by Jeff Lindsay
“Not possible,” I said without thinking, and Jackie gave me a quick bright smile.
“Cheaper,” Deborah said. “You mean, they’d just dump you to save money?”
“That’s a joke, right?” Jackie said. “They’d dump Jesus to save fifty bucks.”
“Shit,” Deborah said.
“We start shooting next week,” she said. “If I can get, say, a week of film in the can before they find out, I should be okay.” She inhaled deeply and looked at Deborah very seriously. “I know it’s a lot to ask. But … can we not tell them for a week?”
Deborah shrugged. “I don’t have to tell the network,” she said. “I don’t owe them shit.”
“What about Robert?” I said. After all, he was my nearly constant companion nowadays.
Jackie actually shuddered. “Oh, Jesus,” she said. “If he finds out he’ll tell everybody. He’d do anything to get me fired from this show.”
“It could be kind of hard to keep him from finding out,” I said. “He’s with me all day long.”
“Please,” she said. “It’s just for a couple of days.”
“Well,” I said, “I’ll do my best.”
“Thanks,” Jackie said, and Deborah cleared her throat.
“I don’t have to tell the network,” she said, “and I don’t have to tell Robert.” Her face dropped into the cold-forged cop face, the one that kept her from showing anything, no matter what she felt. “I do have to tell Detective Anderson. It’s his case.”
“What? But that’s— No!” Jackie said.
Deborah clenched her jaw. “I have to,” she said. “I am a sworn officer of the law now in possession of some vital information pertaining to a homicide case, and Anderson is lead on it. If I don’t tell him, I lose my job. I probably do jail time.”
“Oh,” Jackie said, looking very deflated. “But that’s … I mean, do you think Anderson would, um, not tell anybody?”
Deborah looked away. “He’ll tell,” she said.
“He’ll probably call a press conference,” I said.
“Shit,” Jackie said. “Shit, shit, shit.” She sank into a chair, looking for all the world like a forlorn rag doll. “I can’t—I won’t ask you to risk your career,” she said, and she said it with such hopeless, noble resignation that I wanted to kill something for her—like Anderson, for instance. But as that happy thought flashed through my mind, it was instantly replaced by one of those wonderful moments of insight that come only once in a lifetime, and only to the Just. “Oh,” I said, and some of my gleeful surprise clearly showed in my voice, because Jackie looked up, and Deborah frowned at me.
“What?” Jackie said.
“Deborah has to tell Anderson,” I said happily, and I said it again for emphasis. “Anderson.”
“I know his fucking name,” Debs said.
“And you know his fucking character, too,” I said.
“For fuck’s sake, Dex, what the—”
“Deborah, think a minute,” I said. “It might not hurt very much.”
She glared at me for a moment longer, then blew out a vicious breath. “All right, fuck, I’m thinking,” she said, and her face took on the look of a mean-spirited, slightly constipated grouper.
“Wonderful,” I said. “Now, picture this in your thoughts: You, Sergeant Deborah Morgan, Defender of the Faith and Champion of Justice—”
“Cut to the fucking chase, huh?” she said.
“You go to Detective Anderson,” I said patiently. “You, a person he thinks very highly of.”
“He hates my fucking guts,” she snarled. “So what?”
“So that’s just the point,” I said, and I let the glee creep back into my voice. “He really does hate your fucking guts. And you take him your file on this stuff, and you tell him you have a very important lead—you tell him, Deborah. Not me or Jackie or Captain Matthews—you tell him. With witnesses.” I looked at her expectantly and, I have to admit, I smirked, too. “What does he do?”
Deborah opened her mouth to say something that looked like it would be rather venomous—and then her jaw snapped shut audibly, her eyes got very wide, and she took a very deep breath. “Holy shit,” she breathed, and she looked at me with something approaching awe. “He does nothing. He loses the fucking file. Because it’s me.”
“Bingo,” I said, which was something I’d always wanted to say. “He’s afraid you would get the credit, so he does nothing—but you have done everything, by the book, with witnesses. You’re in the clear; Jackie’s secret is safe; all’s right with the world.”
