JК
Darkly dreaming Dexter :: Lindsay Jeffry P.
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“Jackson Pollock? Thepainter ? Dexter, this guy's a butcher.”
“In his own way, Deborah, he is an artist. And he thinks of himself that way.”
“For Christ's sake. That's the stupidest-”
“Trust me, Deb.”
“Sure, I trust you. Why shouldn't I trust you? So we have an angrily amused artist who's not going anywhere, right?”
“Right,” I said. “He has to do it again, and it has to be under our noses, and it probably has to be a little bigger.”
“You mean he's going to kill a fat hooker this time?”
“Bigger in scale, Deborah. Larger in concept. Splashier.”
“Oh. Splashier. Sure. Like with a mulcher.”
“The stakes have gone up, Debs. We've pushed him and insulted him a little and the next kill will reflect that.”
“Uh-huh,” she said. “And how would that work?”
“I don't really know,” I admitted.
“But you're sure.”
“That's right,” I said.
“Swell,” she said. “Now I know what to watch for.”
CHAPTER 13
I KNEW WHEN I WALKED IN MY FRONT DOOR AFTER work on Monday that something was wrong. Someone had been in my apartment.
The door was not broken, the windows were not jimmied, and I couldn't see any signs of vandalism, but I knew. Call it sixth sense or whatever you like. Someone had been here. Maybe I was smelling pheromones the intruder had left in my air molecules. Or perhaps my La-Z-Boy recliner's aura had been disturbed. It didn't matter how I knew: I knew. Somebody had been in my apartment while I had been at work.
That might seem like no big deal. This was Miami, after all. People come home every day to find their TVs gone, their jewelry and electronics all taken away; their space violated, their possessions rifled, and their dog pregnant. But this was different. Even as I did a quick search through the apartment, I knew I would find nothing missing.
And I was right. Nothing was missing.
But something had been added.
It took me a few minutes to find it. I suppose some work-induced reflex made me check the obvious things first. When an intruder has paid a visit, in the natural course of events your things are gone: toys, valuables, private relics, the last few chocolate chip cookies. So I checked.
But all my things were unmolested. The computer, the sound system, the TV and VCR-all right where I had left them. Even my small collection of precious glass slides was tucked away on the bookcase, each with its single drop of dried blood in place.
“Jackson Pollock? Thepainter ? Dexter, this guy's a butcher.”
“In his own way, Deborah, he is an artist. And he thinks of himself that way.”
“For Christ's sake. That's the stupidest-”
“Trust me, Deb.”
“Sure, I trust you. Why shouldn't I trust you? So we have an angrily amused artist who's not going anywhere, right?”
“Right,” I said. “He has to do it again, and it has to be under our noses, and it probably has to be a little bigger.”
“You mean he's going to kill a fat hooker this time?”
“Bigger in scale, Deborah. Larger in concept. Splashier.”
“Oh. Splashier. Sure. Like with a mulcher.”
“The stakes have gone up, Debs. We've pushed him and insulted him a little and the next kill will reflect that.”
“Uh-huh,” she said. “And how would that work?”
“I don't really know,” I admitted.
“But you're sure.”
“That's right,” I said.
“Swell,” she said. “Now I know what to watch for.”
CHAPTER 13
I KNEW WHEN I WALKED IN MY FRONT DOOR AFTER work on Monday that something was wrong. Someone had been in my apartment.
The door was not broken, the windows were not jimmied, and I couldn't see any signs of vandalism, but I knew. Call it sixth sense or whatever you like. Someone had been here. Maybe I was smelling pheromones the intruder had left in my air molecules. Or perhaps my La-Z-Boy recliner's aura had been disturbed. It didn't matter how I knew: I knew. Somebody had been in my apartment while I had been at work.
That might seem like no big deal. This was Miami, after all. People come home every day to find their TVs gone, their jewelry and electronics all taken away; their space violated, their possessions rifled, and their dog pregnant. But this was different. Even as I did a quick search through the apartment, I knew I would find nothing missing.
And I was right. Nothing was missing.
But something had been added.
It took me a few minutes to find it. I suppose some work-induced reflex made me check the obvious things first. When an intruder has paid a visit, in the natural course of events your things are gone: toys, valuables, private relics, the last few chocolate chip cookies. So I checked.
But all my things were unmolested. The computer, the sound system, the TV and VCR-all right where I had left them. Even my small collection of precious glass slides was tucked away on the bookcase, each with its single drop of dried blood in place.