by Jeff Lindsay
When he finally did, he rolled an eye to me and his face was filled with that understanding that comes when you have gone beyond pain into knowing that the rest of this was forever. I took the tennis ball out of his mouth.
“Who took the pictures?”
He smiled. “I hope one of them was yours,” he said, which made the next ninety minutes a lot more rewarding.
C H A P T E R 4
Normally i feel pleasantly mellow for several days after one of my Nights Out, but the very next morning after MacGregor’s hasty exit I was still all aquiver with eagerness. I wanted very badly to find the photographer in the red cowboy boots and make a clean sweep of it. I am a tidy monster, and I do like to finish whatever I begin, and to know that someone was out there clumping around in those ridiculous shoes, carrying a camera that had seen far too much, made me anxious to follow those footprints and wrap up my two-part project.
Perhaps I had been too hasty with MacGregor; I should have given him a little more time and encouragement, and he would have told me everything. But it had seemed like something I could easily find by myself—when the Dark Passenger is driving, I am quite sure I can do anything. So far I have not been wrong, but it had put me in a bit of an awkward spot this time, and I had to find Mr. Boots on my own.
I knew from my earlier research that MacGregor did not 2 4
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have a social life beyond his occasional evening cruises. He belonged to a couple of business organizations, which was to be expected from a realtor, but I had not discovered anyone in particular that he seemed to pal around with. I also knew he had no criminal record, so there was no file to pull and search for known associates. The court records on his divorce simply listed “irreconcilable differences” and left the rest to my imagination.
And there I was stuck; MacGregor had been a classic loner, and in all my careful study of him I had never seen an indication that he had any friends, companions, dates, mates, or cronies. No poker night with the boys—no boys at all, except for the young ones. No church group, no Elks, no neighborhood bar, no weekly square-dancing society—which might have explained the boots—no nothing, except the photographs with those stupid pointed red toes sticking out.
So who was Cowboy Bob, and how did I find him?
There was really only one place I could go for an answer, and that would have to be soon, before someone noticed that MacGregor was missing. In the distance I heard thunder rumble, and I glanced at the wall clock with surprise. Sure enough, it was 2:15, time for the daily afternoon storm. I had moped all the way through my lunch hour, very unlike me.
Still, the storm would once again give me a little cover, and I could stop for something to eat on the way back. So with my immediate future neatly and pleasantly planned, I headed out to the parking lot, got into my car, and drove south.
The rain had started by the time I got to Matheson Hammock, and so once again I pulled on my sporty yellow foul-weather gear and jogged down the path to MacGregor’s boat.
I picked the lock again quite easily and slipped inside the D E A R LY D E V O T E D D E X T E R
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cabin. During my first visit to the boat, I had been looking for signs that MacGregor was a pedophile. Now I was trying to find something a little bit more subtle, some small clue to the identity of MacGregor’s photographer friend.
Since I had to start somewhere, I went back down to the sleeping area. I opened the drawer with the false bottom and flipped through the pictures again. This time I checked the back as well as the front. Digital photography has made sleuthing a great deal more difficult, and there were no marks of any kind on the pictures and no empty film packets with traceable serial numbers, either. Any clod in the world could simply download the pictures to his hard drive and print them out at will, even someone with such hideous taste in footgear. It didn’t seem fair: Weren’t computers supposed to makes things easier?
I closed the drawer and searched through the rest of the area, but there was nothing that I hadn’t seen before. Somewhat discouraged, I went back upstairs to the main cabin.
There were several drawers there, too, and I flipped through them. Videotapes, action figures, the duct tape—all things I had already noticed, and none of them would tell me anything. I pulled the stack of duct tape out, thinking, perhaps, that there was no sense in letting it go to waste. Idly, I turned over the bottom roll.
And there it was.
It really is better to be lucky than to be good. In a million years I could not have hoped for something this good. Stuck to the bottom of the duct-tape roll was a small scrap of paper, and written on the paper was, “Reiker,” and under that a telephone number.
Of course there was no guarantee that Reiker was the Red 2 6
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Ranger, or even that he was a human being. It could well be the name of a marine plumbing contractor. But in any case, it was far more of a starting place than I’d had, and I needed to get off the boat before the storm stopped. I stuck the paper inside my pocket, buttoned up my rain slicker, and snuck off the boat and onto the footpath again.
Perhaps I was feeling so happily mellow from the aftereffects of my evening out with MacGregor, but as I drove home I found myself humming a catchy little Philip Glass tune from 1000 Airplanes on the Roof. The key to a happy life is to have accomplishments to be proud of and purpose to look forward to, and at the moment I had both. How wonderful it was to be me.
My good mood lasted only as far as the traffic circle where Old Cutler blends into LeJeune, and then a routine glance in my rearview mirror froze the music on my lips.
Behind me, practically nosing into my backseat, was a maroon Ford Taurus. It looked very much like the sort of car the Miami-Dade Police Department maintained in large numbers for the use of plainclothes personnel.
