them and blinked at me, and then looked at Debs. “I have a stalker,” she said. “He’s been … He sent a bunch of letters.”
“What kind of letters?” Deborah said.
Jackie licked her lips. “They started out, you know. A little creepy, but just regular fan stuff.” She shrugged. “I get lots of those. And, you know, there’s a standard reply my assistant sends out. Sometimes with a picture. And he didn’t like that. He wanted something more … real.” She raised her hands and fluttered them like two small helpless birds. “Something personal,” she said. She dropped her hands into her lap. “Which I don’t do, ever. I mean, if it’s a kid with cancer or something, okay, but just a regular male fan letter? I usually don’t even see ’em, let alone answer ’em. My assistant brushes ’em off, and if they don’t take the hint we just ignore ’em. Send their letters back.”
Jackie bit her lip and looked down at her hands. “Which we did. We sent his letters back, and … he really hated that. And he wrote again, but … the letters turned really … nasty. And he sent my picture back all … shredded. Hacked up, and things drawn on it, and, um …” She actually gulped, took a deep breath, looked right at me, and said, “And one of the eyes poked out.”
“Fuck,” Deborah said softly.
“And the letters said some very bad things. Bad enough so Kathy—” She looked up. “Kathy is my assistant,” she said.
“Okay,” Deborah said.
“The letters were so dark and twisted and threatening that Kathy got worried. She showed them to me. I, uh … I don’t know. I didn’t really believe it was serious, but …” She shrugged and lifted her hands and then dropped them into her lap again. “I told her to show them to the police.”
“Did she?” Deborah asked.
“Yes,” Jackie said. “I mean, I assume so. I didn’t really … I mean, Kathy is very good at her job, so I’m sure she did.”
“Okay,” Deborah said. “And then what?”
Jackie shook her head. “Then nothing,” she said. “I mean, I didn’t think about it anymore; I just figured it was taken care of, and I had work to do. You know.”
“Where are the letters now?” Deborah said.
Jackie blinked. “Um. I don’t have any idea. I mean, I could ask Kathy?”
“Where is she?”
“She’s here, with me,” Jackie said. “I mean, here in Miami.”
“Call her,” Deborah said. “I need to see those letters. And I want the name of the cop who saw them—in L.A.?”
Jackie nodded, chewing at her lower lip. “Yes,” she said. “I mean, the Valley, but—”
“All right,” Deborah said. “Where’s your assistant now?”
“I, uh … probably at the hotel?” Jackie said.