Darkly Dreaming Dexter Part 17

She looked at me for a moment, then turned away. Come on, she said.

It may have been the commanding tone in her voice, but I went. We walked to the far side of the arena from where I had been sitting and into the lobby. A Broward cop stood beside the elevator there, and just outside the long row of gla.s.s doors I could see several more of them standing at a barrier. Deb marched up to the cop at the elevator and said, I'm Morgan. He nodded and pushed the up b.u.t.ton. He looked at me with a lack of expression that said a great deal. I'm Morgan, too, I told him. He just looked at me, then turned his head away to stare out the gla.s.s doors.

There was a muted chime and the elevator arrived. Deborah stalked in and slammed her hand against the b.u.t.ton hard enough to make the cop look up at her and the door slid shut.

Why so glum, sis? I asked her. Isn't this what you wanted to do?

It's make-work, and everybody knows it, she snarled.

But it's detective-type make-work, I pointed out.

That b.i.t.c.h LaGuerta stuck her oar in, she hissed. As soon as I'm done spinning my wheels here, I have to go back out on hooker duty.

Oh, dear. In your little s.e.x suit?

In my little s.e.x suit, she said, and before I could really formulate any magical words of consolation we arrived at the office level and the elevator doors slid open. Deb stalked out and I followed. We soon found the staff lounge, where the office workers had been herded to wait until the full majesty of the law had the time to get around to them. Another Broward cop stood at the door of the lounge, presumably to make certain that none of the staff made a break for the Canadian border. Deborah nodded to the cop at the door and went into the lounge. I trailed behind her without much enthusiasm and let my mind wander over my problem. A moment later I was startled out of my reverie when Deborah jerked her head at me and led a surly, greasy-faced young man with long and awful hair toward the door. I followed again.

She was naturally separating him from the others for questioning, very good police procedure, but to be perfectly honest it did not light a fire in my heart. I knew without knowing why that none of these people had anything meaningful to contribute. Judging from this first specimen, it was probably safe to apply that generalization to his life as well as to this murder. This was just dull routine make-work that had been doled out to Deb because the captain thought she had done something good, but she was still a pest. So he had sent her away with a piece of real detective drudgery to keep her busy and out of sight. And I had been dragged with her because Deb wanted me along. Possibly she wanted to see if my fantastic ESP powers could help determine what these office sheep had eaten for breakfast. One look at this young gentleman's complexion and I was fairly sure he had eaten cold pizza, potato chips, and a liter of Pepsi. It had ruined his complexion and given him an air of vacuous hostility.

Still, I followed along as Mr. Grumpy directed Deborah to a conference room at the back of the building. There was a long oak table with ten black high-backed chairs in the center of the room, and a desk in the corner with a computer and some audio-visual equipment. As Deb and her pimply young friend sat and began trading frowns, I wandered over to the desk. A small bookshelf sat under the window beside the desk. I looked out the window. Almost directly below me I could see the growing crowd of reporters and squad cars that now surrounded the door where we had gone in with Steban.

I looked at the bookshelf, thinking I would clear a small s.p.a.ce and lean there, tastefully away from the conversation. There was a stack of manila folders and perched on top of it was a small gray object. It was squarish and looked to be plastic. A black wire ran from the thing over to the back of the computer. I picked it up to move it.

Hey! the surly geek said. Don't mess with the webcam!

I looked at Deb. She looked at me and I swear I saw her nostrils flair like a racehorse at the starting gate. The what? she said quietly.

I had it focused down on the entrance, he said. Now I gotta refocus it. Man, why do you have to mess with my stuff?

He said webcam, I said to Deborah.

A camera, she said to me.

Yes.

She turned to young Prince Charming. Is it on?

He gaped at her, still concentrating on maintaining his righteous frown. What?

The camera, Deborah said. Does it work?

He snorted, and then wiped his nose with a finger. What do you think, I would get all worked up if it didn't? Two hundred bucks. It totally works.

I looked out the window where the camera had been pointing as he droned on in his surly grumble. I got a Web site and everything. Kathouse.com. People can watch the team when they get here and when they leave.

Deborah drifted over and stood beside me, looking out the window. It was pointed at the door, I said.

Duh, our happy pal said. How else are people on my Web site gonna see the team?

Deborah turned and looked at him. After about five seconds he blushed and dropped his eyes to the table. Was the camera turned on last night? she said.

He didn't look up, just mumbled, Sure. I mean, I guess so.

Deborah turned to me. Her computer knowledge was confined to knowing enough to fill out standardized traffic reports. She knew I was a little more savvy.

How do you have it set up? I asked the top of the young man's head. Do the images automatically archive?

This time he looked up. I had used archive as a verb, so I must be okay. Yeah, he said. It refreshes every fifteen seconds and just dumps to the hard drive. I usually erase in the morning.

