by Jeff Lindsay
Deborah sighed heavily and shook her head again. “I never heard of Stockholm syndrome so strong the victim ran back to the bad guys,” she said.
“Debs,” I said, and now I really couldn’t help it, “I told you. It’s not Stockholm. Samantha wants to be eaten. It was her fantasy.”
“That’s bullshit,” she said angrily. “Nobody wants that.”
“Then why did she run away again?” I said, and she just shook her head and looked down at her hands.
“I don’t know,” she said. She stared at her hands where they lay in her lap, as if the answer might be written on her knuckles, and then she straightened up. “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “What matters is where she went.” She looked up at me. “So where would she go, Dex?”
To be honest, I didn’t really care where Samantha went, as long as she stayed there. Still, I had to say something.
“What about Bobby Acosta?” I said, and it made sense. “Did you find him yet?”
“No,” she said, very grumpy, and she shrugged. “He can’t stay lost forever,” she said. “We’re bringing way too much heat. Besides,” she said, and she raised both palms, “his family has money, and political clout, and they’re gonna figure they can get him off.”
“Can they?” I asked.
Deborah looked at her knuckles “Maybe,” she said. “Fuck. Yeah, probably. We got witnesses who can connect him to Tyler Spanos’s car—but a good lawyer could chop up those two Haitians in two seconds on the stand. And he ran from me—but that’s not much, either. The rest is guesswork and hearsay so far, and—Shit, yeah, I guess he could walk.” She nodded to herself and looked at her hands again. “Yeah, sure, Bobby Acosta will walk,” she said softly. “Again. And then nobody goes down for this.…” She studied her knuckles again, and then looked up at me, and her face was wearing an expression unlike anything I had ever seen before.
“What is it?” I said.
Deborah bit her lip. “Maybe,” she said. She looked away. “I don’t know.” She looked back at me and took a deep breath. “Maybe there’s something, you know,” she said. “Something you could do about it.”
I blinked several times, and I just barely managed to stop myself from looking down to see if there was still a floor underneath our feet. It was impossible to misunderstand what she was suggesting. As far as Debs was concerned I only did two things, and my sister was not talking about using my forensic skills on Bobby Acosta.
Deborah was the one person on earth who knew about my hobby. I thought she had come to accept it, however reluctantly—but to have her suggest that I should actually use it on somebody was so completely outside the limits of what I thought Deborah would ever approve of that the idea never occurred to me, and I was truly stunned. “Deborah,” I said, and the shock had to be showing in my voice. But she leaned as far forward as she could without tipping out of her chair and lowered her voice.
“Bobby Acosta is a killer,” she said with savage intensity. “And he’s going to walk—again—just because he’s got money and clout. It’s not right, and you know it—and that has to be the kind of thing that Dad wanted you to take care of.”
“Listen,” I said, but she wasn’t quite done.
“Goddamn it, Dexter,” she said, “I tried like hell to understand you, and what Daddy wanted with you, and I finally do—I get it, okay? I know exactly what Daddy was thinking. Because I’m a cop like he was, and every cop comes up against a Bobby Acosta someday, somebody who does murder and walks, even if you do everything right. And you can’t sleep and you grind your teeth and you want to scream and strangle somebody but it’s your job to eat the shit and like it and there’s nothing you can do about it.” She actually stood up, and she leaned her fist on my desk and put her face about six inches away from mine. “Until now,” she said. “Until finally Daddy solved this whole thing, the whole fucked-up mess.” She poked me in the chest. “With you,” she said. “And now I need you to be what Daddy wanted you to be, Dexter. I need you to take care of Bobby Acosta.”
