Jeff Lindsay - Dexter by Design

“Like this” I said. “If he can't kill me he'll get me arrested for murder.”

Chutsky studied the picture for a long moment, and then whistled quietly. “Boy howdy” he said. “And these things down here around the bottom ...”

“Dead bodies” I said. “Fixed up like the ones that Deborah was investigating when this man stabbed her.”

“Why would he do this?” he said.

“It's a kind of art” I said. I mean, he thinks it is.”

“Yeah, but why would he do this to you, buddy?”

“The guy that was arrested when Deborah was stabbed” I said. I kicked him hard, right in the head. That was his boyfriend.”

“Was?” said Chutsky. “Where is he now?” I have never really seen the point in self-mutilation —after all, life itself is on the job and doing really well at it. But if I could have taken back that word “was” by biting down hard on my own tongue, I would cheerfully have done so. However, it had been said and I was stuck with it, and so floundering about for a small chunk of my formerly sharp wit I found a little piece of it and came out with, “He skipped bail and disappeared'.

“And this guy blames you because his boyfriend took off?” 1 guess so” I said.

Chutsky looked at me and then looked down at the drawing again. “Listen, buddy” he said. “You know this guy, and I know you gotta go with your gut feeling. It's always worked for me, nine times out of ten. But this is, I don't know.” He shrugged. “Kind of, really thin, don't you think?” He flipped a finger at the picture. “But anyway, you were right about one thing. If he's going to do this, you do need my help. A lot more than you thought.”

“What do you mean?” I asked politely.

Chutsky smacked the drawing with the back of his hand. This hotel” he said. “It isn't the Breakers. It's the Hotel Nacional. In Havana.” And seeing that Dexter's mouth was hanging open in a most unbecoming way he added, “You know, Havana. The one in Cuba.”

“But that's not possible” I said. I mean, I've been there. That's the Breakers.”

He smiled at me, the irritating, superior kind of smile that I would love to try sometime when I'm not in disguise. “You didn't read your history, did you?” he said.

I don't think this chapter was assigned. What are you talking about?”

“Hotel Nacional and the Breakers are built from the same blueprint, to save money” he said. “They're virtually identical.”

“Then why are you so sure this isn't the Breakers?”

“Lookit” Chutsky said. “Look at the old cars. Pure Cuba. And see the little golf cart thing, with the bubble top? That's a Coco Loco, and you only find “em there, not Fort Lauderdale. And the vegetation. That stuff on the left? You don't see that at the Breakers.

Definitely only in Havana.” He dropped the notebook and leaned back. “So actually, I'd say problem solved, buddy.”

“Why would you say that?” I said, irritated both at his attitude and at the lack of any sense in what he said.

Chutsky smiled. “It's just too hard for an American to get over there” he said. I don't think he could pull it off.” A small nickle dropped through the slot and a light went on in Dexter's brain. “He's Canadian” I said.

“All right” he said stubbornly. “So he could go down there.” He shrugged. “But hey —you maybe don't remember that things are sort of tight down there? I mean —there's no way he gets away with anything like this.” He smacked the notebook with the back of his hand again. “Not in Cuba. The cops would be all over him like ...” Chutsky frowned and thoughtfully raised his bright silver hook toward his face. He caught himself just before he put the hook into his eye. “Unless ...” he said.

“What?” I said.

He shook his head slightly. “This guy's pretty smart, right?”

“Well” I said grudgingly, I know he thinks so.”

“So he's gotta know. Which maybe means” Chutsky said, politely refusing to finish a sentence with anything resembling a noun. He fumbled out his phone, one of those larger ones with the bigger screen. Holding it in place on the table with his hook, he began to poke rapidly at the keyboard with a finger, muttering, “Damn ...

okay ... Uh-huh” and other bright observations under his breath.

I could see that he had Google on the screen, but nothing else was legible from across the table. “Bingo” he said at last.

“What?”

He smiled, clearly pleased with how smart he was. “They do all these festivals down there” he said. “To prove how sophisticated and free they are.” He pushed the phone across the table at me. “Like this one” he said.

I pulled the phone to me and read the screen. “Festival Internacional de Artes Multimedia” I said, scrolling down.

“It starts in three days” Chutsky said. “And whatever this guy does —projectors or film clips or whatever —the cops will have orders to back off and let him do his thing. For the festival.”

“And the press will be there” I said. “From all over the world.

Perfect.” And it was —it would provide Weiss with a free pass to set up his awful project, and then deliver all the attention he so desperately craved, all in one gift-wrapped holiday package. Which did not seem like it could possibly be a good thing for me. Especially since he knew that I could not get to Cuba to stop him.

“All right” Chutsky said. “It might make sense. But why are you so sure he will go there?” It was, unfortunately, a fair question. I thought about it. First of all, was I really sure? Casually, not wanting to startle Chutsky in any way, I sent a careful, silent question mark to the Dark Passenger. Are we sure about this? I asked.

Oh, yes, it said with a sharp-toothed smirk. Quite sure.

All right, then. That was settled. Weiss would go to Cuba to expose Dexter. But I needed something a little more convincing than silent certainty; what proof did I really have, aside from the drawings, which were probably not admissible in a court of law? It was true that some of them were very interesting —the image of the woman with the six breasts, for example, was the kind of thing that really stuck in your head.

I remembered that drawing, and this time there was a nearly audible CLANG as a very, very big nickel dropped.

There had been a piece of paper wedged into the binding at the page in question.

It had listed airline flights from Havana to Mexico.

Just exactly the kind of thing you might like to know about if, for example, you thought you would need to leave Havana in a hurry. If, just hypothetically, you had just scattered some unusual dead bodies around in front of the city's flagship five star hotel.

I reached for the notebook, fished out the flight schedule, and flipped the paper onto the table. “He'll be there” I said.

Chutsky picked up the paper and unfolded it. “Cubana Aviacion” he read.

“From Havana to Mexico” I said. “So he can do it and then get out in a hurry.”

“Maybe” he said. “Uh-huh, could be.” He looked up at me and cocked his head to one side. “What's your gut telling you?” Truthfully, the only thing my gut ever told me was that it was dinner time. But it was obviously very important to Chutsky, and if I stretched the definition of “gut” to include the Passenger, my gut was telling me that there was absolutely no doubt about it. “He'll be there,” I said again.

Chutsky frowned and looked down at the drawing again. Then he started nodding his head, slowly at first and then with increasing energy. “Uh-huh,” he said, and then he looked up, flipped the flight schedule to me, and stood up. “Let's go talk to Deborah,” he said.

Deborah was lying in her bed, which should not really have been a surprise. She was staring at the window, even though she couldn't see out from her bed, and in spite of the fact that the television was on and broadcasting scenes of unearthly merriment and happiness. Debs didn't seem interested in the cheerful music and cries of bliss coming from the speaker, however. In fact, if you were to judge strictly from the look on her face, you would have to say she had never felt happiness in her life, and never intended to if she could help it. She glanced at us without interest as we came in, just long enough to identify us, and then looked back in the direction of the window.