Dexter 4 - Dexter by Design by Jeff Lindsay Read Free Book Online Page A

cocked her head for a moment, but then got it: front closed until October. “Okay,” she said. “So you get here, you go around to the back door, and you see the body?” Arabelle covered her face again, just for a moment. She looked at me and I nodded, so she dropped her hands. “Yes.”
    “Did you notice anything else, anything unusual?” Debs asked, and Arabelle looked at her blankly. “Did you see something that shouldn't be there?”
    “El cuerpo,” Arabelle said indignantly, pointing at the corpse. “He no shood be there.”
    “And did you see anybody else at all?” Arabelle shook her head. “Nobody. Me only”
    “How about nearby?” Arabelle looked blank, and Deborah pointed. “Over there? On the sidewalk? Anybody at all over there?” Arabelle shrugged. “Turistas. Weeth cameras.” She frowned and lowered her voice, speaking confidentially to me. “Creo que muy probablemente eran maricones,” she said, shrugging.
    I nodded. “Gay tourists,” I said to Deborah.
    Deborah glared at her, then turned it on me, as if she could scare one of us into thinking up another really good question. But even my legendary wit had run dry, and I shrugged. “I don't know,” I said.
    “She probably can't tell you any more than that.”
    “Ask her where she lives,” Deborah said, and an expression of alarm flitted across Arabelle's face.
    I don't think she'll tell you,” I said.
    “Why the fuck not?” Deborah demanded.
    “She's afraid you'll tell la Migra,” I said, and Arabelle visibly jumped when I said it. “Immigration.” I know what the fuck la Migra means,” Deborah snapped. “I live here, too, remember?”
    “Yes,” I said. “But you refused to learn Spanish.”
    “Then ask her to tell you,” Deborah said.
    I shrugged and turned to Arabelle. “Necesito su direccion,” I said.
    “Por que?” she said rather shyly.
    “Vamos a bailor,” I said. We'll go dancing.
    She giggled. “Estoy casada,” she said. I'm married.
    “Por favor?” I said, with my very best one hundred watt smile, and I added, “Nunca para la Migra, de verdad.” Arabelle smiled, leaned forward, and whispered an address in my ear. I nodded; it was in an area flooded with Central American immigrants, several of them here legally. It made perfect sense for her to live there, and I was certain she was telling me the truth. “Gracias,” I said, and as I started to pull away, she grabbed my arm again.
    “Nunca para la Migra?” she asked.
    “Never,” I agreed. “Solamente para pillar este asesino.” Only to catch this killer.
    She nodded as if that made sense, that I needed her address to find the killer, and gave me her shy smile again. “Gracias,” she said. “Te creo.” I believe you. Her faith in me was really quite touching, especially considering there was no reason for it, beyond the fact that I had given her a completely phony smile. It made me wonder if a career change was in order —perhaps I should sell cars, or even run for president.
    “All right,” Deborah said. “She can go home.” I nodded at Arabelle. “Vaya a casa,” I said.
    “Gracias,” she said again. And she smiled hugely and then turned and almost ran for the street.
    “Shit,” Deborah said. “Shit shit shit.” I looked at her with raised eyebrows, and she shook her head.
    She seemed deflated, the anger and tension drained out of her. I know it's stupid,” she said. I just hoped she might have seen something. I mean ...” She shrugged and turned away, looking in the direction of the body in the doorway. “We'll never find the gay tourists, either. Not in South Beach,” she said.
    “They can't have seen anything anyway,” I said.
    “In broad daylight. And nobody saw anything?”
    “People see what they expect to see,” I said. “He probably used a delivery van, and that would make him invisible.”
    “Well, shit,” she said again, and it didn't seem like a good time to criticize her for such a limited vocabulary. She