Debs glared at me for several seconds as I scrambled for something to say. And in spite of my well-deserved reputation for a glib tongue and a ready wit, there were absolutely no words there for me to grab on to and speak. I mean, really; I had been trying so hard to reform, to live a normal life, and because of that I had been drugged, forced into an orgy, taunted and beaten by cannibals—and now my sister, a sworn officer of the law and a lifelong opponent of everything I held dear, was actually asking me to kill someone. I began to wonder if perhaps I was still lying somewhere, tied up and drugged, and hallucinating all this. The idea was very comforting—but my stomach was growling, and my chest hurt where Debs had poked me, and I realized that something so unpleasant was probably true, and that meant I had to deal with it.
“Deborah,” I said carefully. “I think you’re a little bit upset—”
“You’re goddamned right I’m upset,” she said. “I bust my ass to get Samantha Aldovar back, and now she’s gone again—and I’m betting Bobby Acosta has her, and he’s going to get away with it.”
Of course, it would have been more accurate for Debs to say she had busted my ass getting Samantha back—but now was not the best time to correct her, and anyway I suspected she was right about Bobby Acosta. Samantha had gotten into this because of him, and he was one of the last people left who could still help her fulfill her dream. But at least it offered a way out of the awkward moment—if I could steer the conversation on to where Acosta was, rather than what to do with him.
“I think you’re right,” I said. “Acosta got her started on all this. Samantha would go to him now.”
Deborah still didn’t sit back down, and she was still looking at me with red spots on her cheeks and fire in her eyes. “All right,” she said. “I’m going to find the little bastard. And then …”
Sometimes a short reprieve and a change of subject is the very best you can hope for, and clearly I was there now. I could only hope that in the time it took to find Acosta, Debs would calm down a little bit and decide that feeding her felon to Dexter was not the wisest course. Maybe she would shoot him herself. In any case, I was off the hook—temporarily, at least.
“Okay,” I said. “How are you going to find him?”
Deborah straightened up and ran a hand through her hair. “I’ll talk to his old man,” she said. “He’s got to know Bobby’s best chance is to walk in here with a lawyer.”
That was almost certainly true—but then, Joe Acosta was a rich and powerful man, and my sister was a tough and stubborn woman, and a meeting of two such people would probably go a lot smoother if at least one person present had just a tiny smidgen of tact. Deborah had never had any; she probably couldn’t even spell it. And judging from his reputation, Joe Acosta was the kind of man who would buy tact if he ever needed any. So that left me.
I stood up. “I’ll come with you,” I said.
She studied me for a moment, and I thought perhaps she was going to tell me “no” out of sheer perverseness. But then she nodded. “Okay,” she said, and she headed out the door.
THIRTY-FOUR
LIKE MOST PEOPLE WHO LIVE IN MIAMI, I KNEW A GOOD deal about Joe Acosta from what I’d read in the newspapers. It seemed like he had been a county commissioner forever, and even before that little chunks of his life story had slipped into the media from time to time. It was the kind of story that makes for wonderful, heartwarming reading, a real boy-makes-good tale. Or in Acosta’s case, perhaps it should be chico makes bueno.
Joe Acosta had come to Miami from Havana on one of the first Pedro Pan Freedom Flights. He had been young enough at the time to make an easy transition to America, but he stayed gusano enough over the years to keep a high standing in the Cuban community, and he had done very well for himself. He had gone into real estate in the boom time of the eighties and put all his profits into one of the first big developments south of South Miami. It had sold out in six months. And now Acosta’s construction an
d development business was one of the largest in South Florida, and driving around town you saw a sign with his name on it at nearly every construction site. He was so successful that even the current financial meltdown apparently hadn’t hurt him too badly. Of course, he didn’t need to rely solely on his construction business. He could always fall back on the salary of six thousand dollars a year he made as a county commissioner.
Joe was about ten years into a second marriage, and it seemed like even the divorce had not wiped him out, because he still lived very well and publicly. He was often in the celebrity gossip section of the papers, pictured with his new wife. She was a British beauty who had been responsible for a number of truly terrible techno-pop dance hits in the nineties and then, when the public realized how awful her music was, she came to Miami, found Joe, and settled into a comfortable life as a trophy wife.