I did not see how this could possibly be a good thing. A patrol car might follow for no real reason, but someone in a motor-pool car would have some kind of purpose, and it looked like that purpose was to make me aware I was being followed. If so, it was working perfectly. I could not see through the glare of the windshield to know who was driving the other car, but it suddenly seemed very important to know just how long the car had been following me, who was driving, and how much the driver had seen.
I turned down a small side street, pulled over, and parked, D E A R LY D E V O T E D D E X T E R
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and the Taurus parked right behind me. For a moment, nothing happened; we both sat there in our cars, waiting. Was I going to be arrested? If someone had followed me from the marina, it could be a very bad thing for Dashing Dexter.
Sooner or later, MacGregor’s absence would be noticed, and even the most routine investigation would reveal his boat.
Someone would go to see if it was there, and then the fact that Dexter had been there in the middle of the day might seem very significant.
It’s little things like this that make for successful police work. Cops look for these funny coincidences, and when they find them they can get very serious with the person who is in too many interesting places by mere happenstance. Even if that person has a police ID and an amazingly charming fake smile.
There really seemed nothing for me to do except bluff my way through: find out who was following me and why, and then convince them it was a silly way to waste time. I put on my very best Official Greeting face, got out of my car, and stepped briskly up to the Taurus. The window rolled down and the always angry face of Sergeant Doakes looked out at me, like an idol for some wicked god, carved from a piece of dark wood.
“Why you leaving work in the middle of the day so much lately?” he asked me. His voice had no real expression in it but still managed to give the impression that whatever I said would be a lie and he would like to hurt me for it.
“Why, Sergeant Doakes!” I said cheerfully. “What an amazing coincidence. What are you doing here?”
“You got something to do more important than
your job?”
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he said. He really seemed uninterested in maintaining any sort of flow in the conversation, so I shrugged. When faced with people who have very limited conversational skills and no apparent desire to cultivate any, it’s always easier simply to go along.
“I, um—I had some personal things to take care of,” I said.
Very weak, I agree, but Doakes displayed an unnerving habit of asking the most awkward questions, and with such an understated viciousness, that I found it hard enough not to stutter, let alone come up with something clever.
He looked at me for several endless seconds, the way a starving pit bull looks at raw meat. “Personal things,” he said without blinking. It sounded even stupider when he repeated it.
“That’s right,” I said.
“Your dentist is over in the Gables,” he said.
“Well—”
“Your doctor, too, over on Alameda. Got no lawyer, sister still at work,” he said. “What kind of personal things did I leave out?”
“Actually, um, I, I—” I said, and I was amazed to hear myself stammer, but nothing else came out, and Doakes just looked at me as though he was begging me to make a run for it so he could practice his wing shot.
“Funny,” he said at last, “I got personal things to do out here, too.”
“Really?” I said, relieved to find that my mouth was once again capable of forming human speech. “And what would that be, Sergeant?”
It was the first time I had ever seen him smile, and I have D E A R LY D E V O T E D D E X T E R
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to say that I would have greatly preferred it if he had simply jumped out of the car and bitten me. “I’m watching YOU,” he said. He gave me a moment to admire the high gloss of his teeth, and then the window rolled up and he vanished behind the tinted glass like the Cheshire cat.
C H A P T E R 5
Given enough time, i am sure i could come up with an entire list of things more unpleasant than having Sergeant Doakes turn into my own personal shadow.
But as I stood there in my high-fashion foul-weather gear and thought of Reiker and his red boots slipping away from me, it seemed bad enough, and I was not inspired to think of anything worse. I simply climbed into my car, started the engine, and drove through the rain to my apartment. Ordi-narily, the homicidal antics of the other drivers would have comforted me, made me feel right at home, but for some reason the maroon Taurus following so close behind took away the glow.
I knew Sergeant Doakes well enough to know that this was not simply a rainy-day whim on his part. If he was watching me, he would keep watching me until he caught me doing something naughty. Or until he was unable to watch me anymore. Naturally enough, I could readily think of a few intriguing ways to make sure he lost interest. But they were all D E A R LY D E V O T E D D E X T E R
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so permanent, and while I did not actually have a conscience, I did have a very clear set of rules that worked somewhat the same way.
I had known that sooner or later Sergeant Doakes would do something or other to discourage my hobby, and I had thought long and hard about what to do when he did. The best I had come up with, alas, was wait and see.
“Excuse me?” you might say, and you have every right.
“Can we truly ignore the obvious answer here?” After all, Doakes might be strong and lethal, but the Dark Passenger was much more so, and no one could stand against him when he took the wheel. Perhaps just this once . . .
No, said the small soft voice in my ear.
Hello, Harry. Why not? And as I asked, I thought back to the time he had told me.
There are rules, Dexter, Harry had said.
Rules, Dad?
It was my sixteenth birthday. There was never much of a party, since I had not learned yet to be wonderfully charming and chummy, and if I was not avoiding my drooling contemporaries then they were generally avoiding me. I lived my adolescence like a sheepdog moving through a flock of dirty, very stupid sheep. Since then, I had learned a great deal. For example, I was not that far off at sixteen—people really are hopeless!—but it just doesn’t do to let on.