“Would that really work?” Jackie said softly.
Debs squinted, jutted her jaw, and then nodded once. “It might,” she said.
“Oh, come on,” I said. “It’s at least a probably.”
“All right, it will probably work,” she said.
“And if you maybe twist the knife a little?” I said. “You know, like how important this lead is, and he should drop everything he’s doing to work on what you found?”
Debs snorted. “Yeah,” she said. “That would do it.”
“Oh,” Jackie said, “that’s— Dexter, you’re so— Thank you, thank you both so much.”
“But even if it does,” Debs said, turning to a suddenly hopeful Jackie, “that doesn’t keep you safe.”
“Oh,” Jackie said, and she looked deflated again.
“We’ve got to find this guy before he finds you,” Deborah said. “And in the meantime, we have to put you where he can’t get to you.”
“I, um … I can just stay with you, here at headquarters, during the day?” Jackie said. “And then the hotel at night, with the door chained and bolted.”
It’s always nice to encounter innocence, but in this case I thought I should say something. “Hotels are not safe,” I said. “It’s much too easy to get into the room and grab somebody.” I tried to say it as if I was very sure, which I was, but without sounding too much like I knew it was true from personal experience, which I did. It must have worked, because Jackie looked like she believed me.
“Well, then, um,” she said. She looked imploringly at Debs. “Where do I go?”
“You can’t stay with me,” Deborah said. She shrugged. “Sorry. I won’t put Nicholas at risk.” Nicholas was her son, born a few months after the father had disappeared in a fit of noble sacrifice. He was a very nice baby, only a few months younger than my daughter, Lily Anne, and Deborah doted on him.
“I could hire a bodyguard, but they’re always so …” She sighed again. “Some muscle-bound retired SEAL with a pistol and an attitude. And if the Taliban are after me, I’d be safe. But this? I mean, a homicidal psychopath? I need somebody who really understands that.” She looked directly at me as she said it, which I suppose was only fair, but it was still a bit unsettling. “Not just somebody who can shoot.” She looked back at Debs. “Of course, it’s nice if they can shoot, too, but …” She looked back at me and blinked, her eyes huge and moist. “I need somebody I can really trust,” she said. “Like I trust you guys.” She shook her head.
She kept looking at me, and if I was really as smart as I like to think I am, I would have known where this was going—but for some reason, I didn’t. “Dexter,” she said. “I know this is a huge thing, but … is there any way that, you know.”
I must have looked like I didn’t know, because she stepped toward me and put a hand on my arm. “It’s just for a few days,” she said. “And I’ll pay you whatever you ask, but … could you?”
I was certainly ready to agree in theory, but I still didn’t know what she was asking me. I understood that she wanted me to help, but I didn’t really see how I could help her find a safe place to stay. All I got was a mental picture of Jackie sleeping on my couch, with Cody and Astor tiptoeing around her to get to school, and the image was so unlikely I couldn’t even respond, except to say, “Uh—”
“Please …?” she said, in a voice that was suddenly soft and a little hoarse and a lot more intim
ate than a kiss. And even though I still didn’t know what she was asking me to do, I wanted very badly to do it.
“Well, um,” I said, trying to sound very willing, which can be difficult when you don’t know what you’re agreeing to.
“It’s not a bad idea,” Deborah said helpfully. “I can help you square it with Rita.” She nodded at Jackie. “He can actually shoot, too,” she said. She reached into her bottom desk drawer and brought out a Glock 9mm pistol in a clip-on belt holster. “You can use my backup piece.”
I looked at the Glock, and I looked at Jackie’s pleading face, and the light began to dawn at last. “You mean …” I said. “I mean, you … That’s, that’s …” And although in normal times Eloquence is Dexter’s middle name, nothing would come out that was even intelligible.
“Please?” Jackie said again, and the look she gave me would have melted a marble statue.