Acosta kept a business office on Brickell Avenue, and that’s where we found him. He had the entire top floor of one of the newer skyscrapers that were remaking the Miami skyline into something that looked like a giant mirror had fallen from outer space and shattered into tall and jagged shards that were now jammed into the ground at random intervals. We got past the guard in the lobby and rode up to the top in a sleek elevator. Even Acosta’s ultrachic steel-and-leather waiting room had a wonderful view of Biscayne Bay, though, and that turned out to be a good thing. We had plenty of opportunity to enjoy it, because Acosta kept us waiting for forty-five minutes; after all, there is no real point in having clout if you don’t use it to make the police uncomfortable.
And it worked wonderfully well, at least on Deborah. I sat and flipped through a couple of very high-end sports-fishing magazines, but Deborah fidgeted, clenching and unclenching her hands and her jaw, crossing and recrossing her legs, and drumming her fingers on the arm of her chair. She looked like someone waiting for the methadone clinic to open.
After a while, I couldn’t even concentrate on all the glossy pictures of ridiculously rich men with one arm around a bikinied model and the other around a big fish, and I put down the magazine. “Debs, for God’s sake, stop fidgeting. You’ll wear out the chair.”
“That son of a bitch is keeping me waiting because he’s up to something,” she hissed.
“That son of a bitch is a busy man,” I said. “As well as being rich and powerful. Besides, he knows you’re after his son. And that means he can keep us waiting as long as he wants. So relax and enjoy the view.” I picked up a magazine and offered it to her. “Have you seen this issue of Cigar Aficionado?”
Debs slapped the magazine away, making a thwack noise that sounded unnaturally loud in the hushed and clinical elegance of the waiting area. “I’m giving him five more minutes,” she snarled.
“And then what?” I said. She didn’t have an answer for that, at least not in words, but the look she gave me would almost certainly have curdled milk if I’d been holding any.
I never got to find out what she might have done after five minutes, because after only three and a half minutes more of watching my sister grind her teeth and jangle her legs like a teenager, the elevator door opened and an elegant woman strolled past us. She was tall, even without the spike heels, and her platinum-colored hair was short, possibly to keep it from hiding the gigantic diamond that hung around her neck on a thick gold chain. The jewel was set in the eye of what looked to be an ankh, but with a sharp, daggerlike point to it. The woman gave us one snooty glance and went right to the receptionist.
“Muriel,” she said in an icy British accent. “Send in some coffee, won’t you.” And without pausing she went by the receptionist, opened the door to Acosta’s office, and sauntered in, closing the door behind her.
“That’s Alana Acosta,” I whispered to Debs. “Joe’s wife.”
“I know who it is, goddamn it,” she said, and went back to grinding her teeth.
It was clear that Deborah was beyond any of my paltry efforts at bringing her comfort and joy, so I grabbed another magazine. This one was devoted to showing the kind of clothing you have to wear on boats that cost enough to buy a small country. But I had not even looked at it long enough to discover why twelve-hundred-dollar shorts were better than the kind that cost fifteen dollars at Walmart when the receptionist called to us.
“Sergeant Morgan?” she said, and Deborah shot up out of her chair as if she were sitting on a big steel spring. “Mr. Acosta will see you now,” the receptionist said, and waved us at the office door.
“About fucking time,” Debs muttered under her breath, but I think Muriel heard her, because she gave us a superior smile as my sister stormed by her with me in her wake.
Joe Acosta’s office was big enough to host a convention. One whole wall was taken up by the largest flat-screen TV I had ever seen. Covering the entire wall opposite was a painting that really belonged in a museum under armed guard. There was a bar, complete with a kitchenette, a conversation area with a couple of couches, and a handful of chairs that looked like they had come from an old British Empire men’s club and cost more than my house. Alana Acosta lounged in one of the chairs, sipping from a bone china coffee cup. She didn’t offer us any.
