“Cut the staring contest,” Deborah said. “I need
some names.”
Doakes picked up one of the pastelitos and leaned back.
“Why don’t you-all bring me up to date,” he said. He took a bite, and Deborah tapped a finger on the table before deciding that made sense.
“All right,” she said. “We got a rough description of the guy who’s doing this, and his van. A white van.”
Doakes shook his head. “Don’t matter. We know who’s doing this.”
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J E F F L I N D S A Y
“We also got an ID on the first victim,” I said. “A man named Manuel Borges.”
“Well, well,” Doakes said. “Old Manny, huh? Really should’ve let me shoot him.”
“A friend of yours?” I asked, but Doakes ignored me.
“What else you got?” he said.
“Kyle had a list of names,” Deborah said. “Other men from the same unit. He said one of them would be the next victim.
But he didn’t tell me the names.”
“No, he wouldn’t,” Doakes said.
“So we need you to tell us,” she said.
Doakes appeared to think this over. “If I was a hotshot like Kyle, I’d pick one of these guys and stake him out.” Deborah pursed her lips and nodded. “Problem is, I am not a hotshot like Kyle. Just a simple cop from the country.”
“Would you like a banjo?” I asked, but for some reason he didn’t laugh.
“I only know about one guy from the old team here in Miami,” he said, after a quick and savage glance at me. “Oscar Acosta. Saw him at Publix two years ago. We could run him down.” He pointed his chin at Deborah. “Two other names I can think of. You look ’em up, see if they’re here.” He spread his hands. “About all I got. I could maybe call some old buddies in Virginia, but no telling what that might stir up.” He snorted. “Anyway, take them two days to decide what I was really asking and what they ought to do about it.”
“So what do we do?” Deborah said. “We stake this guy out? The one you saw? Or do we talk to him?”
Doakes shook his head. “He remembered me. I can talk to him. You try to watch him, he’ll know it and probably disap-
D E A R LY D E V O T E D D E X T E R
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pear.” He looked at his watch. “Quarter of three. Oscar be home in a couple of hours. You-all wait for my call.” And then he gave me his 150-watt I’m-watching-you smile, and said,
“Why don’t you go wait with your pretty fiancée?” And he got up and walked out, leaving us with the check.
Deborah stared at me. “Fiancée?” she said.
“It’s not really definite,” I said.
“You’re engaged!?”
“I was going to tell you,” I said.
“When? On your third anniversary?”