“You shouldn’t drive yet,” I protested. “Lily Anne is too small.”
“She’ll be fine,” Rita said. “And so will I. Dexter, I’ve done this before, and without help the first two times.”
We never talked about Rita’s ex, the bio dad of Cody and Astor, but I knew enough about him to know that he could not have been terribly helpful. Clearly, she really had done this before. And in truth, Rita looked fine, not at all unhealthy—but naturally enough, it was Lily Anne I was worried about. “But the car seat,” I said.
“It’s fine, Dexter, really,” Rita said. “Go do your job.”
I heard something that might have been a snort from Deborah. “Tell Rita I said thanks,” Debs said. “See you soon.” And she hung up.
“But,” I said into the phone, even though the line was dead.
“Get dressed,” Rita said, and she repeated, “Really, we’ll be fine.”
Our society has many laws and customs to protect women from the brute force of men, but when two women make up their minds about something and gang up on a man there is absolutely nothing he can do but go along. Perhaps someday we will elect a compassionate woman as president, and she will pass new laws on the subject; until then, I was a helpless victim. I got up and showered, and by the time I was dressed Rita had a fried-egg sandwich ready for me to eat in the car, and a cup of coffee in a shiny metal travel mug.
“Work hard,” she said with a tired smile. “I hope you catch these people.” I looked at her with surprise. “It was on the news,” she said. “They said it was—That poor girl was eaten.” She shuddered and took a sip of coffee. “In Miami. In this day and age. I don’t—I mean, cannibals? A whole group of them? How can you …” She shook her head, took another sip of coffee, and put the cup down—and to my surprise I saw a tear form in one corner of her eye.
“Rita,” I said.
“I know,” she said, knuckling away the tear. “It’s just hormones, I’m sure, because—And I don’t really …” She sniffled. “It’s just the baby,” she said. “And now somebody else’s little girl—Go on, Dexter. This is important.”
I went. I was not really awake yet, and still suffering from psychological whiplash from my treatment at the hands of Rita and Debs, but I went. And oddly enough, I was surprised as much by what Rita had said as by her tears. Cannibals. It seems very stupid to say so, but I had not really thought of that word yet. I mean, Dexter is not dull: I knew the poor girl had been eaten by people, and I knew that people who ate other people were called cannibals. But to put those thoughts together and say cannibals had eaten Tyler Spanos—it brought the whole thing onto a level of everyday, toe-stubbing reality that was somehow a little bit strange and scary. I know that the world is full of bad people: After all, I am one of them. But a whole group of partygoers eating a young girl at an outdoor barbecue? That made them real cannibals—contemporary, modern-day, right-here-in-Miami cannibals—and it felt like the level of badness had just gone up a few notches.
And there was an additional tinge of quaintness to the whole thing, too, as if a book of frightening fairy tales had come to life: first vampires and now cannibals. What a very interesting place Miami had suddenly become. Perhaps next I would meet a centaur or a dragon, or even an honest man.
I drove to work in darkness and light traffic. A large chunk of moon hung in the sky, scolding me for my sloth. Get to work, Dexter, it whispered. Slice something up. I gave it the finger and drove on.
One of the conference rooms on the second floor had b
een set aside to make a command center for Deborah’s task force, and it was already buzzing with activity when I strolled in. Chambers, the shaven-headed man from FDLE, sat at a large table that was already heaped with folders, lab reports, maps, and coffee cups. He had a pile of six or seven cell phones beside him, and he was talking into another one.
And, unfortunately for all concerned—except possibly the ghost of J. Edgar Hoover, who must have been hovering protectively in a spectral house frock—sitting next to Chambers was Special Agent Brenda Recht. She had a pair of very chic reading glasses on the end of her nose that she pushed down even farther in order to look at me with disapproval. I smiled back at her and looked to the far end of the room, where a man in a state trooper uniform was standing next to the giant black man I had seen at the crime scene. He turned to stare at me, so I just nodded and moved on.
Deborah was briefing two Miami-Dade detectives, with her partner, Deke, sitting beside her, flossing his teeth. She looked up at me and beckoned for me to join her. I pulled a chair over next to her group and sat as one of the detectives, a guy named Ray Alvarez, interrupted her.
“Yeah, hey, listen,” he said. “I don’t like it at all. I mean, the guy is fucking city hall—you been called off once already.”
“It’s different now,” Deborah told him. “We got a murder like nobody’s ever seen, and the press is going nuts.”
“Yeah, sure,” Alvarez said, “but you know fucking well Acosta is just waiting to bust somebody’s balls.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Deborah said.
“Easy for you,” Alvarez said. “No balls to bust.”
“That’s what you think,” said Hood, the other detective, a hulking brute I knew a little. “She got twice your balls, Ray.”
“Fuck you,” Alvarez said. Deke snorted, either a laugh, or perhaps some small particle of food had gotten flossed out and become lodged in his nose.
“You just find Bobby Acosta,” Debs said sharply, “or you won’t have any balls to worry about.” She glared at him, and he shrugged, looking up at the ceiling as if to ask why God was picking on him. “Start with the motorcycle,” she said. She glanced at a folder in her lap. “It’s a red Suzuki Hayabusa, one year old.”
Deke whistled and Alvarez said, “A what?”
“Hayabusa,” Deke said, looking suitably impressed. “Very hot bike.”
“Right, got it,” Alvarez said, looking at Deke with weary resignation, and Debs turned to Hood.
“You get on Tyler Spanos’s car,” she said. “It’s a 2009 Porsche, blue, convertible. It’s gotta turn up somewhere.”