Dexter Is Delicious (Dexter 5)

She crossed the space between us quickly, and as I squatted down again, she did, too.

“Look,” I said. “This bag is different from all the others.”

“Big fucking deal,” she said. “That’s the best you got?”

“No,” I said. “This is.” Once more I poked at the bag with my pen, and once more the awful red stains swam into view pressed against the white plastic. “It’s probably a coincidence,” I said.

“Shit,” she said with quiet violence. Then she rose up and looked over at the barricade. “Masuoka! Get over here!” Vince looked at her like a deer caught in the headlights, and she yelled, “Move it!” He clumped into motion and hustled over.

Standard procedure is only one step away from ritual, and so I have always found it kind of comforting. I really like doing things that have definite rules and a well-established order, because that means I don’t have to worry about how to fake something appropriate for the occasion. I can just relax and follow the correct steps. But this time, the routine seemed dull, pointless, and frustrating. I wanted to rip open that bag, and I found that I was fretting with impatience as Vince slowly and methodically dusted for fingerprints; all over the garbage can, the wall behind it, and then each individual garbage bag on top of the white one. We had to lift each bag up in careful gloved hands, dust it, examine it under regular and then UV light, and then cautiously open it, removing and examining each item inside. Junk, garbage, waste, crap. By the time we finally got to the white bag I was ready to scream and fling the garbage at Vince’s head.

But we did get to it at last, and the difference was obvious immediately, even to Vince, the moment he dusted.

“Clean,” he said, goggling up at me with surprise. The other bags had been like mosaics of smudged and greasy fingerprints. This one was as pristine as if it had just come out of the box.

“Rubber gloves,” I said, and my impatience burst. “Come on, open it up.” He looked at me as if I had suggested doing something indecent. “Open it!” I said.

Vince shrugged and began to carefully undo the plastic tie. “So impatient,” he said. “You must learn to wait, Grasshopper. All things come to those who—”

“Just open the goddamn bag,” I said, which startled me a great deal more than it did Vince. He just shrugged again and removed the tie, placing it carefully into an evidence bag. I realized I was leaning in a little too close, and I straightened up—and bumped into Deborah, who had been leaning over me. She didn’t even blink, just hunkered down into the position I had left.

“Come on, goddamn it,” she said.

“You guys must be related or something,” Vince said. But before I could kick him, he opened the top of the bag and began to peel it slowly back. He reached into it cautiously and, with a truly irritating lack of speed, began to pull out—

“Deke’s shirt,” Deborah said. “He was wearing that this afternoon.” She looked at me and I nodded: I remembered the shirt, a beige guayabera sprinkled with light green palm trees. But it had a new pattern on it now, an awful wet soaked-in swirl of blood, kept damp inside the sealed bag.

Slowly and carefully Vince pulled the bloody shirt out of the bag, and as it came all the way out at last, something else clattered onto the ground and rolled away toward the building’s back door. Deborah said, “Shit,” and jumped up to follow the thing as it wobbled to a stop a few feet away. I came right behind her and, since I was wearing gloves, I bent and picked it up.

“Let me see,” Deborah demanded, and I held it out on the palm of my hand.

There was not really much to see. The thing looked like a poker chip, perfectly round, the edges grooved like a gear. But it was jet black, and on one face there was a gold symbol embossed onto it. It looked something like a 7, except it had a line drawn through the vertical leg.

“The fuck is that?” Debs said, staring at the symbol.

“Maybe a European seven?” I said. “That’s how they make ’em sometimes, with the line through it.”

“Okay,” she said, “and so what the fuck does a European seven

mean?”

“That’s not a seven,” Vince said. He had crowded in behind us and was peering over Deborah’s shoulder. We both looked at him. “It’s a cursive ‘F,’ ” he said, as if that were an obvious truth.

“How do you know?” Debs demanded.

“I’ve seen it before,” he said. “You know, out clubbing.”

“What do you mean, clubbing?” Debs said, and Vince shrugged.

“Hey, you know,” he said. “Nightlife out on South Beach. I’ve seen those things.” And he looked back down at the black token and reached in between us, poking the thing with his gloved fingertip. “ ‘F,’ ” he said.

“Vince,” I said, very politely refraining from putting my hands around his throat and squeezing until his eyes popped out. “If you know what this thing is, please tell us before Deborah shoots you.”

He frowned and raised both hands, palms up. “Hey, take it easy. Jeez.” He poked it again. “It’s an entrance token. ‘F,’ for Fang.” He looked up at us and smiled. “You know, Fang? The club?” Something tickled at the back of my brain as he said that, but before I could scratch it, Vince poked the token again and went on talking. “You can’t get in without one of these things, and they’re really hard to get. I tried. ’Cuz it’s a private club—they’re open like all night, after all the other clubs close, and I heard it gets like totally wild in there.”

Deborah stared at the token as if she were waiting for it to speak. “What’s Deke doing with one of these?” she said.

“Maybe he likes to party,” Vince said.