Dexter, of course, is made of sterner stuff than any mere mortal, and imploring looks from a beautiful woman have never had any power over Our Wicked Warrior. And it was an absurd idea, something far too strange even to contemplate—me, a bodyguard? It was out of the question.
And yet somehow, when the workday ended that evening and all good wage slaves trotted dutifully away to hearth and home, I found myself on the balcony of a suite at the Grove Isle Hotel, sipping a mojito and watching as a spectacular sunset blew up the sky behind us, reflecting orange and red and pink onto the water of Biscayne Bay. There was a tray of cheese and fresh fruit on the table beside me, and the Glock was an uncomfortable lump in my side, and I was filled with wonder at the unavoidable notion that Life makes no sense at all, especially when things have taken a sudden and extravagant turn into surreal and unearned luxury. Terror, pain, and nausea I can understand, but this? I could only assume I was being set up for something even worse. Still, the mojito was very good, and one of the cheeses had a very nice bite to it.
I wondered if anyone ever really got used to living like this. It didn’t seem possible; weren’t we all made to sweat and suffer and endure painful hardship as we toiled endlessly in the vile cesspit of life on earth? How did sharp cheese, fresh strawberries, and utter luxury fit in with that?
I looked at Jackie. She didn’t look like she had ever set foot in the vile cesspit. She still looked fresh, composed, and perfectly at home in this opulent setting, like a demigoddess lounging around Olympus. It was a very sharp contrast to the scene that had greeted me at my house a little earlier.
I had left Jackie at headquarters with Deborah and gone home to get a toothbrush and a change of clothes. After all, even bodyguards should practice good hygiene. I went to my bedroom and pulled out a blue nylon gym bag. I put some socks and underwear in; funny—the last time I had used the bag, I had filled it with duct tape and a few casual blades and gone for an evening of light merriment with a brand-new friend, a charming man who lured young women out on his boat and somehow always came back alone. I had helped him learn that it wasn’t nice to treat others as disposable toys—learn it by helping him become disposable himself. It had been a real pleasure to work with him, a thoroughly enjoyable evening. Had that really been three whole months ago?
My fond reverie was shattered by a great crashing sound from the front door, followed immediately by a shrill nasal howling, an inhuman sound that could only be Astor in full preteen snit. Rita’s voice rose up to meet it, the door slammed even louder, and then there was a flurry of foot stomping, shouting, and another, closer door slam.
Rita came into the bedroom with Lily Anne under her arm, the baby’s day-care bag over one shoulder and her own purse on the other. Her face was red, shiny with sweat, and the frown lines around her mouth looked like they had suddenly become permanent. And it hit me that she no longer looked like the picture of her I had been carrying around in my head. She had aged, and for some reason I was seeing it for the first time.
“Oh, Dexter, you’re home early,” she said, thrusting Lily Anne at me. “Can you change her, please? Astor is absolutely— I don’t know what to do.”
Lily Anne burbled at me happily and called out, “Dadoo!” and I carried her over to the changing table as Rita threw the bags on the bed.
“Oh,” Rita said. I glanced over at her; she was holding up my gym bag. “But this is— I mean, you can’t—”
“Wonderful news,” I said, taking a very wet diaper off Lily Anne. “I have a chance to make a lot of money—enough to pay for a new pool cage at the new house.”
“But that’s— Do you know how much they cost?” She shook her head, and a drop of sweat flew off her face and hit my gym bag.
“Doesn’t matter,” I said. I threw the wet diaper away and reached for the baby wipes. “I will make that much and more.”
“Doing what?”
I hesitated—not just because Jackie’s need for a bodyguard was confidential, but also because it suddenly seemed like a good idea not to tell Rita I would be cooped up with a beautiful movie star for several nights. “It’s confidential,” I said. I wiped Lily Anne thoroughly and reached for a fresh diaper.
Rita was silent. I looked up at her. She was frowning, and the lines in her forehead looked very deep. A limp, damp strand of hair fell down across the lines. She pushed it back. “Well, but …” she said. “I mean, is it legal? Because …” She shook her head again.
