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Darkly dreaming Dexter :: Lindsay Jeffry P.
Страница: 58 из 160I did not add that apparently some of it was me. “But sooner or later, somebody will ask.” I looked over to where she was Directing the Operation. “Probably Sergeant Doakes,” I said with real dread.
She nodded. “He's a decent cop. If he could just lose some attitude.”
“Attitude may be all he is,” I said. “But he doesn't like me for some reason. He'll ask anything if he thinks it will make me squirm.”
“So tell him the truth,” Deborah said deadpan. “But first, tell it to me.” And she poked me again in the same spot.
“Please, Deb,” I said. “You know how easily I bruise.”
“I don't know,” she said. “But I feel like finding out.”
“It won't happen again,” I promised. “It was just one of those 3 AM inspirations, Deborah. What would you have said if I had called you about it, and then it turned out to be nothing?”
“But it didn't. It turned out to be something,” she said with another push.
“I really didn't think it would. And I would have felt stupid dragging you in on it.”
“Imagine how I would have felt if he had killed you,” she said.
It took me by surprise. I couldn't even begin to imagine how she would have felt. Regret? Disappointment? Anger? That sort of thing is way beyond me, I'm afraid. So I just repeated, “I'm sorry, Deb.” And then, because I am the kind of cheerful Pollyanna who always finds the bright side, I added, “But at least the refrigerated truck was there.”
She blinked at me. “The truck was where?” she said.
“Oh, Deb,” I said. “They didn't tell you?”
She hit me even harder in the same place. “Goddamn it, Dexter,” she hissed. “What about the truck?”
“It was there, Deb,” I said, somewhat embarrassed by her nakedly emotional reaction-and also, of course, by the fact that a good-looking woman was beating the crap out of me. “He was driving a refrigerated truck. When he threw the head.”
She grabbed my arms and stared at me. “The fuck you say,” she finally said.
“The fuck I do.”
“Jesus-!” she said, staring off into space and no doubt seeing her promotion floating there somewhere above my head. And she was probably going to go on but at that moment Angel-no-relation lifted his voice over the echoing din of the arena. “Detective?” he called, looking over at LaGuerta. It was a strange, unconscious sound, the half-strangled cry of a man who never makes loud noises in public, and something about it brought instant quiet to the room.
She nodded. “He's a decent cop. If he could just lose some attitude.”
“Attitude may be all he is,” I said. “But he doesn't like me for some reason. He'll ask anything if he thinks it will make me squirm.”
“So tell him the truth,” Deborah said deadpan. “But first, tell it to me.” And she poked me again in the same spot.
“Please, Deb,” I said. “You know how easily I bruise.”
“I don't know,” she said. “But I feel like finding out.”
“It won't happen again,” I promised. “It was just one of those 3 AM inspirations, Deborah. What would you have said if I had called you about it, and then it turned out to be nothing?”
“But it didn't. It turned out to be something,” she said with another push.
“I really didn't think it would. And I would have felt stupid dragging you in on it.”
“Imagine how I would have felt if he had killed you,” she said.
It took me by surprise. I couldn't even begin to imagine how she would have felt. Regret? Disappointment? Anger? That sort of thing is way beyond me, I'm afraid. So I just repeated, “I'm sorry, Deb.” And then, because I am the kind of cheerful Pollyanna who always finds the bright side, I added, “But at least the refrigerated truck was there.”
She blinked at me. “The truck was where?” she said.
“Oh, Deb,” I said. “They didn't tell you?”
She hit me even harder in the same place. “Goddamn it, Dexter,” she hissed. “What about the truck?”
“It was there, Deb,” I said, somewhat embarrassed by her nakedly emotional reaction-and also, of course, by the fact that a good-looking woman was beating the crap out of me. “He was driving a refrigerated truck. When he threw the head.”
She grabbed my arms and stared at me. “The fuck you say,” she finally said.
“The fuck I do.”
“Jesus-!” she said, staring off into space and no doubt seeing her promotion floating there somewhere above my head. And she was probably going to go on but at that moment Angel-no-relation lifted his voice over the echoing din of the arena. “Detective?” he called, looking over at LaGuerta. It was a strange, unconscious sound, the half-strangled cry of a man who never makes loud noises in public, and something about it brought instant quiet to the room.