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Darkly dreaming Dexter :: Lindsay Jeffry P.
Страница: 64 из 160“Like I'm some kind of unwashed half-wit and she's finally figured out where to lock me up.”
“Oh, no,” I said. “You mean you're off the case?”
“We're all off the case, Dexter,” Deb said, her voice as tired as I felt. “LaGuerta's made an arrest.”
There was far too much silence on the line all of a sudden and I couldn't think at all, but at least I was wide awake. “What?” I said.
“LaGuerta has arrested somebody. Some guy who works at the arena. She has him in custody and she's sure he's the killer.”
“That's not possible,” I said, although I knew it was possible, the brain-dead bitch. LaGuerta, not Deb.
“I know that, Dexter. But don't try to tell LaGuerta. She's sure she got the right guy.”
“How sure?” I asked. My head was spinning and I felt a little bit like throwing up. I couldn't really say why.
Deb snorted. “She has a press conference in one hour,” she said. “For her, that's positive.”
The pounding in my head got too loud to hear what Deb might have said next. LaGuerta had made an arrest? Who? Who could she possibly have tagged for it? Could she truly ignore all the clues, the smell and feel and taste of these kills, and arrest somebody? Because nobody who could do what this killer had done-was doing!-could possibly allow a pimple like LaGuerta to catch him. Never. I would bet my life on it.
“No, Deborah,” I said. “No. Not possible. She's got the wrong guy.”
Deborah laughed, a tired, dirty-up-to-here cop's laugh. “Yeah,” she said. “I know it. You know it. But she doesn't know it. And you want to know something funny? Neither does he.”
That made no sense at all. “What are you saying, Deb? Who doesn't know?”
She repeated that awful little laugh. “The guy she arrested. I guess he must be almost as confused as LaGuerta, Dex. Because he confessed.”
“What?”
“He confessed, Dexter. The bastard confessed.”
CHAPTER 12
H IS NAME WAS DARYLL EARL MCHALE AND HE WAS what we liked to call a two-time loser. Twelve of his last twenty years had been spent as a guest of the State of Florida. Dear Sergeant Doakes had managed to dig his name out of the arena's personnel files. In a computer cross-check for employees with a record of violence or felony convictions, McHale's name had popped up twice.
Daryll Earl was a drunk and a wife beater. Apparently he occasionally knocked over filling stations, too, just for the entertainment value. He could be relied on to hold down a minimum wage job for a month or two.
“Oh, no,” I said. “You mean you're off the case?”
“We're all off the case, Dexter,” Deb said, her voice as tired as I felt. “LaGuerta's made an arrest.”
There was far too much silence on the line all of a sudden and I couldn't think at all, but at least I was wide awake. “What?” I said.
“LaGuerta has arrested somebody. Some guy who works at the arena. She has him in custody and she's sure he's the killer.”
“That's not possible,” I said, although I knew it was possible, the brain-dead bitch. LaGuerta, not Deb.
“I know that, Dexter. But don't try to tell LaGuerta. She's sure she got the right guy.”
“How sure?” I asked. My head was spinning and I felt a little bit like throwing up. I couldn't really say why.
Deb snorted. “She has a press conference in one hour,” she said. “For her, that's positive.”
The pounding in my head got too loud to hear what Deb might have said next. LaGuerta had made an arrest? Who? Who could she possibly have tagged for it? Could she truly ignore all the clues, the smell and feel and taste of these kills, and arrest somebody? Because nobody who could do what this killer had done-was doing!-could possibly allow a pimple like LaGuerta to catch him. Never. I would bet my life on it.
“No, Deborah,” I said. “No. Not possible. She's got the wrong guy.”
Deborah laughed, a tired, dirty-up-to-here cop's laugh. “Yeah,” she said. “I know it. You know it. But she doesn't know it. And you want to know something funny? Neither does he.”
That made no sense at all. “What are you saying, Deb? Who doesn't know?”
She repeated that awful little laugh. “The guy she arrested. I guess he must be almost as confused as LaGuerta, Dex. Because he confessed.”
“What?”
“He confessed, Dexter. The bastard confessed.”
CHAPTER 12
H IS NAME WAS DARYLL EARL MCHALE AND HE WAS what we liked to call a two-time loser. Twelve of his last twenty years had been spent as a guest of the State of Florida. Dear Sergeant Doakes had managed to dig his name out of the arena's personnel files. In a computer cross-check for employees with a record of violence or felony convictions, McHale's name had popped up twice.
Daryll Earl was a drunk and a wife beater. Apparently he occasionally knocked over filling stations, too, just for the entertainment value. He could be relied on to hold down a minimum wage job for a month or two.