“Perfectly legal,” I said. “And very well paid.” I fastened the new diaper and picked up the baby. “Deborah said she would call and talk to you about it.”
“Oh, well,” she said. “If Deborah is— But can’t you tell me what it is?”
“Sorry,” I said.
“It’s just, there’s so much right now,” Rita said. “Moving day is coming—and Astor is being completely …” She dropped my gym bag and crossed her arms over her chest. “I mean, Dexter …” she said.
“I know,” I said, which was a lie, since I didn’t know, because she hadn’t finished a sentence yet. “But it’s just for a few days, and we can really use the extra money.”
For a long moment Rita just looked at me. Her face was like a mask of uncertain misery, and she seemed to sag all over. I wondered what she was thinking that could make her look so much like a damp and tattered dish rag. She gave me no clues, but she finally said, “Well … We really could use some extra money.…”
“Exactly,” I said. I handed Lily Anne back to her and picked up my gym bag. “So I will see you in just a few days?”
“You’ll call me?” she said.
“Of course,” I told her, and she leaned forward and gave me a sweaty kiss on the cheek.
“All right,” she said.
NINE
AND NOW HERE I WAS IN THE LAP OF LUXURY, FAR FROM THE hooting and screeching and dirty socks of my normal domestic life. It probably wasn’t fair to compare, of course, which was a good thing. This hotel made even my new, swimming-pooled house seem squalid—made my whole little life seem just a bit less bright and shiny.
I watched Jackie. She was lifting a large red strawberry off the platter and she looked as fresh and perfect as a human being can look. It definitely wasn’t fair to compare her to Rita.
“The seafood is very good here,” Jackie said, biting the end off the strawberry. She swallowed and licked her lips. “I guess it should be.” She smiled and sipped from her own mojito. “You probably get great seafood all the time,” she said.
“Actually, I don’t,” I said. “The kids won’t eat it.”
“Kids,” she said, and she gave me a strange and quizzical look.
“What?” I said.
Jackie shook her head. “Nothing. It’s just … you seem so, um.” She fluttered one hand while she took another sip of the drink. “I don’t know,” she said, putting the glass on the table. “So … independent? Self-contained? I mean, I don’t really know you that well, and maybe I’m being, um …” She touched my arm, very lightly, and then took her hand away again. “Tell me if I’m being too personal,” she said. “I
just got this feeling like I know you? And it seems like, you know.” She reached for a slice of kiwi fruit. “Like you are complete all by yourself. It’s hard for me to picture you with kids.”
“It’s even harder for me,” I said, and Jackie laughed. It was a nice sound.
“What’s your wife like?” she asked.
“What, Rita?” I said. The question took me just a little bit by surprise. “Why, she’s, um.” Jackie watched me, unblinking, and from the hours of daytime drama I have watched in order to understand human behavior, I knew that I was supposed to say something flattering about Rita, since she was, after all, my wife. And I thought about it, thought about how worn she had looked earlier, and I tried to think of a nice phrase for her, but all that came to mind was that I was used to her, that she was blind to my harmless little foibles with knives and felons, and that didn’t seem to be what the situation demanded. I thought some more. Jackie kept looking at me. The expectant silence grew, and in desperation I finally said, “She’s a terrific cook.”
Jackie tilted her head to one side and kept looking at me until I began to wonder whether I had said something wrong. “That’s kind of funny,” she said at last.
“What?”
A small smile flickered on and then off her face. “If you ask most guys about their wife, the first thing they say is, ‘Oh, she’s really beautiful, wonderful.’ Something like that. And you think about it forever and all you come up with is, ‘She’s a good cook’?”
I wanted to tell her that, after all, I had my priorities, and as far as I was concerned Rita could have looked like Shrek as long as she made mango paella the way she did. But it didn’t seem like quite the right note to hit, and I wasn’t really sure what was, so I stammered out, “Well, but you know. I mean, she’s very nice-looking.”
