“I think this is it,” I said, trying to sound like David Caruso.
Deborah just gave me a quick and mean look and opened the door.
The receptionist was a very thin African-American man with a shaved head and dozens of piercings in his ears, eyebrows, and nose. He was wearing raspberry-colored scrubs and a gold necklace. A sign on his desk said, LLOYD. He looked up as we entered, smiled brightly, and said, “Hi! Can I help you?” in a way that sounded like, Let’s start the party!
Deborah held up her badge and said, “I’m Sergeant Morgan, Miami-Dade Police. I need to see Dr. Lonoff.”
Lloyd’s smile got even bigger. “He’s with a patient right now. Can you wait just a couple of minutes?”
“No,” Deborah said. “I need to see him now.”
Lloyd looked a bit uncertain, but he didn’t stop smiling. His teeth were large, very white, and perfectly shaped. If Dr. Lonoff had done Lloyd’s teeth, he did really good work. “Can you tell me what this is about?” he said.
“It’s about me coming back with a warrant to look at his drug register if he isn’t out here in thirty seconds,” Deborah said.
Lloyd licked his lips, hesitated for two seconds, and then got to his feet. “I’ll tell him you’re here,” he said, and he vanished around a curved wall and into the back of the office.
Dr. Lonoff beat the thirty-second deadline by a full two seconds. He came huffing around the curved wall, wiping his hands on a paper towel and looking frazzled. “What the hell are you – What’s this about my drug register?”
Deborah just watched him as he skidded to a stop in front of her. He seemed young for a dentist, maybe thirty, and in all honesty he looked a little too buff, too, as though he had been pumping iron when he should have been filling cavities.
Deborah must have thought so, too. She looked him over from head to toe and said, “Are you Dr. Lonoff?”
“Yes, I am,” he said, still a little huffish. “Who the hell are you?”
Once again Deborah held up her badge. “Sergeant Morgan, Miami-Dade Police. I need to ask you about one of your patients.”
“What you need to do,” he said with a great deal of medical authority, “is to stop playing storm trooper and tell me what this is about. I have a patient in the chair.”
I saw Deborah’s jaw stiffen, and knowing her as well as I did I braced myself for a round or two of tough talk; she would refuse to tell him anything, since it was police business, and he would refuse to let her at his records, because doctor-patient records were confidential, and they would go back and forth until all the high cards were played, and meanwhile I would have to watch and wonder why we couldn’t just cut to the chase and break for lunch.
I was just about to find a chair and curl up with a copy of Golf Digest to wait it out – but Deborah surprised me. She took a deep breath and said, “Doctor, I got two young girls missing, and the only lead I have is a guy with his teeth fixed so he looks like a vampire.” She breathed again and held his eye. “I need some help.”
If the ceiling had melted away to reveal a choir of angels singing “Achy Breaky Heart,” I could not have been more surprised. For Deborah to open up and look vulnerable like this was completely unheard-of, and I wondered if I should help her find professional counseling. Dr. Lonoff seemed to think so, too. He blinked at her for several long seconds, and then glanced at Lloyd.
“I’m not supposed to,” he said, looking even younger than his thirty or so years. “The records are confidential.”
“I know that,” Deborah said.
“Vampire?” Lonoff said, and he peeled his own lips back and pointed. “Like here? The canines?”
“That’s right,” Deborah said. “Like fangs.”
“It’s a special crown,” Lonoff said happily. “I have them made by a guy in Mexico, a real artist. Then it’s just a standard crown procedure, and the result is pretty impressive, I gotta say.”
“You’ve done that to a lot of guys?” Deborah said, sounding a bit surprised.
He shook his head. “I’ve done about two dozen,” he said.
“A young guy,” Deborah said. “Probably not more than twenty years old.”
Dr. Lonoff pursed his lips and thought. “Maybe three or four of those,” he said.
“He calls himself Vlad,” Deborah said.
Lonoff smiled and shook his head. “Nobody by that name,” he said. “But I wouldn’t be surprised if they all call themselves that. I mean, it’s a kind of popular name with that crowd.”