Deborah actually clutched my arm hard enough to break the skin. Did you erase this morning? she asked him.

He glanced away again. No, he said. You guys came stomping in and yelling and stuff. I didn't even get to check my e-mail.

Deborah looked at me. Bingo, I said.

Come here, she said to our unhappy camper.

Huh? he said.

Come here, she repeated, and he stood up slowly, mouth hanging open, and rubbed his knuckles.

What, he said.

Could you please come over here, sir? Deborah ordered with truly veteran-cop technique, and he stuttered into motion and came over. Can we see the pictures from last night, please?

He gaped at the computer, then at her. Why? he said. Ah, the mysteries of human intelligence.

Because, Deborah said, very slowly and carefully. I think you might have taken a picture of the killer.

He stared at her and blinked, then blushed. No way, he said.

Way, I told him.

He stared at me, and then at Deb, his jaw hanging open. Awesome, he breathed. No s.h.i.t? I mean- No, really? I mean- He blushed even harder.

Can we look at the pictures? Deb said. He stood still for a second, then plunged into the chair at the desk and touched the mouse. Immediately the screen came to life, and he began typing and mouse-clicking furiously. What time should I start?

What time did everybody leave? Deborah asked him.

He shrugged. We were empty last night. Everybody gone by, what-eight o'clock?

Start at midnight, I said, and he nodded.

'Kay, he said. He worked quietly for a moment, then, Come on, he mumbled. It's only like a six hundred megaherz, he said. They won't update. They keep saying it's fine, but sooooo freaking slow, and it won't- Okay, he said, breaking off suddenly.

A dark image appeared on the monitor: the empty parking lot below us. Midnight, he said, and stared at the screen. After fifteen seconds, the picture changed to the same picture.

Do we have to watch five hours of this? Deborah asked.

Scroll through, I said. Look for headlights or something moving.

Riiiiiight, he said. He did some rapid point-and-click, and the pictures began to flip past at one per second. They didn't change much at first; the same dark parking lot, one bright light out at the edge of the picture. After about fifty frames had clicked past, an image jumped into view. A truck! Deborah said.

Our pet nerd shook his head. Security, he said, and in the next frame the security car was visible.

He kept scrolling, and the pictures rolled by, eternal and unchanging. Every thirty or forty frames we would see the security truck pa.s.s, and then nothing. After several minutes of this, the pattern stopped, and there was a long stretch of nothing. Busted, my greasy new friend said.

Deborah gave him a hard look. The camera is broken?

He looked up at her, blushed again, and looked away. The security dudes, he explained. They totally suck. Every night at, like, three? They park over at the other side and go to sleep. He nodded at the unchanging pictures scrolling past. See? h.e.l.lo! Mr. Security Dude? Hard at work? He made a wet sound deep in his nose that I had to a.s.sume was meant to be laughter. Not very! He repeated the snorting sound and started the pictures scrolling again.

And then suddenly- Wait! I called out.

On-screen, a van popped into view at the door below us. There was another pop as the image changed, and a man stood beside the truck. Can you make it go closer? Deborah asked.

Zoom in, I said before he could do more than frown a little. He moved the cursor, highlighted the dark figure on the screen, and clicked the mouse. The picture jumped to a closer look.

You're not gonna get much more resolution, he said. The pixels- Shut up, said Deborah. She was staring at the screen hard enough to melt it, and as I stared too I could see why.

It was dark, and the man was still too far away to be certain, but from the few details I could make out, there was something oddly familiar about him; the way he stood frozen in the image on the computer, his weight balanced on both feet, and the overall impression of the profile. Somehow, as vague as it was, it added up to something. And as a very loud wave of sibilant chuckling erupted from deep in the backseat of my brain, it fell on me with the impact of a concert grand piano that, actually, he looked an awful lot like- Dexter ... ? Deborah said, in a sort of hushed and strangled croak.

Yes indeed.

Just like Dexter.

CHAPTER 23

IAM PRETTY SURE THATDEBORAH TOOK YOUNGMR.Bad Hair Day back to the lounge, because when I looked up again, she was standing in front of me, alone. In spite of her blue uniform she did not look at all like a cop right now. She looked worried, like she couldn't decide whether to yell or to cry, like a mommy whose special little boy had let her down in a big way.

Well? she demanded, and I had to agree that she had a point.

Not terribly, I said. You?

She kicked a chair. It fell over. G.o.dd.a.m.n it, Dexter, don't give me that clever s.h.i.t! Tell me something. Tell me that wasn't you! I didn't say anything. Well then, tell me itis you! Just tell me SOMETHING! Anything at all!

I shook my head. I- There was really nothing to say, so I just shook my head again. I'm pretty sure it isn't me, I said. I mean, I don't think so. Even to me that sounded like I had both feet firmly planted in the land of lame answers.

