Jeff Lindsay - Double Dexter

So I learned very young to watch people stumbling through their one or two basic rituals, and then perform the same steps myself with flawless mimicry. This morning that talent served me well, because as I staggered out of bed and into the bathroom, there was absolutely nothing in my head except phlegm, and if I had not learned by rote what I was supposed to do each morning I don t think I could have done it. The dull ache of a major cold had seeped into my bones and pushed all capacity for thinking out of my brain.

But the pattern of what I do in the morning remained: shower, shave, brush teeth, and stumble to the kitchen table, where Rita had a cup of coffee waiting for me. As I sipped it and felt a small spark of life flicker in response, she slid a plate of scrambled eggs in front of me. It might have been the effect of the coffee, but I remembered what to do with the eggs, and I did it very well, too. And as I finished the eggs, Rita dropped a pair of cold pills in front of me.

Take these, she said. You ll feel much better when they start to Oh, look at the time. Cody? Astor? You re going to be late! She refilled my coffee cup and hustled off down the hall, where I heard her rousting two very unwilling children out of their beds. A minute later Cody and Astor thumped into their chairs at the table, and Rita pushed plates in front of them. Cody mechanically began to eat right away, but Astor slumped on her elbow and stared at the eggs with disgust.

They re all runny, she said. I want cereal.

All part of the morning ritual: Astor never wanted anything Rita gave her to eat. And I found it oddly comforting that I knew what would happen next, as Rita and the kids followed the every-morning script and I waited for the cold pills to kick in and return to me the power of independent thought. Until then, no need to worry; I didn t have to do anything but follow the pattern.

The pattern held true when I got to work. the same officer sat at the desk and nodded at my credentials; the same people crowded into the elevator as I rode to the second floor. And waiting for me in the coffeepot was apparently the same vile bilge that had been there since the dawn of time. All very comforting, and out of gratitude I actually tried to drink the coffee, making the same horrified face as I sipped. Ah, the consolation of dull routine.

But as I turned away from the coffee machine into what should have been empty space, I found an object in my path, so very close to me that I had to lurch to a stop which naturally caused the venomous brew in my cup to slop all over the front of my shirt.

Oh, shit, said the object, and I looked up from the scalding ruin of my shirtfront. Standing before me was Camilla Figg, one of my coworkers in Forensics. She was thirtyish and square, kind of drab and usually quiet, and at the moment she was blushing furiously, as she often seemed to do when I saw her.

Camilla, I said. I thought I said it quite pleasantly, considering that my shirt was relatively new and because of her it was probably going to dissolve. But if anything, she turned an even darker red.

It s only I m really sorry, she said in a staccato mutter, and she looked to both sides as if seeking a way to escape.

Perfectly all right, I said, although it wasn t. The coffee is probably safer to wear than to drink.

I didn t anyway you know want what, she said, and she raised a hand, either to grab her words back from the air or to brush the coffee off my shirt, but instead she wobbled the hand in front of me, and then ducked her head. Very sorry, she said, and she lurched away down the hall and around the corner.

I blinked after her stupidly; something new had broken the pattern, and I had no idea what it meant or what I should have done. But after pondering for a few pointless seconds, I shrugged it off. I had a cold, so I didn t have to try to make sense of Camilla s bizarre behavior. If I had said or done something wrong, I could say it was just the cold pills. I put the coffee down and went to the restroom to try to save a few scraps of fabric from my shirt.

I scrubbed with cold water for several minutes without really removing the stain. The paper towels kept falling apart, leaving dozens of small wet crumbs of paper all over the shirt without affecting the stain. This coffee was amazing stuff; perhaps it was part paint or fabric dye that would explain the taste. I finally gave up and blotted my shirt dry the best I could. I left the restroom wearing my semi-wet stained shirt and headed for the lab, hoping I might get some sartorial sympathy from Vince Masuoka. He was generally quite passionate and knowledgeable about clothing. But instead of receiving condolences and advice on stain removal, I walked into a room absolutely overflowing with my sister, Deborah, who was following Vince around and apparently hectoring him about something as he tried to work on the contents of a small evidence bag.

Leaning on the wall in one corner was a man I didn t know, about thirty-five, with dark hair and a medium build. No one offered to introduce him, and he was not pointing a weapon of any kind, so I just walked past him and into the lab.

Debs looked up at me and gave me the kind of warm and loving greeting I have come to expect from her. Where the fuck have you been? she said.

Ballroom dancing lessons, I said. We re doing the tango this week; would you like to see?

She made a sour face and shook her head. Get in here and take over from this moron, she said.

Great, now I m a moron, Vince grumbled, and nodded at me. You see how smart you are with Simone Legree halfway up your ass.

If it s only halfway up, I can see why you re upset, I said. Can I assume that there s been some development in the Marty Klein case? I asked Debs politely.

That s what I m trying to find out, Deborah said. But if ass-wipe can t get his ass in gear, we ll never know.

It occurred to me that Debs and Vince both seemed to be dwelling on ass this morning, which is not really the way I prefer to start my day. But we all need to show tolerance in the workplace, so I let it slide. What have you got? I said.

It s just a fucking wrapping paper, Vince said. From the floor of Klein s car.

It s from some kind of food, the stranger in the corner said.

I looked at the man, and then back at Deborah with a raised eyebrow. She shrugged.

My new partner, she said. Alex Duarte.

Oh, I said to the man. Mucho gusto.

Duarte shrugged. Yeah, right, he said.

What kind of food? I asked.

Deborah ground her teeth. That s what I m trying to find out, she said. If we know where he ate before he died, we got a good chance to stake it out and maybe find this guy.

I stepped over to where Vince was poking at a wad of greasy white waxed paper in an evidence bag. All that grease, he said. There s gotta be a fingerprint. I just wanted to look for it first. Standard procedure.

Asshole, we already got Klein s fingerprints, Deborah said. I want the killer.

I looked at the congealed grease through the plastic of the evidence bag. It had a reddish brown tinge to it, and although I don t usually hang on to food wrappers long enough to be certain, it looked familiar. I leaned over and opened the bag, sniffing carefully. The cold pills had finally dried my nose, and the smell was strong and unmistakable. Taco, I said.

Gesundheit, said Vince.

You re sure? Deborah demanded. That s a taco wrapper?

Absolutely, I said. Can t miss the smell of the spices. I held up the bag and pointed out a tiny yellow crumb on one corner of the waxed paper. And right there, that has to be a piece of the taco shell.

Tacos, my God, said Vince with horror. What have we come to?

What, Duarte said. Like from Taco Bell?

That would have a logo on the wrapper, wouldn t it? I said. Anyway, I think their wrappers are yellow. This is probably from a smaller place, maybe one of those lunch wagons.