“Is it really a crowd?” I blurted out. The idea of a large number of vampires in Miami, whether actual or fake, was a little bit alarming – even if only for aesthetic reasons. I mean, really: all those black clothes? So very New York–last year.
“Yeah,” Lonoff said. “There’s quite a few of them. They don’t all want their fangs done,” he said with regret, and then he shrugged. “Still. They have their clubs, and raves, and so on. It’s quite a scene.”
“I only need to find one of them,” Deborah said with a little bit of her old impatience.
Lonoff looked at her, nodded, and unconsciously flexed his neck muscles. His shirt collar didn’t quite pop. He pushed his lips out and then in, and, suddenly reaching a decision, he said, “Lloyd, help them find that in the billing records.”
“You got it, Doctor,” Lloyd said.
Lonoff held out his hand toward Deborah. “Good luck, ah – Sergeant?”
“That’s right,” Deborah said, shaking his hand.
Dr. Lonoff held on a little too long, and just when I thought Debs would yank away her hand, he smiled and added, “You know, I could fix that overbite for you.”
“Thanks,” Debs said, pulling her hand away. “I kind of like it.”
“Uh-huh,” Lonoff said. “Well, then …” He put a hand on Lloyd’s shoulder and said, “Help them out. I’ve got a patient waiting.” And with a last longing look at Deborah’s overbite, he turned around and disappeared into the back room again.
“It’s over here,” Lloyd said. “On the computer.” He pointed to the desk he’d been sitting at when we came in, and we followed him over.
“I’m going to need some parameters,” he said. Deborah blinked and looked at me, as if the word were in a foreign language – which I suppose it was, to her, since she did not speak computer. So once again, I stepped into the awkward void and saved her.
“Under twenty-four,” I said. “Male. Pointy canine teeth.”
“Cool,” Lloyd said, and he hammered at the keyboard for a few moments. Deborah watched impatiently. I turned away and looked at the far side of the waiting room. A large saltwater fish tank sat on a stand in the corner next to a magazine rack. It looked a little crowded to me, but maybe the fish liked it that way.
“Gotcha,” Lloyd said, and I turned around in time to see a sheet of paper come whirring out of the printer. Lloyd grabbed it and held it out to Debs, who snatched it and glared at it. “There’s just four names,” Lloyd said with a touch of the same regret Dr. Lonoff had shown, and I wondered if he got a commission on the fangs.
“Crap,” said Deborah, still looking at the list.
“Why crap?” I said. “Did you want more names?”
She flicked the paper with a finger. “First name on here,” she said. “Does the name Acosta mean anything to you?”
I nodded. “It means trouble,” I said. Joe Acosta was a major figure in the city government, a sort of old-school commissioner who still carried the kind of clout you might have found fifty years ago in Chicago. If our Vlad was his son, we might be in for a fecal shower. “Different
Acosta?” I asked hopefully.
Deborah shook her head. “Same address,” she said. “Shit.”
“Maybe it’s not him,” Lloyd said helpfully, and Debs looked up at him, just for a second, but his bright smile vanished as if she’d hit him in the crotch.
“Come on,” she said to me, and she whirled away toward the door.
“Thanks for your help,” I told Lloyd, but he just nodded, one time, as if Debs had sucked all the joy out of his life.
Deborah was already in the car with the motor running by the time I caught up with her. “Come on,” she called out the window. “Get in.”
I climbed in beside her and she had the car in gear before I got the door closed. “You know,” I said, fastening my seat belt, “we could leave Acosta for last. It could just as easily be one of the others.”
“Tyler Spanos goes to Ransom Everglades,” she said. “So she hangs with the upper crust. The fucking Acostas are the upper crust. It’s him.”
It was hard to fault her logic, so I said nothing; I just settled in and let her drive too fast through the midmorning traffic.
We drove over the MacArthur Causeway and let it take us onto the 836 all the way to Le-Jeune, where we went left into Coral Gables. Acosta’s house was in a section of the Gables that would have been a walled community if it was built today. The houses were large, and many of them, like Acosta’s, were built in the Spanish style out of large blocks of coral rock. The lawn looked like a putting green and there was a two-story garage on the side, attached to the house by a breezeway.
