Dexter's Final Cut (Dexter 7)

“Thank you,” she said. “And, Dexter—”

She raised a hand and took a step toward me, and I believe she was going to say something exceptionally nice, but I never got to hear it. Somebody cleared their throat, and as I realized it was not Jackie, Debs, nor even me, I turned as a man stepped forward into Deborah’s cubicle. He was maybe forty-five, about five-ten, and in decent physical shape, except for some extra bulk around the waist. He had dark hair and eyes, and wore something that was almost certainly supposed to be a suit, except that it looked like it had been made out of a slipcover taken from the couch in an old disco lounge. And even though I did not recognize him, he also wore that indefinable look that said he was a cop.

He raised one eyebrow at Deborah. “Detective Morgan?” he said.

Deborah gave him the same look. “Yes?”

The man held up a badge, and then stepped forward and stuck out his hand. “Detective Echeverria, NYPD,” he said, and his speech very much matched what we have all come to think of as a New York Accent.

Deborah looked him over for a moment, then stuck out her hand. “Right,” she said. “I got your e-mails.”

They shook hands briefly, and then Echeverria stepped back and looked at Jackie. “Hey,” he said. “Jackie Forrest. How ’bout that.”

She gave him a small, low-wattage smile. “Detective,” she said. He looked at her without blinking for a few seconds too long, until finally Deborah cleared her throat, and Echeverria snapped his head back around to face my sister.

“What can I do for you?” Deborah said, putting a slight ironic twist on the words so he would know his ogling had been observed.

“Yeah, right,” he said. “What you can do, you can let me see what you got on this psycho you’re working on.”

Deborah gave him a very thin, Professional Courtesy smile. “Can’t do that,” she said.

Echeverria frowned and blinked twice. “Why not,” he said.

“It’s not my case,” she said.

He shook his head. “What the fuck,” he said.

“I know,” Deborah said. “But I told you not to fly down here.”

Echeverria shook his head again. His mouth twitched. “You know how many Brooks Brothers suits I got crawling up my ass on this thing?” he said.

“Yeah,” Debs said. “We got ’em here, too.”

“Except here the suits are a nice, tropical-weight fabric,” I added, always eager to be helpful.

Echeverria looked at me. Oddly enough, it was not a glance filled with warmth, camaraderie, and appreciation of my vast knowledge of sartorial standards. It was closer to the kind of look you give somebody you caught jaywalking to spit on nuns. Then he looked back at Deborah. “Okay,” he said. “So what the fuck.” He frowned and nodded at Jackie. “ ’Scuse me, Miss Forrest.” She showed him five or six teeth, and he looked back at Deborah. Apparently it was all right to say “fuck” without apologizing to my sister, because he said it to her again. “What’s the fucking deal here, Morgan?”

Deborah, of course, is no slouch in the dirty-words department, and she rose to the occasion with her customary flair. “The fucking deal is the same old shit,” she said.

“Which is what,” he said.

Deborah’s face twitched into a very small and angry smile. “Does it ever happen in New York that the captain gives a big case to some limp-dick asshole who couldn’t find a shit heap if he was wearing it for a hat, and everybody else has to stand around and watch him fuck up another one?” she said.

“Never happens,” he said with a matching smile that said even he didn’t believe what he was saying.

“Course not,” Deborah said. “Doesn’t happen here, either. Our whole department is made up of highly skilled professionals.”

Echeverria nodded. “Right,” he said. “So who’s the limp-dick asshole?”

“If you mean, who is the officer in charge of the investigation,” Debs said, “that would be Detective Anderson.”

Echeverria looked surprised. “Billy Anderson?” he said, and Debs nodded. “I’m s’posed to look him up for drinks. I was told he’s a good guy.”

Deborah managed not to give a wild hoot of laughter, but her mouth twitched several times, which is the same thing for her. “Who told you that?” she said. “Somebody you’d want watching your back?”

“Uh,” Echeverria said, frowning, “maybe not.”

“He might be able to find drinks,” I offered. “But that’s about it.”