Jeff Lindsay - Dexter is delicious

Deborah was already in the car with the motor running by the time I caught up with her. "Come on," she called out the window. "Get in."

I climbed in beside her and she had the car in gear before I got the door closed. "You know," I said, fastening my seat belt, "we could leave Acosta for last. It could just as easily be one of the others."

"Tyler Spanos goes to Ransom Everglades," she said. "So she hangs with the upper crust. The fucking Acostas are the upper crust. It's him."

It was hard to fault her logic, so I said nothing; I just settled in and let her drive too fast through the midmorning traffic.

We drove over the MacArthur Causeway and let it take us onto the 836 all the way to LeJeune, where we went left into Coral Gables. Acosta's house was in a section of the Gables that would have been a walled community if it was built today. The houses were large, and many of them, like Acosta's, were built in the Spanish style out of large blocks of coral rock. The lawn looked like a putting green and there was a two-story garage on the side, attached to the house by a breezeway.

Deborah parked in front of the house and paused for a moment after turning off the engine. I watched her take a deep breath, and I wondered if she was still going through the same strange molecular meltdown that had lately made her seem so soft and emotional. "Are you sure you want to do this?" I asked her. She glanced at me, and she did not really look like the fierce and focused Deborah I knew so well. "I mean, you know," I said. "Acosta could make your life pretty miserable. He's a commissioner."

She snapped back into focus like she'd been slapped and I saw the familiar sight of her jaw muscles working. "I don't care if he's Jesus," she snarled, and it was very good to see the old venom return. She got out of the car and began to stride up the sidewalk to the front door. I got out and followed, catching up to her just as she pushed the doorbell. There was no response, and she shifted her weight impatiently from foot to foot. Just as she reached a hand up to ring a second time, the door swung open, and a short, square woman in a maid's uniform peered out at us.

"Yes?" the maid said in a thick Central American accent.

"Is Robert Acosta here, please," Deborah said.

The maid licked her lips, and her eyes darted from side to side for a moment. Then she shivered and shook her head. "Why you wan' Bobby?" she said.

Deborah held up her badge and the maid sucked in her breath loudly. "I need to ask him some questions," Debs said. "Is he here?"

The maid swallowed hard, but said nothing.

"I just need to talk to him," Debs said. "It's very important."

The maid swallowed again, and glanced past us out the door. Deborah turned and looked, too. "The garage?" she said, turning back to the maid. "He's in the garage?"

At last, the maid nodded. "El garaje," she said, softly and very fast, as if she was afraid she would be heard. "Bobby vive en el piso segundo."

Deborah looked at me. "In the garage. He lives on the second floor," I translated. For some reason, in spite of being born and bred in Miami, Debs had chosen to study French in school.

"Is he here right now?" Deborah asked the maid.

She nodded her head jerkily. "Creo que si," she said. She licked her lips again and then, with a sort of spasmodic lurch, she pushed the door closed, not quite slamming it.

Deborah looked at the shut door for a moment, then shook her head. "What was she so scared of?" she said.

"Deportation?" I said.

She snorted. "Joe Acosta wouldn't hire an illegal. Not when he can get a green card for anybody he wants to."

"Maybe she's afraid to lose her job," I said.

Deborah turned and looked at the garage. "Uh-huh," she said. "And maybe she's afraid of Bobby Acosta."

"Well," I said, but Deborah jerked into motion and headed around the corner of the house before I could say any more. I caught up with her as she got to the driveway. "She's going to tell Bobby we're here," I said.

Deborah shrugged. "It's her job," she said. She came to a halt in front of the double-size garage door. "There's got to be another door, maybe some stairs," she said.

"Around the side?" I offered, and I took two steps farther toward the left side when I heard a rumbling sound and then the garage door began to roll up. I turned back around and watched. I could hear a muted purring coming from inside and it got louder as the door opened wider, and when it was up far enough to see into the garage, I saw that the sound came from a motorcycle. A thin guy of twenty or so sat on the bike, letting it idle and looking out at us.

"Robert Acosta?" Deborah called to him. She took a step forward and reached to grab her badge to show him.

"Fucking cops," he said. He revved the engine once, and then kicked it into gear, very deliberately aiming the bike right at Deborah. The motorcycle leaped forward, straight at Deborah, and she barely managed to dive to one side. Then the bike was into the street and accelerating away into the distance, and by the time Deborah got back onto her feet, it was gone.

In the course of my work with the miami-dade police Department, I had heard the phrase "shit-storm" used on more than one occasion. But in all honesty, I would have to say that I had never truly seen the actual meteorological event until after Debs called in a BOLO for the only son of a powerful county commissioner. Within five minutes we had three squad cars and a TV news van pulled up in front of the house next to Debs's car, and at the six-minute mark Debs was on the phone with Captain Matthews. I heard her say, "Yes, sir. Yes, sir. No, sir," and not much else in the course of a two-minute conversation, and by the time she put the phone away her jaw was locked shut so tight I didn't think she could ever again eat solid food.

"Shit," she said through her tightly clenched teeth. "Matthews pulled my BOLO."

"We knew this was coming," I said.

Debs nodded. "It's here," she said, and then, looking past me to the road, she added, "Aw, shit."

I turned and followed her gaze. Deke was climbing out of his car, hitching up his pants, and giving a big smile to the woman who stood in front of the news van brushing her hair and setting up a shot. She actually stopped brushing for a moment and gaped back at him, and he nodded to her and sauntered toward us. She watched him go for a moment, licked her lips, and went back to her hair with renewed vigor.

"Technically, he is your partner," I said.

"Technically he's a brain-dead asshole," she said.

"Hey," Deke said as he strolled up to us. "Captain says I should keep an eye on you, make sure you don't fuck nothing else up."

"How the hell are you going to know if I fuck up?" Debs snarled at him.

"Oh, hey, you know," he said, shrugging. He looked back at the TV newswoman. "I mean, just don't talk to the press or something, right?" He winked at Deborah. "Anyway, I got to stay with you now," he said. "Keep this thing on track."

For a moment I thought she would let loose a blast of seven separate killing remarks that would drop Deke where he stood and singe the Acostas' manicured lawn, but Debs had clearly received the same message from the captain, and she was a good soldier. Discipline won out and she just looked at Deke for a long moment and finally said, "All right. Let's check the other names on this list," and walked meekly to her car.

Deke pulled up his pants again and watched her go. "Well, all right," he said, and followed her. The TV newswoman watched him go with a somewhat distracted expression, until her producer almost smacked her with a microphone.

I got a ride back to headquarters with one of the squad cars, driven by a cop named Willoughby who seemed obsessed with the Miami Heat. I learned a great deal about point guards and something called the pick and roll by the time I got out of the car. I am sure it was wonderfully useful information, and someday it will come in handy, but I was nevertheless very grateful to climb out into the afternoon heat and trudge back to my little cubicle.