Joe Acosta sat at a massive glass-and-steel-frame desk in front of a tinted glass wall that framed Biscayne Bay as if it was a photo of Joe’s personal cottage in the woods. In spite of the tint, the late-afternoon light came up off the water and filled the room with a supernatural glow.
Acosta stood up as we entered, and the light from the window behind him surrounded him in a bright aura, making it hard to look at him without squinting. But I looked at him anyway, and even without the halo he was impressive.
Not physically; Acosta was a thin and aristocratic-looking man with dark hair and eyes, and he wore what looked like a very expensive suit. He was not tall, and I was sure his wife would tower over him in her spike heels. But perhaps he felt that the power of his personality was strong enough to overcome a little thing like being a foot shorter than her. Or maybe it was the power of his money. Whatever it was, he had it. He looked at us from behind his desk, and I felt a sudden urge to kneel, or at least knuckle my forehead.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, Sergeant,” he said. “My wife wanted to be here for this.” He waved an arm at the conversation area. “Let’s sit where we can talk,” he said, and he walked around the desk and sat down in the big club chair opposite Alana.
Deborah hesitated for a moment, and I saw that she looked a little bit uncertain, as if it had really hit her for the first time that she was confronting somebody who was only a few steps down the chain of command from God. But she took a breath, squared her shoulders, and marched over to the couch. She sat down, and I sat beside her.
The couch was apparently built on the same principle as a Venus flytrap, because when I sat I was immediately sucked down into a deep plush cushion, and as I struggled to remain upright it occurred to me that this was on purpose, another silly little trick Acosta used to dominate people, like putting his desk in front of the bright window. Deborah apparently came to the same conclusion, because I saw her tighten her jaw, and pull herself forward with a jerk to perch awkwardly on the edge of the couch.
“Mr. Acosta,” she said. “I need to talk to your son.”
“What about?” Acosta said. He sat comfortably in his chair, his legs crossed, and an expression of polite interest on his face.
“Samantha Aldovar,” Debs said. “And Tyler Spanos.”
Acosta smiled. “Roberto has a lot of girlfriends,” he said. “I don’t even try to keep up.”
Deborah looked angry, but happily for us all she managed to control herself. “As I am sure you are aware, Tyler Spanos was murdered, and Samantha Aldovar is missing. And I think your son knows something about both of them.”
“Why do you think that?” Alana said from her chair opposite Joe. Another trick: We had to whip our heads back and forth to keep up, like watching a Ping-Pong match.
But Deborah looked at her anyway. “He
knows Samantha,” she said. “And I have witnesses that say he sold them Tyler’s car. That’s felony car theft and accessory to murder, and that’s just the beginning.”
“I am not aware that any charges have been filed,” Acosta said, and we both swung our heads back to face him.
“Not yet,” Deborah said. “But they will be.”
“Then perhaps we should have a lawyer here,” Alana said.
Deborah looked at her briefly, then back to Acosta. “I wanted to talk to you first,” she said. “Before the lawyers get into it.”
Acosta nodded, as if he expected a police officer to show that kind of consideration for his money. “Why?” he said.
“Bobby is in trouble,” she said. “I think he knows that. But his best chance at this point is to walk into my office, with a lawyer, and surrender himself.”
“That would save you some work, wouldn’t it?” Alana said with a superior smile.
Deborah stared at her. “I don’t mind the work,” she said. “And I’ll find him anyway. And when I do it’s going to go very hard on him. If he resists arrest, he might even get hurt.” She looked back at Acosta. “It’s going to be a whole lot better for him if he comes in on his own.”
“Why do you think I know where he is?” Acosta said.
Deborah stared at him, then looked away for a moment, out the bright window at the bay. “If it was my son,” she said, “I would know where he was. Or how to find out.”
“You have no children, do you?” Alana said.
“No,” Debs said. She looked at Alana for a long and awkward moment, and then swung her head back to face Acosta. “He’s your son, Mr. Acosta. If you know where he is and don’t tell when I file charges, that’s concealing a fugitive.”