Deborah parked in front of the house and paused for a moment after turning off the engine. I watched her take a deep breath, and I wondered if she was still going through the same strange molecular meltdown that had lately made her seem so soft and emotional. “Are you sure you want to do this?” I asked her. She glanced at me, and she did not really look like the fierce and focused Deborah I knew so well. “I mean, you know,” I said. “Acosta could make your life pretty miserable. He’s a commissioner.”
She snapped back into focus like she’d been slapped and I saw the familiar sight of her jaw muscles working. “I don’t care if he’s Jesus,” she snarled, and it was very good to see the old venom return. She got out of the car and began to stride up the sidewalk to the front door. I got out and followed, catching up to her just as she pushed the doorbell. There was no response, and she shifted her weight impatiently from foot to foot. Just as she reached a hand up to ring a second time, the door swung open, and a short, square woman in a maid’s uniform peered out at us.
“Yes?” the maid said in a thick Central American accent.
“Is Robert Acosta here, please,” Deborah said.
The maid licked her lips, and her eyes darted from side to side for a moment. Then she shivered and shook her head. “Why you wan’ Bobby?” she said.
Deborah held up her badge and the maid sucked in her breath loudly. “I need to ask him some questions,” Debs said. “Is he here?”
The maid swallowed hard, but said nothing.
“I just need to talk to him,” Debs said. “It’s very important.”
The maid swallowed again, and glanced past us out the door. Deborah turned and looked, too. “The garage?” she said, turning back to the maid. “He’s in the garage?”
At last, the maid nodded. “El garaje,” she said, softly and very fast, as if she was afraid she would be heard. “Bobby vive en el piso segundo.”
Deborah looked at me. “In the garage. He lives on the second floor,” I translated. For some reason, in spite of being born and bred in Miami, Debs had chosen to study French in school.
“Is he here right now?” Deborah asked the maid.
She nodded her head jerkily. “Creo que si,” she said. She licked her lips again and then, with a sort of spasmodic lurch, she pushed the door closed, not quite slamming it.
Deborah looked at the shut door for a moment, then shook her head. “What was she so scared of?” she said.
“Deportation?” I said.
She snorted. “Joe Acosta wouldn’t hire an illegal. Not when he can get a green card for anybody he wants to.”
“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.
CHAPTER 13
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.”
“Well,” I said, “Bobby Acosta may not be guilty of anything.”
Debs showed me her teeth. It would have been a smile if she were not so clearly miserable. “He’s guilty as shit,” she said, and she held up the folder in her hand. “He’s got a record you wouldn’t believe – even without the stuff they blacked out when he was a minor.”
“A juvie record doesn’t make him guilty this time,” I said.
Deborah leaned forward, and for a moment I thought she was going to hit me with Bobby Acosta’s file. “The hell it doesn’t,” she said, and then, happily for me, she opened the file instead of swinging it at my head. “Assault. Assault with intent. Assault. Grand theft auto.” She looked up at me apologetically as she said “grand theft” and shrugged before dropping her eyes back to the folder. “Twice he was arrested because he was caught on the scene when somebody died in suspicious circumstances, and it should have been manslaughter at the very least, but both times his old man bought him out of trouble.” She closed the folder and slapped it with the back of her hand. “There’s a lot more,” she said. “But it all ends the same way, with blood on Bobby’s hands and his father bailing him out.” She shook her head. “This is one bad, fucked-up kid, Dexter. He’s killed at least two people, and there is absolutely no doubt in my mind that he knows where those girls are. If he hasn’t already killed them, too.”
I thought Debs was probably right. Not because a record of past crimes always meant present guilt – but I had felt a slow and sleepy stir of interest from the Passenger, a speculative raising of inner eyebrows as Deborah read from the file, and the old Dexter would very definitely have added the name of Bobby Acosta to his little black book of potential playmates. But of course, Dexter 2.0 didn’t do those things. Instead, I merely nodded sympathetically. “You may be right,” I said.
