Free Dexter's Final Cut by Jeff Lindsay Page B

idea that he was the kind of guy who flew to Mexico for the weekend and it was no biggie. And because I really was starting to dislike him a lot, I decided not to let him.
    “Wow,” I said. “That must be expensive. Airline tickets on a whim—and
you
would have to fly first-class, wouldn’t you? I mean, just so nobody would bother you. So that’s probably, what. A couple of thousand dollars? And then a
private
resort? I’ve never even heard of such a thing. That can’t be cheap, either.”
    He looked away again, and to my great delight he began to blush under his perfect tan. He cleared his throat and looked very uncomfortable. “That’s … that’s … you know,” he said. “The, uh, frequent-flier miles …” He waved his hand in a kind of spastic dismissal, unfortunately forgetting that he was still holding my coffee mug. A glob of coffee spattered onto my desk, and he gaped at it with his mouth hanging open a half inch or so. “Oh, shit,” he said. “I’m sorry.” He lurched up out of the chair and plunged past me through the door. “I’ll get some paper towels,” he said over his shoulder.
    I watched him go for a second, marveling that such a truly awkward performance came so easily to such an apparently perfect man. It was so odd that for a moment I thought it had to be deliberate—perhaps a way to change the subject? Could he really be that uncomfortable talking about his affluent ways? Or was he hiding something even more nefarious than wealth?
    But of course that was absurd. I was just being my normal, nasty, and suspicious self, seeing wickedness lurking in every shadow—even when there wasn’t actually a shadow. I pushed the thought away and stepped over to my desk to see whether any real damage had been done. The coffee had spilled right in the center of the blotter, which was lucky. One small tendril had splatted onto a file folder on the right-hand side, but only enough to leave a small stain on the outside, and not enough to soak through to the papers inside.
    Robert hustled back clutching a fistful of paper towels, and I stepped away to let him blot up his mess, which he did with a jerky frenzy, the whole time muttering, “Sorry. Damn. I’m sorry.” It was a pathetic performance, almost enough to make me feel sorry for him. But of course, feeling sorry is not something I can actually do, andeven if I could, I wouldn’t waste it on Robert. So I just stood and watched him, and for the most part I managed not to smirk.
    Robert had most of the spill wiped up when the phone on my desk rang. I reached past him and picked up the receiver. “Morgan,” I said.
    “I need you in my office,” said a familiar voice that was grumpy but authoritative. “Bring the case file.”
    “What case file?” I said.
    “The girl in the
Dumpster
,” Deborah hissed at me. “Jesus, Dexter.” She hung up, and I stared at the phone for a moment, wondering what my sister was up to. This was not her case—Anderson had the lead, and Deborah was theoretically not involved in it at all, except as an observer, a guide assigned to take Jackie Forrest through the maze of her first real homicide case. Perhaps she was going to show Jackie what the forensic file looked like. That probably meant that Jackie was there with her now, and at that thought a small sparkle of anticipation lurched up inside me, until I remembered I was angry with her for making me think of her so often and so pleasantly. But I couldn’t ignore Deborah’s summons without risking one of her blistering arm punches, so I would just have to take the chance of being assailed by more of the dreadful human feelings of delight caused by exposure to Jackie.
    I hung up the phone. Robert had finished his cleanup and stood behind the desk with the wad of coffee-soaked paper towels in his hand. “What’s up?” he said.
    I pulled the coffee-stained blotter off my desk and dumped it into the trash can. “We have been summoned,” I said.