“We understand,” Astor said. “When can we start the cool stuff?”
“When I say,” I said. “Anyway, right now we have to go.”
She switched immediately back to snippy ten-year-old. “Now where do we have to go?”
“I have to go to work,” I said. “So I’m taking you with me.”
“To see a body?” she asked hopefully.
I shook my head. “Just the head,” I said.
She looked at Cody and shook her head. “Mom won’t like it.”
“You can wait in the car if you want to,” I said.
“Let’s go,” said Cody, his longest speech all day.
We went.
S E V E N T E E N
Deborah was waiting at a modest $2 million house on a private cul-de-sac in Coconut Grove. The street was sealed off from just inside the guard booth to the house itself, about halfway down on the left, and a crowd of indignant residents stood around on their carefully manicured lawns and walkways, fuming at the swarm of low-rent social undesirables from the police department who had invaded their little paradise
.
Deborah was in the street instructing a videographer in what to shoot and from what angles. I hurried over to join her, with Cody and Astor trailing along right behind.
“What the hell is that?” Deborah demanded, glaring from the kids to me.
“They are known as children,” I told her. “They are often a by-product of marriage, which may be why you are unfamiliar with them.”
“Are you off your fucking nut bringing them here?” she snapped.
“You’re not supposed to say that word,” Astor told Deborah with a glare. “You owe me fifty cents for saying it.”
126
JEFF LINDSAY
Deborah opened her mouth, turned bright red, and closed it again. “You gotta get them outta here,” she finally said. “They shouldn’t see this.”
“We want to see it,” Astor said.
“Hush,” I told them. “Both of you.”
“Jesus Christ, Dexter,” Deborah said.
“You told me to come right away,” I said. “I came.”
“I can’t play nursemaid to a couple of kids,” Deborah said.
“You don’t have to,” I said. “They’ll be fine.”
Deborah stared at the two of them; they stared back. Nobody blinked, and for a moment I thought my dear sister would chew off her lower lip. Then she shook herself. “Screw it,” she said. “I don’t have time for a hassle. You two wait over there.” She pointed to her car, which was parked across the street, and grabbed me by the arm.
She dragged me toward the house where all the activity was humming. “Lookit,” she said, and pointed at the front of the house.
On the phone, Deborah had told me they found the heads, but in truth it would have taken a major effort to miss them. In front of the house, the short driveway curled through a pair of coral-rock gateposts before puddling into a small courtyard with a fountain in the middle. On top of each gatepost was an ornate lamp. Chalked on the driveway between the posts was something that looked like the letters mlk, except that it was in a strange script that I did not recognize. And to make sure that no one spent too long puzzling out the message, on top of each gatepost—