Deborah jerked her head up. “May be,” she said. “I am right. Bobby Acosta knows where those girls are, and I can’t fucking touch him because of his old man.”
“Well,” I said, acutely conscious of speaking a cliche but unable to think of anything else worth saying, “you really can’t fight city hall, you know.”
Deborah stared at me for a moment with an absolutely blank face. “Wow,” she said. “Did you think that up by yourself?”
“Well, come on, Debs,” I said, and I admit I was a little peevish. “You knew this would happen, and it happened, so why should it bother you?”
She blew out a long breath, and then folded her hands in her lap and looked down at them, which was somehow much worse than the snarling comeback I’d expected. “I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe it’s not just this.” She turned her hands over and looked at the back side. “Maybe it’s … I don’t know. Everything.”
If everything really was bothering my sister, it was much easier to understand her weary misery; being in charge of everything would be a crushing burden. But in my small experience with humans, I have learned that if someone says they are oppressed by everything, it usually means one small and very specific something. And in my sister’s case, even though she had always acted like she was in charge of everything, I thought this would hold true; some particular something was eating at her and making her act like this. And remembering what she had said about her live-in boyfriend, Kyle Chutsky, I thought that was probably it.
“Is it Chutsky?” I said.
Her head jerked up. “What. You mean does he beat me up? Is he cheating on me?”
“No, of course not,” I said, holding up a hand in case she decided to hit me. I knew he wouldn’t dare cheat on her – and the idea of anybody trying to beat up my sister was laughable. “It’s just what you were saying the other day. About, you know – tick-tock, bio clock?”
She drooped over again and looked at her hands in her lap. “Uh-huh. I said that, didn’t I,” she said. She shook her head slowly. “Well, it’s still true. And fucking Chutsky – he won’t even talk about it.”
I looked at my sister, and I admit that my feelings did me no credit, because my first truly conscious reaction to Deb’s outpouring was to think, Wow! I really am feeling empathy with an actual human emotion! Because Deborah’s continuing descent into a soft pudding of self-pity had actually reached me, deep down on the brand-new human level recently opened by Lily Anne, and I found that I did not have to search my memory for a response from some old daytime drama. I really felt something, and that was very impressive to me.
So without actually thinking it through at all, I got up from my chair and went over to her. I put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed gently and said, “I’m sorry, sis. Is there anything I can do?”
And naturally enough, Deborah stiffened and slapped my hand away. She stood up and looked at me with something that was at least halfway back to her natural snarl. “For starters, you can stop acting like Father Flanagan,” she said. “Jesus, Dex. What’s got into you?”
And before I could utter a single syllable of completely logical rebuttal, she stalked out of my office and disappeared down the hall.
“Glad to help,” I said to her back.
Maybe I was just too new to having feelings to really understand them and act accordingly. Or maybe it was just going to take Debs a little time to get used to the new, compassionate Dexter. But it was starting to seem even more likely to me that some terribly wicked person or persons had put something sinister in the Miami water supply.
Just as I was getting ready to leave for the day, the weirdness went up one more notch. My cell phone rang and I glanced at it, saw that it was Rita, and answered. “Hello?” I said.
“Dexter, hi, um, it’s me,” she said.
“Of course it is,” I said encouragingly.
“Are you still at work?” she said.
“Just getting ready to leave.”
“Oh, good, because – I mean, if, instead of picking up Cody and Astor?” she said. “Because you don’t have to tonight.”
A quick mental translation told me that I didn’t have to pick up the kids for some reason. “Oh, why not?” I said.
“It’s just, they’re already gone,” she said, and for one terrible moment, as I struggled to understand what she meant, I thought that something awful had happened to them.
“What – Where did they go?” I managed to stammer.
“Oh,” she said. “Your brother picked them up. Brian. He’s going to take them for Chinese food.”
