Jeff Lindsay - Double Dexter

Today at two thirty, Rita said, and she leaned down and kissed me again. The address is on the refrigerator, on the blue Post-it. She straightened up and said, Don t forget, and then she vanished into the living room calling for Astor. Their voices rose together into a complicated and pointless squabble about the dress code, which didn t apply because it was summer, and anyway the skirt wasn t that short, so why should she have to wear shorts under it, and after only a few minutes of hysteria the front door slammed three more times and a sudden quiet descended. I sighed with relief, and I believe I could almost feel the whole house do the same.

And even though I do not like having someone else manipulate my schedule, and I don t like dealing with lawyers even more, I got up and took the blue Post-it from the fridge. It said, Fleischman, 2:30, and below that was an address on Brickell Avenue. That didn t tell me much about how good a lawyer he might be, but at least the address meant he would be expensive, which really ought to be some consolation. It wouldn t hurt to go see him and find out if he could help me out of my trouble with Hood and Doakes. It was time for me to think about getting the full weight of the law off my back especially since my other problem was one quick phone call away from being solved.

So I tucked the Post-it into my pocket and went to get my phone, and as I punched in Brian s number it occurred to me that this was not the sort of lighthearted chitchat that was truly appropriate for a cell phone. I had heard enough taped conversations to know better. Even the standard evasions, like, Did you see the guy with the thing about the stuff? sounded highly suspicious when played back to a jury. Cell phones are wonderful devices, but they are not actually a secure form of communication, and if Doakes was going to all the trouble of tailing me, he might very well have access, legal or not, to anything I said on the phone. And so, thinking that

Better safe than sorry was an excellent motto for the day, I arranged to meet Brian for lunch at Caf Relampago, my favorite Cuban restaurant.

I spent the morning puttering around the house and tidying up things that were really at least half-tidy already, but it was better than sitting on the couch again and trying to convince myself that watching daytime TV was better for me than slamming my head against a brick wall. I unpacked my gym bag and put everything away with loving care. Soon, I told my toys.

At twelve thirty I locked up the house and got into my car. As I nosed it into the street, Sergeant Doakes pulled out behind me and followed along; all the way across the city on the Palmetto Expressway he stayed right behind me, and when I got off by the airport and wound my way to the strip mall that held Caf Relampago, he was still on my tail. I parked in front of the caf and Doakes parked a few spots to my left, between me and the parking lot s only exit. Happily for me, he did not follow me inside. He simply sat in his car, motor idling, staring at me through the windshield. So I gave him a cheery wave and went in to meet my brother.

Brian was sitting in a booth at the back, facing the door, and he raised his hand in greeting when I came in. I slid onto the seat facing him. Thank you for meeting me, I said.

He raised his eyebrows in pretend surprise. Of course, he said. What s family for?

I m still not sure, I said. But I do have a suggestion.

Do tell, he said.

But before I could, in fact, tell him, the waitress rushed over and slapped two plastic menus onto the table in front of us. The Morgan family had been coming to Caf Relampago my whole life, and this waitress, Rose, had served us hundreds of times. But there was no flicker of recognition in her face as she dropped the menus in front of me and, as Brian opened his mouth to speak to her, hurried away again.

Charming woman, Brian said, watching Rose disappear back into the kitchen.

You haven t seen anything yet, I told him. Wait till you see how she puts a plate on the table.

I can hardly wait, he said.

I could have made small talk, or told Brian the secret Morgan family technique for getting Rose to bring the bill in under five minutes, but I felt events pressing in on me, so I cut right to the chase. I need a little favor, I said.

Brian raised his eyebrows. Of course, I grew up in foster care, he said, and he began to play with a sugar packet on the tabletop. But in my experience, when a family member asks for a little favor, that always means it s huge, and probably painful. He flipped the sugar from one hand to the other.

I hope it will be very painful, I said. But not for you.

He stopped flipping the sugar packet and looked up at me with a faint gleam of something dark stirring at the back of his eyes.

Tell me, he said.

I told him. I stumbled through a rather clumsy explanation of how Crowley had seen me at play. I m not sure why I felt so awkward telling it. It is true that I never really like to talk about Those Things; but beyond that, I think I was embarrassed to admit to my brother that I had been so childishly careless and allowed myself to be seen. I felt my cheeks get hot, and I had trouble meeting his eyes, which had locked onto me as I began to talk, and stayed locked on me until I faltered to a finish.

Brian did not say anything at first, and I thought about reaching over and grabbing a sugar packet of my own to play with. In the silence, Rose appeared suddenly and slammed two glasses of water in front of us, scooped up the menus, and vanished again before either of us could speak.

Very interesting, Brian said at last.

I glanced at him; he was still looking at me, and the faint shadow was still there in his eyes. Do you mean the waitress? I asked.

He showed me his teeth. I do not, he said.

Although her performance has certainly been diverting so far. He finally looked away from me, glancing over his shoulder at the kitchen door, where Rose had disappeared. So you find yourself with this little problem, he said. And naturally you come to your brother for help?

Um, yes

He picked up the sugar packet again and frowned at it. Why me?

I stared at Brian, wondering if I had heard him wrong. Well, I said, I don t really know too many people who can do this kind of thing.

Uh-huh, he said, still frowning at the sugar, as if he was trying to read the tiny print on the packet.

And like I said, I m being watched, I said. Sergeant Doakes is out in the parking lot right now.

Yes, I see, he said, although he wasn t actually seeing anything but the sugar packet in his hands.

And you re my brother? I added hopefully, wondering why he had suddenly gone all vague. I mean, the whole family thing?

Yeeeesss Brian said doubtfully.

And, ah that s really all of it? An inconsequential favor from your favorite family member? A small gift-wrapped project for big brother, Brian, because little Dexie is in time-out?

I had no idea why Brian was acting so strangely, and I really was counting on his help, but he was getting more annoying with each syllable and I d had enough. Brian, for God s sake, I said. I need your help. Why are you being so weird?

He dropped the sugar packet onto the table, and the small sound it made seemed much louder than it really was. Forgive me, brother, he said, and he looked up at me at last. As I said, I grew up in foster care. It s given me a rather nasty, suspicious turn of mind. He showed me his teeth again.

I m sure you have no ulterior motives at all here.

Like what? I said, genuinely puzzled.

Oh, I don t know, he said. I can t help thinking that it might be some kind of setup?

What?

Or that you might want to use me as a kind of cat s paw, just to see what happens?

Brian, I said.