Dexter Is Dead (Dexter 8)

“Suit yourself,” I say. I move to a chair, and Anderson scowls.

“I didn’t tell you to sit,” he says.

“That’s true,” I say, “which is unusual for you.” I sit. For a moment he thinks he might stand up and smack me out of my chair. I smile patiently at him and glance at the window, where Lazlo stands. He’s watching us and talking into his radio. Anderson decides against smacking me and slumps back into his chair.

“What did your lawyer say?” he asks me.

It’s a surprisingly illegal question, even from a malignant pimple like Anderson. “Why do you want to know?” I say.

“Just answer, fuckhead,” he says with massive authority.

“I don’t think so. That’s privileged information,” I tell him.

“Not to me,” he says.

“Especially to you,” I say. “But maybe you were absent the day they went over that in middle school.” I smile. “Or more likely you never got as far as middle school. That would explain a lot.”

“Wiseass,” he says.

“Is dumb ass better? I mean, in your experience?”

He has at least lost his annoying smirk, but it has been replaced by a rather alarming flush of color and an angry frown. This is clearly not going the way he had fantasized. As someone with recent professional acting experience, I wonder briefly whether I should grovel and plead, just to play out his script, but I decide against it; my character just wouldn’t do that. “You’re in a lot of fucking trouble,” he snarls. “If you’re so fucking smart, you’ll cooperate a little.”

“Detective, I am cooperating,” I say. “But you have to give me something to cooperate with. Hopefully something legal, and not too stupid. Unlikely as that might be, coming from you.”

Anderson takes a deep breath and shakes his head. “Fucking wiseass,” he says. “You know why I’m here?”

I did know; he was here to gloat. But since he probably didn’t know that word, I decided to avoid it. “You’re here because you know I’m innocent,” I say instead. “And you’re hoping I have found the real killer, because you know that even locked up in here, I have a better chance of solving a crime than you do.”

“I solved it,” he says. He lifts a huge, meaty finger and jabs it at me. “You’re it.”

I looked at Anderson. His face was full of anger, venom, dislike for me, and above all, impenetrable stupidity. It was possible that he actually thought I was guilty, or had talked himself into believing it. I didn’t think so. “If you say it enough times, you might actually believe it,” I say.

“I don’t have to believe it,” he snarls. “I just have to make a judge believe it.”

“Good luck with that,” I say, even though he is apparently having quite good luck so far even without my wishes.

Anderson takes another deep breath, letting his face relax into its more natural uncomprehending scowl. “I need to know what your lawyer said,” he says again.

“Better ask him,” I say, helpfully adding, “his name is Bernie.”

Before Anderson can do any more than drum his fingers on the tabletop, the door opens. “Time’s up,” Lazlo says. “Prisoner has to go.”

“I’m not done with him,” Anderson says without looking up.

“Yes, you are,” Lazlo says firmly.

“Who says?”

“I do,” says a new voice, and now Anderson looks up.

A woman steps out from behind Lazlo. She is tall, African American, and good-looking in a severe way. She is also wearing a uniform, and her uniform spells trouble for Anderson, because it quite clearly says she is a captain, and she is looking directly at Detective Anderson with an expression that falls far short of friendly cooperation. “I don’t know what you think you’re pulling here, Detective,” she says, “but you’re done. Get out.” Anderson opens his mouth to say something, and the captain steps closer. “Now,” she says quietly, and Anderson closes his mouth so fast I can hear his teeth click. He stands up, looks at me, and I smile. Anderson very obligingly turns red again, and then turns away and stalks out through the door that Lazlo is holding so politely open for him.

I am on the verge of thanking the captain, perhaps offering her a hearty handshake—even a hug—when she turns steely brown eyes on me, her expression leaving no doubt at all that no profession of gratitude on my part, however sincere, would be welcome, and a hug is quite clearly out of the picture.

The captain turns away, facing Lazlo. “I don’t need any paperwork this time,” she says, and Lazlo heaves a s

igh of relief. “But if that dickhead comes back, I want to know about it.”