Darkly dreaming Dexter   ::   Lindsay Jeffry P.

“A camera,” she said to me.

“Yes.”

She turned to young Prince Charming. “Is it on?”

He gaped at her, still concentrating on maintaining his righteous frown. “What?”

“The camera,” Deborah said. “Does it work?”

He snorted, and then wiped his nose with a finger. “What do you think, I would get all worked up if it didn't? Two hundred bucks. It totally works.”

I looked out the window where the camera had been pointing as he droned on in his surly grumble. “I got a Web site and everything. Kathouse.com. People can watch the team when they get here and when they leave.”

Deborah drifted over and stood beside me, looking out the window. “It was pointed at the door,” I said.

“Duh,” our happy pal said. “How else are people on my Web site gonna see the team?”

Deborah turned and looked at him. After about five seconds he blushed and dropped his eyes to the table. “Was the camera turned on last night?” she said.

He didn't look up, just mumbled, “Sure. I mean, I guess so.”

Deborah turned to me. Her computer knowledge was confined to knowing enough to fill out standardized traffic reports. She knew I was a little more savvy.

“How do you have it set up?” I asked the top of the young man's head. “Do the images automatically archive?”

This time he looked up. I had used archive as a verb, so I must be okay. “Yeah,” he said. “It refreshes every fifteen seconds and just dumps to the hard drive. I usually erase in the morning.”

Deborah actually clutched my arm hard enough to break the skin. “Did you erase this morning?” she asked him.

He glanced away again. “No,” he said. “You guys came stomping in and yelling and stuff. I didn't even get to check my e-mail.”

Deborah looked at me. “Bingo,” I said.

“Come here,” she said to our unhappy camper.

“Huh?” he said.

“Come here,” she repeated, and he stood up slowly, mouth hanging open, and rubbed his knuckles.

“What,” he said.

“Could you please come over here, sir?” Deborah ordered with truly veteran-cop technique, and he stuttered into motion and came over. “Can we see the pictures from last night, please?”

He gaped at the computer, then at her. “Why?” he said. Ah, the mysteries of human intelligence.

“Because,” Deborah said, very slowly and carefully. “I think you might have taken a picture of the killer.”

He stared at her and blinked, then blushed.