by Jeff Lindsay
And as that word “subtly” passed through my mind, I sighed. Deborah was as subtle as a steam shovel. She would not have even an inkling of how to go about something like this. I might be able to script it for her, but she could never perform it as written. I knew my sister well, and although she had vast ability as a cop, she had absolutely none as a politician. She had never been able to make herself play the game properly, and she wasn’t going to start now. Besides, she had already worked herself up into a masochistic frenzy and was clearly almost eager to take the bullet here, because it was the Right Thing to do—as if that ever really meant anything.
No: The way things stood right now, Deb’s goose was cooked. And when that happened, Dexter was bound to end up as dessert. I was supposed to know where the line was, just as clearly as she did, and I had just as certainly crossed it. I wasn’t sure what my punishment would be—Code Enforcement had no forensics department—but it would almost certainly be something unpleasant. Suspension, probably loss of pay—and just when I needed the money most.
“Dexter,” Jackie said softly, and I jerked around to face her. For a moment, lost in my unpleasant thoughts, I had forgotten she was there. “What will happen?” she said. “To Deborah? And to you.”
I shook my head. “Too soon to say,” I said.
“But it might be bad?”
“Maybe,” I said, and she looked down at her knees. They were very nice knees, but I could see no overwhelming reason for her to look at them. I watched her, but she didn’t do anything else interesting, and after a moment a huge yawn took me over and I realized that I was very tired. It was, after all, still the middle of the night, and pretending to be eternally vigilant really does take a lot of energy. Suddenly I wanted nothing in the world more than just to lay me down and sleep—and Jackie was sitting on my bed, which would make stretching out and going to sleep a little awkward, or at least very crowded. I had just composed a polite way to ask Jackie to move off the couch so I could lie down and sleep when she blurted out, still staring at her knees, “He’ll come back, won’t he.”
At first I didn’t know what she meant, and then I wasn’t sure what to say. After a few seconds of puzzled silence she finally looked up at me and said, “The killer. Patrick. He’s going to come back and try again.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I said.
“He will,” she said. “I know he will. And next time …”
Jackie shuddered, but she didn’t say anything more, so I went back to my prepared remarks on the subject of slumber. “Anyway,” I said, “tomorrow is a long day.” I went over to the couch and stood above her, looking down longingly at my place of rest. “We should try to get some sleep,” I told her.
She stood up abruptly, and in trying to get out of her way I almost fell onto the coffee table. She grabbed at my arm and steadied me, but when I straightened up she didn’t let go. Instead, she pulled herself closer and looked up at me, and her violet eyes were huge and seemed to go on forever.
“He will come back,” she said. “I know he will.” She took a deep and uneven breath. “He could even be here in the hotel right now.”
She was much closer to me than she needed to be to tell me that, but I didn’t complain. I just swallowed and answered her with a mouth that was suddenly very dry for some reason. “Well, maybe,” I said, and somehow she found a way to move even closer.
“I don’t want to be alone,” she said. “Not tonight. I’m … scared.” She raised her face up to mine with her eyes wide and wild, and I felt myself falling forward into an endless violet sea.
I didn’t get very much sleep that night, but I didn’t really mind. It turned out I wasn’t nearly as tired as I’d thought.
TWENTY-SIX
I WOKE UP IN THE NIGHT AND FOR ALMOST A FULL MINUTE I LAY drowsing, eyes closed, with no idea where I was. That didn’t seem worrisome for some reason. A soft and fragrant sheet covered me from the waist down, and a feeling of half-ecstatic numbness covered the rest of me, and I lay there between sleep and waking and wondered how I got wherever I was and why it should make me feel so good.
And then something rustled beside me and my eyes opened wide at the sound. I turned to my left and looked.
Jackie Forrest, TV star, adored by millions and pursued by Greek arms dealers, lay there next to me, naked. Her golden hair was tousled and spread unevenly across the pillow, and one hand was clenched beside her face. The sheet was pulled halfway down; I could see the faint spray of freckles that ran across her shoulders, down her chest, and over her breasts—her perfect, amazing breasts.
I had never before understood the male obsession with this female feature; breasts are, after all, no more than a functional, even utilitarian article of equipment. They were originally a necessary survival tool for raising healthy offspring, rendered slightly obsolete by bottles and modern baby formula, and to fall into a vacuous trance at the mere sight of them had always seemed to me the height of human stupidity.
But as I looked at Jackie Forrest’s breasts, I understood the madness for the first time. Jackie’s breasts were a thing apart from humanity; they stood alone on the plane of avatars, beautiful, perfect, iconic things, the very embodiment of all that the ideal female breast should be, so far beyond anything I had ever seen before that I could only stare at them and marvel. So this was what all the fuss was about.…
I couldn’t help myself; I reached a hand out and touched the closest breast. The feel of it was soft, incredibly smooth, and invited a closer and more thorough examination. I covered it with my hand and was rewarded with a feeling of satisfaction I had never before experienced, or even believed was possible. The perfect pink nipple rubbed against the palm of my hand, and it grew harder—and that, too, was amazingly, implausibly satisfying.