So my sixteenth birthday was a rather restrained affair.
Doris, my foster mom, had recently died of cancer. But my foster sister, Deborah, made me a cake and Harry gave me a 3 2
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new fishing rod. I blew out the candles, we ate the cake, and then Harry took me into the backyard of our modest Coconut Grove house. He sat at the redwood picnic table that he had built by the brick barbecue oven and motioned me to sit, too.
“Well, Dex,” he said. “Sixteen. You’re almost a man.”
I wasn’t sure what that was supposed to mean—me? a man? as in human?—and I did not know what sort of response was expected of me. But I did know that it was usually best not to make clever remarks with Harry, so I just nodded. And Harry gave me a blue-eyed X-ray. “Are you interested in girls at all?” he asked me.
“Um—in what way?” I said.
“Kissing. Making out. You know. Sex.”
My head whirled at the thought as though a cold dark foot were kicking at the inside of my forehead. “Not, uh, no. I, um,” I said, silver-tongued even then. “Not like that.”
Harry nodded as if that made sense. “Not boys, though,”
he said, and I just shook my head. Harry looked at the table, then back at the house. “When I turned sixteen my father took me to a whore.” He shook his head and a very small smile flickered across his face. “It took me ten years to get over that.” I could think of absolutely nothing to say to that. The idea of sex was completely alien to me, and to think of paying for it, especially for your child, and when that child was Harry—well really. It was all too much. I looked at Harry with something close to panic and he smiled.
“No,” said Harry. “I wasn’t going to offer. I expect you’ll get more use out of that fishing rod.” He shook his head slowly and looked away, far out over the picnic table, across the yard, down the street. “Or a fillet knife.”
“Yes,” I said, trying not to sound too eager.
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“No,” he said again, “we both know what you want. But you’re not ready.”
Since the first time Harry had talked to me about what I was, on a memorable camping trip a couple of years ago, we had been getting me ready. Getting me, in Harry’s words, squared away. As a muttonheaded young artificial human I was eager to get started on my happy career, but Harry held me back, because Harry always knew.
“I can be careful,” I said.
“But not perfect,” he said. “There are rules, Dexter. There have to be. That’s what separates you from the other ones.”
“Blend in,” I said. “Clean up, don’t take chances, um . . .”
Harry shook his head. “More important. You have to be sure before you start that this person really deserves it. I can’t tell you the number of times I knew somebody was guilty and I had to let them go. To have the bastard look at you and smirk, and you know and he knows, but you have to hold the door for him and let him go—” He clenched his jaw and tapped a fist on the picnic table. “You won’t have to. BUT . . .
you have to be sure. Dead sure, Dexter. And even if you’re absolutely positive—” He held his hand up in the air, palm facing me. “Get some proof. It doesn’t have to hold up in court, thank God.” He gave a small and bitter laugh. “You’d never get anywhere. But you need proof, Dexter. That’s the most important thing.” He tapped the table with his knuckle. “You have to have proof. And even then—”
He stopped, an uncharacteristic Harry pause, and I waited, knowing something difficult was coming. “Sometimes even then, you let them go. No matter how much they deserve it. If they’re too . . . conspicuous, for example. If it would raise too much attention, let it go.”
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Well, there it was. As always, Harry had the answer for me. Whenever I was unsure, I could hear Harry whispering in my ear. I was sure, but I had no proof that Doakes was anything except a very angry and suspicious cop, and chopping up a cop was certainly the sort of thing the city got indignant about. After the recent untimely demise of Detective LaGuerta, the police hierarchy would almost certainly be a little sensitive about a second cop going out in the same way.
No matter how necessary it seemed, Doakes was out of bounds for me. I could look out the window at the maroon Taurus nosed under a tree, but I could do nothing about it except wish for some other solution to spontaneously arise—for example, a piano falling on his head. Sadly enough, I was left hoping for luck.
But there was no luck tonight for poor Disappointed Dexter, and lately there had been a tragic lack of falling pianos in the Miami area. So here I was in my little hovel, pacing the floor with frustration, and every time I casually peeked out the window, there was the Taurus parked across the way. The memory of what I had been so happily contemplating only an hour ago pounded in my head. Can Dexter come out and play?
Alas, no, dear Dark Passenger. Dexter is in time-out.
There was, however, one constructive thing I could do, even cooped up in my apartment. I took the crumpled piece of paper from MacGregor’s boat out of my pocket and smoothed it out, which left my fingers sticky from the leftover gunk off the roll of duct tape to which the paper had been stuck. “Reiker,” and a phone number. More than enough to D E A R LY D E V O T E D D E X T E R
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feed to one of the reverse directories I could access from my computer, and in just a few minutes I had done so.
The number belonged to a cell phone, which was registered to a Mr. Steve Reiker of Tigertail Avenue in Coconut Grove. A little bit of cross-checking revealed that Mr. Reiker was a professional photographer. Of course, it could have been a coincidence. I am sure that there are many people named Reiker around the world who are photographers. I looked in the Yellow Pages and found that this particular Reiker had a specialty. He had a quarter-page ad that said, “Remember Them as They Are Now.”