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Darkly dreaming Dexter :: Lindsay Jeffry P.
Страница: 19 из 160“Becareful.”
She blinked at me. “What are you talking about?”
“LaGuerta,” I said.
Deborah snorted. “Her,” she said.
“Yeah. Her. She doesn't like you, and she doesn't want you on her turf.”
“Tough. She got her orders from the captain.”
“Uh-huh. And she's already spent five minutes figuring out how to get around them. So watch your back, Debs.”
She just shrugged. “What did you find out?” she asked.
I shook my head. “Nothing yet. LaGuerta's already nowhere. But Vince said-” I stopped. Even talking about it seemed too private.
“Vince said what?”
“A small thing, Deb. A detail. Who knows what it means?”
“Nobody will ever know if you don't say it, Dexter.”
“There… seems to be no blood left with the body. No blood at all.”
Deborah was quiet for a minute, thinking. Not a reverent pause, not like me. Just thinking. “Okay,” she said at last. “I give up. What does it mean?”
“Too soon to tell,” I said.
“But you think it means something.”
It meant a strange light-headedness. It meant an itch to find out more about this killer. It meant an appreciative chuckle from the Dark Passenger, who should have been quiet so soon after the priest. But that was all rather tough to explain to Deborah, wasn't it? So I just said, “It might, Deb. Who really knows?”
She looked at me hard for half a moment, then shrugged. “All right,” she said. “Anything else?”
“Oh, a great deal,” I said. “Very nice blade work. The cuts are close to surgical. Unless they find something in the hotel, which no one expects, the body was killed somewhere else and dumped here.”
“Where?”
“Very good question. Half of police work is asking the right questions.”
“The other half is answering,” she told me.
“Well then. Nobody knows where yet, Deb. And I certainly don't have all the forensic data-”
“But you're starting to get a feel for this one,” she said.
I looked at her. She looked back. I had developed hunches before. I had a small reputation for it. My hunches were often quite good. And why shouldn't they be? I often know how the killers are thinking. I think the same way. Of course I was not always right. Sometimes I was very wide of the mark. It wouldn't look good if I was always right. And I didn't want the cops to catch every serial killer out there.
She blinked at me. “What are you talking about?”
“LaGuerta,” I said.
Deborah snorted. “Her,” she said.
“Yeah. Her. She doesn't like you, and she doesn't want you on her turf.”
“Tough. She got her orders from the captain.”
“Uh-huh. And she's already spent five minutes figuring out how to get around them. So watch your back, Debs.”
She just shrugged. “What did you find out?” she asked.
I shook my head. “Nothing yet. LaGuerta's already nowhere. But Vince said-” I stopped. Even talking about it seemed too private.
“Vince said what?”
“A small thing, Deb. A detail. Who knows what it means?”
“Nobody will ever know if you don't say it, Dexter.”
“There… seems to be no blood left with the body. No blood at all.”
Deborah was quiet for a minute, thinking. Not a reverent pause, not like me. Just thinking. “Okay,” she said at last. “I give up. What does it mean?”
“Too soon to tell,” I said.
“But you think it means something.”
It meant a strange light-headedness. It meant an itch to find out more about this killer. It meant an appreciative chuckle from the Dark Passenger, who should have been quiet so soon after the priest. But that was all rather tough to explain to Deborah, wasn't it? So I just said, “It might, Deb. Who really knows?”
She looked at me hard for half a moment, then shrugged. “All right,” she said. “Anything else?”
“Oh, a great deal,” I said. “Very nice blade work. The cuts are close to surgical. Unless they find something in the hotel, which no one expects, the body was killed somewhere else and dumped here.”
“Where?”
“Very good question. Half of police work is asking the right questions.”
“The other half is answering,” she told me.
“Well then. Nobody knows where yet, Deb. And I certainly don't have all the forensic data-”
“But you're starting to get a feel for this one,” she said.
I looked at her. She looked back. I had developed hunches before. I had a small reputation for it. My hunches were often quite good. And why shouldn't they be? I often know how the killers are thinking. I think the same way. Of course I was not always right. Sometimes I was very wide of the mark. It wouldn't look good if I was always right. And I didn't want the cops to catch every serial killer out there.