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Darkly dreaming Dexter :: Lindsay Jeffry P.
Страница: 117 из 160Thehockey rink was all wrong, completely and obviously wrong. It had been an experiment, something different, but I knew he wouldn't repeat it. I started to explain this to Deb, that the only reason he would ever repeat the rink would be- I stopped dead, my mouth hanging open. Of course , I thought. Naturally .
“Now who's making a fish face, huh? What is it, Dex?”
For a moment I didn't say anything. I was far too busy trying to catch my whirling thoughts. The only reason he would repeat the hockey rink was to show us we had the wrong guy locked up.
“Oh, Deb,” I said at last. “Of course. You're right, the arena. You are right for all the wrong reasons, but still-”
“Beats the hell out of being wrong,” she said, and headed for her car.
CHAPTER 21
“Y OU DO UNDERSTAND IT'S A LONG SHOT?” I SAID. “Probably we won't find anything at all.”
“I know that,” Deb said.
“And we don't actually have any jurisdiction here. We're in Broward. And the Broward guys don't like us, so-”
“For Christ's sake, Dexter,” she snapped. “You're chattering like a schoolgirl.”
Perhaps that was true, although it was very unkind of her to say so. And Deborah, on the other hand, appeared to be a bundle of steely, tightly wrapped nerves. As we turned off the Sawgrass Expressway and drove into the parking lot of the Office Depot Center she bit down harder. I could almost hear her jaw creak. “Dirty Harriet,” I said to myself, but apparently Deb was eavesdropping.
“Fuck off,” she said.
I looked from Deborah's granite profile to the arena. For one brief moment, with the early-morning sunlight hitting it just right, it looked like the building was surrounded by a fleet of flying saucers. Of course it was only the outdoor lighting fixtures that sprouted around the arena like oversized steel toadstools. Someone must have told the architect they were distinctive. “Youthful and vigorous,” too, most likely. And I'm sure they were, in the right light. I did hope they would find the right light sometime soon.
We drove one time around the arena, looking for signs of life. On the second circuit, a battered Toyota pulled up beside one of the doors. The passenger door was held closed with a loop of rope that ran out the window and around the doorpost. Opening the driver's door as she parked, Deborah was already stepping out of the car while it was still rolling.
“Excuse me, sir?” she said to the man getting out of the Toyota.
“Now who's making a fish face, huh? What is it, Dex?”
For a moment I didn't say anything. I was far too busy trying to catch my whirling thoughts. The only reason he would repeat the hockey rink was to show us we had the wrong guy locked up.
“Oh, Deb,” I said at last. “Of course. You're right, the arena. You are right for all the wrong reasons, but still-”
“Beats the hell out of being wrong,” she said, and headed for her car.
CHAPTER 21
“Y OU DO UNDERSTAND IT'S A LONG SHOT?” I SAID. “Probably we won't find anything at all.”
“I know that,” Deb said.
“And we don't actually have any jurisdiction here. We're in Broward. And the Broward guys don't like us, so-”
“For Christ's sake, Dexter,” she snapped. “You're chattering like a schoolgirl.”
Perhaps that was true, although it was very unkind of her to say so. And Deborah, on the other hand, appeared to be a bundle of steely, tightly wrapped nerves. As we turned off the Sawgrass Expressway and drove into the parking lot of the Office Depot Center she bit down harder. I could almost hear her jaw creak. “Dirty Harriet,” I said to myself, but apparently Deb was eavesdropping.
“Fuck off,” she said.
I looked from Deborah's granite profile to the arena. For one brief moment, with the early-morning sunlight hitting it just right, it looked like the building was surrounded by a fleet of flying saucers. Of course it was only the outdoor lighting fixtures that sprouted around the arena like oversized steel toadstools. Someone must have told the architect they were distinctive. “Youthful and vigorous,” too, most likely. And I'm sure they were, in the right light. I did hope they would find the right light sometime soon.
We drove one time around the arena, looking for signs of life. On the second circuit, a battered Toyota pulled up beside one of the doors. The passenger door was held closed with a loop of rope that ran out the window and around the doorpost. Opening the driver's door as she parked, Deborah was already stepping out of the car while it was still rolling.
“Excuse me, sir?” she said to the man getting out of the Toyota.