What does that mean, 'pretty sure'? Deb demanded. Does that mean you're not sure? That it might be you in that picture?

Well, I said, a truly brilliant riposte, considering. Maybe. I don't know.

And does 'I don't know' mean you don't know whether you're going to tell me, or does it mean that you really don't know if that's you in the picture?

I'm pretty sure it isn't me, Deborah, I repeated. But I really don't know for sure. It looks like me, doesn't it?

s.h.i.t, she said, and kicked the chair where it lay. It slammed into the table. How can you not know, G.o.dd.a.m.n it?!

Itis a little tough to explain.

Try!

I opened my mouth, but for once in my life nothing came out. As if everything else wasn't bad enough, I seemed to be all out of clever, too. I just-I've been having these ... dreams, but-Deb, I really don't know, I said, and I may have actually mumbled it.

s.h.i.t s.h.i.t s.h.i.t! said Deborah. Kick kick kick.

And it was very hard to disagree with her a.n.a.lysis of the situation.

All my stupid, self-mutilating musings swam back at me with a bright and mocking edge.Of course it wasn't me-how could it be me? Wouldn't I know it if it was me? Apparently not, dear boy. Apparently you didn't actually know anything at all. Because our deep dark dim little brains tell us all kinds of things that swim in and out of reality, but pictures do not lie.

Deb unleashed a new volley of savage attacks on the chair, and then straightened up. Her face was flushed very red and her eyes looked more like Harry's eyes than they ever had before. All right, she said. It's like this, and she blinked and paused for a moment as it occurred to both of us that she had just said a Harry thing.

And for a second Harry was there in the room between me and Deborah, the two of us so very different, and yet still both Harry's kids, the two strange fists of his unique legacy. Some of the steel went out of Deb's back and she looked human, a thing I hadn't seen for a while. She stared at me for a long moment, and then turned away. You're my brother, Dex, she said. I was very sure that was not what she had originally intended to say.

No one will blame you, I told her.

G.o.dd.a.m.n you, you're mybrother ! she snarled, and the ferocity of it took me completely by surprise. I don't know what went on with you and Dad. The stuff you two never talked about. But I know what he would have done.

Turned me in, I said, and Deborah nodded. Something glittered in the corner of her eye. You're all the family I have, Dex.

Not such a great bargain for you, is it?

She turned to me, and I could see tears in both eyes now. For a long moment she just looked at me. I watched the tear run from her left eye and roll down her cheek. She wiped it, straightened up, and took a deep breath, turning away to the window once again.

That's right, she said. He would've turned you in. Which is what I am going to do. She looked away from me, out the window, far out to the horizon.

I have to finish these interviews, she said. I'm leaving you in charge of determining if this evidence is relevant. Take it to your computer at home and figure out whatever you have to figure out. And when I am done here, before I go back out on duty, I am coming to get it, to hear what you have to say. She glanced at her watch. Eight o'clock. And if I have to take you in then, I will. She looked back at me for a very long moment. G.o.dd.a.m.n it, Dexter, she said softly, and she left the room.

I moved over to the window and had a look for myself. Below me the circus of cops and reporters and gawking geeks was swirling, unchanged. Far away, beyond the parking lot, I could see the expressway, filled with cars and trucks blasting along at the Miami speed limit of ninety-five miles per hour. And beyond that in the dim distance was the high-rise skyline of Miami.

And here in the foreground stood dim dazed Dexter, staring out the window at a city that did not speak and would not have told him anything even if it did.

G.o.dd.a.m.n it, Dexter.

I don't know how long I stared out the window, but it eventually occurred to me that there were no answers out there. There might be some, though, on Captain Pimple's computer. I turned to the desk. The machine had a CD-RW drive. In the top drawer I found a box of recordable CDs. I put one into the drive, copied the entire file of pictures, and took the CD out. I held it, glanced at it; it didn't have much to say, and I probably imagined the faint chuckling I thought I heard from the dark voice in the backseat. But just to be safe, I wiped the file from the hard drive.

On my way out, the Broward cops on duty didn't stop me, or even speak, but it did seem to me that they looked at me with a very hard and suspicious indifference.

I wondered if this was what it felt like to have a conscience. I supposed I would never really know-unlike poor Deborah, being torn apart by far too many loyalties that could not possibly live together in the same brain. I admired her solution, leaving me in charge of determining if the evidence was relevant. Very neat. It had a very Harry feel to it, like leaving a loaded gun on the table in front of a guilty friend and walking away, knowing that guilt would pull the trigger and save the city the cost of a trial. In Harry's world, a man's conscience couldn't live with that kind of shame.

But as Harry had known very well, his world was long dead-and I did not have any conscience, shame, or guilt. All I had was a CD with a few pictures on it. And of course, those pictures made even less sense than a conscience.