Dexter by Design (Dexter 4)

“And you went to the back door?” Deborah asked.

“Esway, es—” She looked at me and made an awkward face. “Siempre?”

“Always,” I translated.

Arabelle nodded. “Always back door,” she said. “Frawnt ees close hasta octobre.”

Deborah cocked her head for a moment, but then got it: front closed until October. “Okay,” she said. “So you get here, you go around to the back door, and you see the body?”

Arabelle covered her face again, just for a moment. She looked at me and I nodded, so she dropped her hands. “Yes.”

“Did you notice anything else, anything unusual?” Debs asked, and Arabelle looked at her blankly. “Did you see something that shouldn’t be there?”

“El cuerpo,” Arabelle said indignantly, pointing at the corpse. “He no shood be there.”

“And did you see anybody else at all?”

Arabelle shook her head. “Nobody. Me only.”

“How about nearby?” Arabelle looked blank, and Deborah pointed. “Over there? On the sidewalk? Anybody at all over there?”

Arabelle shrugged. “Turistas. Weeth cameras.” She frowned and lowered her voice, speaking confidentially to me. “Creado que es posible que estan maricones,” she said, shrugging.

I nodded. “Gay tourists,” I said to Deborah.

Deborah glared at her, then turned it on me, as if she could scare one of us into thinking up another really good question. But even my legendary wit had run dry, and I shrugged. “I don’t know,” I said. “She probably can’t tell you any more than that.”

“Ask her where she lives,” Deborah said, and an expression of alarm flitted across Arabelle’s face.

“I don’t think she’ll tell you,” I said.

“Why the fuck not?” Deborah demanded.

“She’s afraid you’ll tell la migra,” I said, and Arabelle visibly jumped when I said it. “Immigration.”

“I know what the fuck la migra means,” Deborah snapped. “I live here, too, remember?”

“Yes,” I said. “But you refused to learn Spanish.”

“Then ask her to tell you,” Deborah said.

I shrugged and turned to Arabelle. “Necesito su dirección,” I said.

“Por qué?” she

said rather shyly.

“Vamos a bailando,” I said. We’ll go dancing.

She giggled. “Estoy casada,” she said. I’m married.

“Por favor?” I said, with my very best hundred-watt totally fake smile, and I added, “Nunca por la migra, verdadamente.” Arabelle smiled, leaned forward, and whispered an address in my ear. I nodded; it was in an area flooded with Central American immigrants, several of them here legally. It made perfect sense for her to live there, and I was certain she was telling me the truth. “Gracias,” I said, and as I started to pull away, she grabbed my arm again.

“Nunca por la migra?” she said.

“Nunca,” I said. Never. “Solamente para hallar este matador.” Only to find this killer.

She nodded as if that made sense, that I needed her address to find the killer, and gave me her shy smile again. “Gracias,” she said. “Te creo.” I believe you. Her faith in me was really quite touching, especially considering that there was no reason for it at all, beyond the fact that I had given her a completely phony smile. It made me wonder if a career change was in order—perhaps I should sell cars, or even run for president.