Dexter Is Delicious (Dexter 5)

I have often heard or read of all the blood draining from somebody’s face, but this was the first time I had ever seen it—except, of course, in the very literal sense, in connection with my playtime activities. Victor turned paler than his shirt, and before Deborah could even glare at me for talking out of turn, he blurted out, “I swear to Christ I didn’t eat any of it!”

“Any of what, Victor?” Deborah said pleasantly.

He was trembling now, and shaking his head back and forth. “They’ll kill me,” he said. “Jesus fuck, they’ll fucking kill me.”

Deborah gave me one quick glance of absolute triumph and joy. Then she stuck her hand on Victor’s shoulder and pushed him gently toward the car. “Get in the car, Victor,” she said.

TWENTY-ONE

DEBORAH HAD VERY LITTLE TO SAY ON THE WAY TO THE detention center. She tried to call Deke to have him meet us there, but for some reason he wasn’t answering, neither his radio nor his cell phone. Debs left word with the dispatcher for him to join us, and other than that we rode in silence—if that’s the right word for it when you are forced to listen to a ten-minute disjointed monologue consisting mostly of the word “fuck.” Chapin was secured in the backseat—the motor-pool cars had rings bolted to the floor for just that reason—and he sat in his durance vile mumbling, ranting, threatening, and overusing the same naughty word. For my part, I was thrilled when we reached our destination, but Debs seemed quite happy to have it go on forever. She had a look on her face that was very nearly a smile every time she glanced at Chapin in the mirror, and she was downright cheerful when she parked the car and pulled him out.

By the time we had the paperwork done, Victor was comfortably locked up in an interrogation room, and Chambers of the FDLE had arrived to see our prize. He stood with us as we looked in at Chapin, who had placed his forearms on the table and slumped forward over them, head hanging just a few inches over his cuffs.

“All right,” Chambers said. “I know I don’t have to remind you that this goes absolutely by the book.” Deborah gave him a startled glance, and he went on without even looking at her. “You did good work, Morgan; you got a really good suspect here, and we pay attention to the rules, with just a little bit of luck we’re gonna stick this guy with a couple of felonies.”

“I don’t give a shit about a conviction,” Deborah said. “I want to get the girl back.”

“We all want that,” Chambers said. “But it would be really nice to put this guy away, too.”

“Listen,” Deborah said. “This isn’t about politics or public relations.”

“I know that,” Chambers said, but Debs rode right over him.

“I got a guy in there who knows something,” she said. “And I got him feeling all alone and naked and scared to death and ready to break, and I’m going to fucking break him.”

“Morgan, you’ve got to do your job right and—”

Deborah turned on Chambers as if he were personally hiding Samantha Aldovar. “My job is to find this girl,” she said, poking Chambers in the chest with her index finger. “And that little asshole in there is going to tell me how.”

Chambers very calmly grabbed Deborah’s finger and pushed it down to her side, slowly and deliberately. He put his hand on her shoulder and moved his face closer to hers, and said, “I hope he will tell us what we need to know. But if he does or if he doesn’t, you are going to play by the rules and not let your feelings take over and fly you into the hillside. All right?”

Deborah glared at him, and he looked back; neither one of them blinked, breathed, or said a word, and for several long seconds it was her anger versus his gunfighter’s cool—fire against ice. It was an absolutely fascinating face-off, and under other circumstances I could have watched it all day just to see who would win. But things being what they were, I thought it had gone on quite long enough, and I cleared my throat in a deliberately artificial way. “Ahem,” I said, and they both glanced at me. “I really hate to interrupt,” I said, and nodded through the glass at Chapin. “But tempus is kind of fugiting, isn’t it?”

They both stared at me and I felt as if one side of my face was melting and the other freezing. Then Chambers looked at Debs with one eyebrow raised, she looked back at him and finally nodded, and the spell was broken.

“Where’s your partner?” Chambers said. “He should be here for this.”

Deborah shook her head. “He’s not answering,” she said, “and I can’t wait.”

“All right,” Chambers said. “I’ll do this with you.” He turned to look at me and the impact of his cold blue eyes almost hurt. “You stay here,” he said, and I felt absolutely no impulse to argue.

I watched through the glass as the two of them went into the room with Chapin. I could hear through the speaker everything that went on, but based on what w

as said, it was hardly worth the expense of miking the room. Deborah said, “You’re in a ton of fucking trouble, Chapin,” and he didn’t even look up. So she stood about three feet behind him, crossed her arms, and said, “What did you mean when you told me you didn’t eat any of it?”

“I want a lawyer,” Chapin said.

“Kidnapping, murder, and cannibalism,” Deborah said.

“It’s Vlad; it’s all Vlad,” he said.

“Vlad made you do it? You mean Bobby Acosta?”

Chapin looked up at Deborah, mouth hanging open, and then put his head back down. “I want a lawyer,” he said.

“You give us Bobby, they’ll go easy on you. Otherwise … that’s about five hundred years in prison,” Debs said. “If they let you live.”

“I want a lawyer,” Chapin said. And he looked up again, and focused past Debs to where Chambers stood, across the table from him. “I want a lawyer,” he repeated, and then he jumped to his feet and yelled it. “I want a fucking lawyer!”