What a wonderful world of new experiences I was having with being human. Right now, for example, I was struck speechless with astonishment. I felt wave after wave of thoughts and feelings wash over me: things like anger, amazement, and suspicion, ideas like wondering what Brian was really up to, why Rita would ever go along with it, and what Cody and Astor would do when they remembered that they didn’t like Chinese food. But no matter how copious and specific my thoughts were, nothing at all came out of my mouth, except, “Uhk,” and as I struggled for coherent sounds, Rita said, “Oh. I have to go. Lily Anne is crying. Bye.” And she hung up.
I’m sure it was only a few seconds that I stood there listening to the sound of absolutely nothing, but it seemed like a very long time. Eventually I became aware that my mouth was dry, since it was hanging open, and my hand was sweaty from where I had clamped the cell phone into my fist. I closed my mouth, put the phone away, and headed for home.
Rush hour was in full swing as I headed south from work, and oddly enough, all the way home I saw no acts of random violence, no violent swerving or fist waving, no shots fired. The traffic inched along as slowly as ever, but nobody really seemed to mind. I wondered if I should have read my horoscope – perhaps that would explain what was going on. It could well be that somewhere in Miami really knowledgeable people – druids, perhaps – were nodding their heads and murmuring, “Ahhh, Jupiter is in a retrograde moon of Saturn,” and pouring another cup of herb tea while they lounged around in Birkenstocks. Or maybe it was a group of the vampires Debs was chasing – was it called a flock? Perhaps if enough of them sharpened their teeth a new age of harmony would dawn for us all. Or at least for Dr. Lonoff, the dentist.
I spent a quiet evening at home watching TV and holding Lily Anne whenever I could. She did a lot of sleeping, but it worked for her just as well if I was holding her at the time, so I did. It seemed to me to indicate a remarkable degree of trust on her part. On the one hand, I hoped she would grow out of that, since it was not terribly wise to trust others so much. But on the other tiny, perfect hand, it filled me with a sense of wonder and a resolve to protect her from all the other beasts of the night.
I found myself sniffing Lily Anne’s head frequently – certifiably odd behavior, I know, but, from what I could gather, completely in keeping with my new human persona. The smell was remarkable, unlike anything else I had ever smelled. It was an odor that was almost nothing at all, and it did not really fit into any category like “sweet” or “musty,” although it contained elements of both – and more, and neither. But I sniffed and was unable to say what the smell was, and then I sniffed again just because I wanted to, and then suddenly a new odor welled up from the region of the diaper, one that was quite easy to identify.
Changing a diaper is really not as bad as it sounds, and I didn’t mind it at all. I am not suggesting that I would embrace it as a career choice, but at least in the case of Lily Anne’s diaper it was something that did not actually cause me any suffering – in some ways it was even enjoyable, since I was doing a very specific and necessary service for her. I got further pleasure from seeing Rita swoop in like a dive-bomber, probably to make sure I didn’t accidentally boil the baby, and then pause and just watch when she saw my quiet competence, and I felt a warm glow of satisfaction when I finished and she took the baby off the changing table, saying only, “Thank you, Dexter.”
While Rita fed Lily Anne, I returned to the TV and watched a hockey game for a few minutes. It was disappointing; in the first place, the Panthers were already down by three goals, and in the second place, there were no fights. I had originally been attracted to the game because of the honest and laudable bloodlust the players showed. Now, however, it occurred to me that I really ought to frown on that sort of thing. The New Me, Diaper Daddy Dexter, was strongly opposed to violence and could not possibly approve of a sport like hockey. Perhaps I could switch to bowling. It seemed awfully boring, but there was no blood, and it was certainly more exciting than golf.
Before I could reach any decision, Rita came back with Lily Anne. “Would you like to burp her, Dexter?” she said with a Madonna-like smile – the Madonna in the paintings, not the one with the fancy bra.
“I would like nothing better,” I said, and weirdly enough, I meant it. I placed a small towel over my shoulder and held the baby facedown on it. And once again, for some reason it was not at all awful, even when Lily Anne made her delicate barfing noises and small bubbles of milk came out and onto the towel. I found myself murmuring quiet congratulations to her with each little blarp she made, until finally she drifted back into sleep and I switched her around to the front position, holding her to my chest and gently moving her from side to side in a rock-abye motion.
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