Jackie moved slightly, a small shifting of hips and shoulders, and one eyelid fluttered. I took my hand away, and then, still not at all sure what I was doing or why, I moved my mouth down to her breast and rubbed my lips on it.
Jackie stirred again, and then her hand slid softly over my cheek and around to the back of my neck, and I sat up to look at her face.
Her eyes were half open and her tongue slid over her lower lip and then her mouth curved into a sleepy smile. “Again …?” she said in a husky half whisper. She reached a hand up and pulled my face down onto hers, and we again’d.
Somewhere far away, in a fog of perfect bliss, an annoying buzz began to worm its way into the ethereal cloud of euphoria where Dexter floated undreaming. I tried to push it away and rise back up onto my cloud, but the sound got louder and more insistent, and the cloud began to break up, wisps of sheer happiness fading into the dull, grainy-eyed numbness of returning consciousness. I heard a rustling beside me and opened one eye as Jackie slapped at the alarm clock, and then lurched out of bed and scurried for the bathroom.
I watched her go, stupid from lack of sleep, but awake enough to marvel at what had happened to me. I was lying in a Real Star’s bed, and I had spent the night doing improbable things with her—things I had never before thought about doing, but somehow I had done them quite naturally with Jackie. And I thought again about the crowds that followed her with such slack-jawed adoration, and how any one of them would have given everything they owned to be me right now—or at any rate, a few hours ago. But there was only one me, and I was it, and I had spent the night in bed with Jackie Forrest.
I heard the water start up in the bathroom, and Jackie began to splash around under the shower. I stretched and lay there for a moment, very pleased with myself. I had done a remarkable thing, and I felt quite good about it. But beyond that, I realized I was also hungry, which shouldn’t have been a surprise. After all, I had burned quite a few calories in the night, and my body was never shy about asking for a refill.
I got out of bed and stared dopily around, looking for my shorts. I was pretty sure they had made it into the room, but not at all certain about just how far. I finally found them at the foot of the bed, unde
r the crumpled bedspread. I pulled them on and padded out to the living room, site of my former bed, the elegant leather couch. Lovely to look at, delightful for lounging, but not at all the ideal spot for sleeping, and I would have been glad to move off it for a much smaller reason. But to move right off the couch and into Jackie’s bed was the best of all possible worlds.
But as I caught myself sinking into a bog of fatuous self-congratulation, a nasty little thought dove in beside me. Why should I assume the move meant anything? Last night Jackie had been upset, scared, desperately in need of comfort and company. That was no guarantee that she would feel that way again tonight, or the next night, or ever. I am hugely ignorant of human sexual and emotional matters, but I knew enough to know that almost nothing in that area is ever certain. Everyone is different, everyone has different expectations, and no two humans ever have the same experience, even when they have it together. From what I can tell, the whole thing is like two people speaking different languages that have the same words; it all sounds the same, but the words have different meanings in each language. For one person love means sex, and for the other it means forever—two completely different meanings, and yet even the pronunciation of the syllable is the same.
So what did last night really mean?
For me? I’d had a far better time than I’d ever had without using duct tape, and I was very willing to make it the New Normal—but I had no idea what Jackie was thinking. She’d acted like she was having fun—but it could have been just that, acting. Maybe she had decided to trade a few hours of undignified exertion for the extra protection of having somebody next to her, a security blanket in case Patrick showed up. It certainly made more sense than thinking she had decided that Dexter was destined to be her one and only forever. After all, she was a world-famous beauty, and what was I? Nothing, really, no more than a simple forensics geek who moonlighted as a human vivisectionist. I had no right to assume there would be any more than one night, no logical reason to think that one evening of sweaty embrace had been the first step into a bright new future.
I stood there beside the couch in the warm sunlight that poured in through the windows, and I felt myself deflate. It would all end much too soon, and now there was a great deal more to regret than the excellent room service menu.
On the other hand, the menu truly was excellent, and deflated or not, I was still hungry. I picked up the phone and ordered breakfast.
I had finished eating and was halfway through my second cup of coffee by the time Jackie finally came out onto the balcony. She hesitated for just half a second, and then she leaned over and kissed me before she sat down. “Good morning,” she said.
“It seems to be,” I said cautiously. “How … um,” I said, and I heard myself stutter off into a rather awkward silence.
“What?” Jackie said.
“Well,” I said. “I was going to ask how you slept—but it suddenly sounded awfully stupid, because …”
“Yes,” she said.
“So, um—would you like some coffee?”
“Very much.”
I poured her a cup and she picked it up and held it in front of her mouth with both hands, blowing to cool it, and then sipping. When it was about half gone, she lowered the cup and took a deep breath. Then she let it out, slowly and audibly, and looked down at her lap. “I don’t …” she said, and then bit her lip and looked up. “I feel terrible.”
I did not see any way to take that remark as a compliment, and that must have shown on my face, because Jackie looked slightly startled and hurriedly added, “About Kathy. Being—dead.”
“Oh,” I said, with a certain amount of very selfish relief. I had been so wrapped up in my own torturous thoughts that I had actually forgotten about Kathy’s murder. Very shallow, no doubt, but I have never claimed to be a compassionate person.
