Dexter's Final Cut (Dexter 7)

“Right,” said Matthews. “A pilot. Okay. So here’s the thing.” He slapped the table softly with both hands and looked back at Deborah. “Mr. Eissen has asked us for our cooperation. Which we are very happy to give them. Very happy,” he said, nodding at Eissen. “Good for the department. Positive image, and, uh, ahem.” He frowned again, drummed his fingers on the table, and stared at Deborah. “So that’s what you do, Morgan.” He frowned again and shook his head. “And, uh, Morgan. Both of you.”

Perhaps it was merely because I hadn’t finished my cup of awful coffee, but I had no idea what Matthews was talking about. And so, since Dexter has always been a quick study, I cleared my throat, too. It worked; Matthews looked at me with an expression of surprise. “I’m sorry, Captain,” I said. “But exactly what am I supposed to do?”

Matthews blinked at me. “Whatever it takes,” he said. “Whatever they ask you to do.”

Mr. Mustache spoke up, again without moving any facial muscles. “I neeeed,” he said, drawing out the word pointlessly, “to learn Who. You. Are.”

That made even less sense than what Matthews had said, and I could think of no reply more penetrating than, “Oh, uh-huh …” It must have sounded just as feeble to him as it did to me, because he moved at last, turning his entire head in my direction and flipping up the sunglasses with one manicured finger.

“I need to watch you, learn to do what you do, figure out how to be you,” he said. And he flashed his perfect white teeth at me. “Shouldn’t take more than a few days.”

The beautiful woman next to him snorted and murmured something that sounded like, “Asshole …” The man’s face gave a very slight twitch of irritation, but otherwise he ignored her.

“But why?” I said. And because I like to give as good as I get, I added, “Don’t you like who you are?”

The Goddess snickered; the man merely frowned. “It’s for the part,” he said, sounding slightly taken aback. “I need to research my character.”

I think I still looked a bit confused, because the beautiful woman gave me a dazzling smile that curled up my toes and made me happy to be alive. “I don’t think he knows who you are, Bob,” she said.

“Robert,” he grumbled. “Not Bob.”

“Some people actually haven’t heard of you, you know,” she said, a little too sweetly.

“He probably doesn’t know who you are, either,” Robert snarled back at her. “Unless he reads the tabloids.”

Mr. Eissen, the man in the wonderful suit, tapped one fingertip on the table. He did it very quietly, but everyone got silent and sat up a little straighter. Eissen gave me a microscopic smile. “Robert,” he said, emphasizing the name slightly, and then adding, “Robert Chase.” He gave a slight, dismissive shake of his head. “Robert is a well-known actor, Mr. Morgan.”

“Oh, right,” I said, giving Robert a friendly nod of the head. He flipped his sunglasses back down.

“Most actors like to get a sense of the … reality … behind the part they’re going to play,” Eissen said, and somehow he made it sound like he was talking about small children going through an unpleasant phase, and he gave me another condescending smile to go with it. “Jacqueline Forrest,” he went on, with a little flourish of his hand

to indicate the beautiful woman. “Jackie is playing a hard-as-nails woman detective. Like your Sergeant Morgan.” He smiled at Deborah, but she didn’t smile back. “And Robert is playing the part of a forensics whiz. Which we hear is what you are. So Robert would like to follow you around at your job for a few days and see what you do, and how you do it.”

I have always heard it said that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, but I did not recall anyone ever adding that flattery was actually a good thing, and I admit that I was not terribly pleased. It’s not that I have anything to hide—I’ve already hidden all of it—but I do like my privacy, and the idea of having somebody following me around and taking notes on my behavior was a bit unsettling.

“Um,” I said, and it was good to hear that my customary eloquence had leaped to the fore, “that’s going to be, um, kind of difficult—”

“Doesn’t matter,” Captain Matthews said.

“I can handle it,” Robert said.

“I can’t,” Deborah said, and everyone looked at her. She looked even more surly than she had when I came in, which was quite an achievement.

“What’s the problem?” Eissen said.

Debs shook her head. “I’m a cop, not a fucking nanny,” she said through clenched teeth.

“Morgan,” Captain Matthews said, and he cleared his throat and looked around to see if anyone had noticed the bad word.

“I don’t have time for this shit,” Debs went on, using yet another bad word. “Brand-new this morning I got a drive-by shooting in Liberty City, an overdose at the U, and a beheading in the Grove.”

“Wow,” said Jackie, with breathy wonder.

Matthews waved a hand dismissively. “Not important,” he said.

“The hell it isn’t,” my sister said.

Matthews shook his head at her. “Pass it off to Anderson or somebody. This,” he said, rapping a knuckle on the table, “has priority.” And he gave Jackie his most dazzling thoughtful-but-macho smile. She smiled back, apparently paralyzing Matthews for several seconds, until once more Deborah broke the spell.