“You can’t—it isn’t— Goddamn it, Dexter,” she said at last.
“I can, it is, and I’m sure he will,” I said. “But in the meantime, this nice old gentleman has something interesting to tell you.”
“Who the hell are you to call me old?” he said.
“This is Detective Morgan,” I told him. “She’s in charge here.”
“A girl?” he snorted. “No wonder they can’t catch anybody. A girl detective.”
“Be sure to tell her about the backpack,” I told him. “And the tattoo.”
“What tattoo?” she demanded. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“The mouth on you,” the old man said. “Shame!”
I smiled at my sister. “Have a nice chat,” I said.
T W E N T Y - S I X
Icould not be sure that I was officially invited back to the party, but I didn’t want to go so far away that I missed the chance to graciously accept my sister’s apology. So I went to loiter just inside the front door of the former Manny Borque’s apartment, where I could be noticed at the appropriate time. Unfortunately, the killer had not stolen the giant artistic ball of animal vomit on the pedestal by the door. It was still there, right in the middle of my loitering grounds, and I was forced to look at it while I waited.
I was wondering how long it would take Deborah to ask the old man about the tattoo and then make the connection. Even as I wondered, I heard her raise her voice in official ritual words of dismissal, thanking the old man for his help and instructing him to call if he thought of anything else. And then the two of them came toward the door, Deborah holding the old man firmly by the elbow and steering him out of the apartment.
“But what about my paper, miss?” he protested as she opened the door.
“It’s Sergeant Miss,” I told him, and Deborah glared at me.
DEXTER IN THE DARK
203
“Call the paper,” she told him. “They’ll give you a refund.” And she practically hurled him out the door, where he stood for a moment trembling with anger.
“The bad guys are winning!” he shouted, and then, happily for us, Deborah closed the door.
“He’s right, you know,” I said to her.
“Well, you don’t have to look so goddamned happy about it,”
she said.
“And you, on the other hand, might try looking a lot happier,”
I said. “It’s him, the boyfriend, what’s his name.”
“Kurt Wagner,” she said.
“Very good,” I said. “Due diligence. Kurt Wagner it is, and you know it.”
“I don’t know shit,” she said. “It could still be a coincidence.”
“Sure, it could be,” I said. “And there’s even a mathematical chance that the sun will come up in the west, but it’s not very likely.
And who else do you have?”
“That fucking creep, Wilkins,” she said.
“Somebody’s been watching him, right?”