“It’s my fault,” Jackie said. “My selfishness got her killed. And then we— I just feel so awful about what I did.…”
I wanted to tell her that she really shouldn’t, because she had done it quite well, but this time I knew she was talking about Kathy. Clearly, some words of comfort were called for—and surprisingly, I realized I wanted to make her feel better. “Jackie,” I said. “It really wasn’t your fault. If anything, it was mine.”
She looked startled. “Yours?” she said, and I nodded.
“I am supposed to be the expert,” I said. “And I had no idea he would attack Kathy. So you couldn’t possibly know.”
Jackie sipped her coffee and frowned. “Maybe,” she said. “But—”
“In fact,” I said, “this is so totally against Patrick’s pattern that I wouldn’t be at all surprised to find out it wasn’t him.” I did not add that I would have been even more surprised to find out it was.
“You mean somebody else killed Kathy?” she said. “But why?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
Jackie frowned and looked down, and then shook her head. “No,” she said at last. “Who else could possibly— No. That’s crazy.”
“That’s exactly my point,” I said. “Sane and solid citizens usually don’t do these things.” And I have to say I spoke with some expertise here.
She thought about it, sipping her coffee, and finally she sighed and shook her head again. “No,” she said. “I know you’re trying to make me feel better, but … I don’t believe it.”
I looked at Jackie, wallowing in needless misery, and in one of the strangest moments yet, I realized I wanted her to smile, laugh, feel the sun and the wind on her face and know true joy, or at least finish her coffee without bursting into tears. “What if I can prove it was somebody else?” I said, and she looked half startled.
“How?” she said.
I smiled, and it was very nearly a real smile. “This is what I do,” I said. “In all modesty, I have to admit that I am pretty good at forensics.”
“And one or two other things,” she said, but she heard herself being lighthearted and looked guilty. She turned away again, frowning.
“All I’m asking is to let me look at the reports and talk to Vince before you decide that you don’t deserve to live anymore,” I said.
A long moment later, she looked back to me, and if there was no actual hope on her face, at least she didn’t look completely miserable anymore. “All right,” she said. She took another sip of coffee, followed by a deep breath, and she let a determined look settle onto her face. “Fine,” she said. She put the cup down and reached for the two covered dishes on the tray, then hesitated. “Which one is mine?” she asked.
“Both of them,” I said, and she raised an eyebrow. “Well, I wasn’t sure—I mean, I got your regular church-mouse breakfast,” I said, tapping one of the silver covers, “but I thought … Anyway, there’s also an omelet and some bacon, in case you wanted something more, because, um …” I finished lamely, sounding far too much like Rita.
“Because I worked up an appetite last night?” she said.
“Well—yes, I guess so.”
She smiled. “I did,” she said. “But we start work in front of the cameras tomorrow, so …” She shrugged and lifted the cover off the toast and grapefruit juice. She put the cover aside and picked up a piece of toast, crunching at it and sipping the juice.
I eyed the other cover, the one over the omelet, and whether I was truly hungry or just needed something to do, I lifted the cover. “If you’re sure,” I said. “I mean, it’s really very good.”
Jackie sipped her juice. “I’m sure,” she said.
I ate the omelet.
When I was done, I poured more coffee into Jackie’s cup, and then into mine. We sipped, and the silence grew, and I wondered whether I should start babbling, just to fill the silence.
“Listen,” she said at last. I looked at her attentively. “Last night …” She sipped again, and then looked away. “It was very nice,” she said.
“Very nice,” I said. “I mean, nice doesn’t really seem adequate.”
She
looked back at me and flashed a brief smile. “I’m glad you think so,” she said. “But …” She shook her head and looked down at her feet. “There’s always a but, isn’t there?”
“I don’t, um … Is there? I mean, always?” I asked.
Jackie looked up at me again and made a kind of rueful smile. “Yeah, always,” she said. “I mean, right now it’s, ‘Wowee, thank you, Jesus, one more time’—but things are always different in daylight.…” She was probably right, and for a brief moment I wanted to try it in daylight to see how different it was, but Jackie didn’t seem to share that mood; she sighed heavily and looked away again.
“I was scared last night,” she said. “I was sure he was in the hotel, coming for me, and—” She paused abruptly and blinked at me. “Not that …” she said, looking very uncomfortable. “I mean—it was something I really wanted to do. With … you.” She looked at her knees. “You have this … I don’t know. Something about you that …” She pursed her lips and gave her head two very small shakes. “I don’t know. Like you’re this … normal man, secure and … and … solid? Ordinary? No, maybe comfortable?” She shook her head again. “And at the same time there’s this feeling I get like you’re one of the bad boys I used to like, with a switchblade in your pocket or something, and the combination is so …”
She looked up at me, and her tongue came out across her lower lip. She sighed, and looked down again. “I really do like you, Dexter,” she said. “I mean, really. But … we live in different worlds, and you know. I’ll go back to L.A., and you’ll go back to your wife.”
“I don’t have to,” I said, and it was out of my mouth before I even knew what I was saying.
She looked at me very seriously, and I looked back. Then she shook her head. “You have kids, and … Let’s just not make this complicated, all right?”
