“Maybe she’s afraid to lose her job,” I said.
Deborah turned and looked at the garage. “Uh-huh,” she said. “And maybe she’s afraid of Bobby Acosta.”
“Well,” I said, but Deborah jerked into motion and headed around the corner of the house before I could say any more. I caught up with her as she got to the driveway. “She’s going to tell Bobby we’re here,” I said.
Deborah shrugged. “It’s her job,” she said. She came to a halt in front of the double-size garage door. “There’s got to be another door, maybe some stairs,” she said.
“Around the side?” I offered, and I took two steps farther toward the left side when I heard a rumbling sound and then the garage door began to roll up. I turned back around and watched. I could hear a muted purring coming from inside and it got louder as the door opened wider, and when it was up far enough to see into the garage, I saw that the sound came from a motorcycle. A thin guy of twenty or so sat on the bike, letting it idle and looking out at us.
“Robert Acosta?” Deborah called to him. She took a step forward and reached to grab her badge to show him.
“Fucking cops,” he said. He revved the engine once, and then kicked it into gear, very deliberately aiming the bike right at Deborah. The motorcycle leaped forward, straight at Deborah, and she barely managed to dive to one side. Then the bike was into the street and accelerating away into the distance, and by the time Deborah got back onto her feet, it was gone.
THIRTEEN
IN THE COURSE OF MY WORK WITH THE MIAMI-DADE POLICE Department, I had heard the phrase “shit-storm” used on more than one occasion. But in all honesty, I would have to say that I had never truly seen the actual meteorological event until after Debs called in a BOLO for the only son of a powerful county commissioner. Within five minutes we had three squad cars and a TV news van pulled up in front of the house next to Debs’s car, and at the six-minute mark Debs was on the phone with Captain Matthews. I heard her say, “Yes, sir. Yes, sir. No, sir,” and not much else in the course of a two-minute conversation, and by the time she put the phone away her jaw was locked shut so tight I didn’t think she could ever again eat solid food.
“Shit,” she said through her tightly clenched teeth. “Matthews pulled my BOLO.”
“We knew this was coming,” I said.
Debs nodded. “It’s here,” she said, and then, looking past me to the road, she added, “Aw, shit.”
I turned and followed her gaze. Deke was climbing out of his car, hitching up his pants, and giving a big smile to the woman who stood in front of the news van brushing her hair and setting up a shot. She actually stopped brushing for a moment and gaped back at him, and he nodded to her and sauntered toward us. She watched him go for a moment, licked her lips, and went back to her hair with renewed vigor.
“Technically, he is your partner,” I said.
“Technically he’s a brain-dead asshole,” she said.
“Hey,” Deke said as he strolled up to us. “Captain says I should keep an eye on you, make sure you don’t fuck nothing else up.”
“How the hell are you going to know if I fuck up?” Debs snarled at him.
“Oh, hey, you know,” he said, shrugging. He looked back at the TV newswoman. “I mean, just don’t talk to the press or something, right?” He winked at Deborah. “Anyway, I got to stay with you now,” he said. “Keep this thing on track.”
For a moment I thought she would let loose a blast of seven separate killing remarks that would drop Deke where he stood and singe the Acostas’ manicured lawn, but Debs had clearly received the same message from the captain, and she was a good soldier. Discipline won out and she just looked at Deke for a long moment and finally said, “All right. Let’s check the other names on this list,” and walked meekly to her car.
Deke pulled up his pants again and watched her go. “Well, all right,” he said, and followed her. The TV newswoman watched him go with a somewhat distracted expression, until her producer almost smacked her with a microphone.
I got a ride back to headquarters with one of the squad cars, driven by a cop named Willoughby who seemed obsessed with the Miami Heat. I learned a great deal about point guards and something called the pick and roll by the time I got out of the car. I am sure it was wonderfully useful information, and someday it will come in handy, but I was nevertheless very grateful to climb out into the afternoon heat and trudge back to my little cubicle.
And there I was, left to my own devices for most of the rest of the day. I went to lunch and tried out a new place not too far away that specialized in falafels. Unfortunately, it also specialized in dark hairs swimming in a vile sauce, and I came back from my break with a very unhappy stomach. I went through some routine lab work, filed a few papers, and enjoyed the solitude until about four o’clock, when Deborah wandered into my cubicle. She was carrying a thick folder and she looked as distressed as my stomach. She hooked a chair out with her toe and slouched into it without speaking. I put down the file I was reading and gave her my attention.
“You look beat, sis,” I said.
She nodded and looked at her hands. “Long day,” she said.
“You checked out the other names on the dentist’s list?” I asked her, and again she just nodded, and so, because I wanted to help her be a little more socially adept, I added, “With your partner, Deke?”
Her head jerked up and she glared at me. “That fucking idiot,” she said, and then she shrugged and slumped again.
“What did he do?” I asked.
She shrugged again. “Nothing,” she said. “He’s not totally terrible at the routine stuff. Asks all the standard questions.”
“So why the long face, Debs?” I asked.
“They took away my suspect, Dexter,” she said, and once again I was struck by the weary vulnerability that crept into her voice. “The Acosta kid knows something; I know it. He may not be hiding those girls, but he knows who is, and they won’t let me go after him.” She waved a knuckle toward the hallway. “They even have that asshole Deke babysitting me to make sure I don’t do anything that might embarrass the commissioner.”