Double Dexter (30 page)

“Come on,” I said. “Let’s take this into the kitchen.”

“I’m not going to—” she started to say, and I raised my voice over hers.

“Away from the kids,” I said. She glanced at them guiltily, and then followed along as I led her through the living room and into the kitchen. “All right,” I said, pulling out my chair and sitting at the familiar table. “Using words that are simple, clear, and not outlawed in Kentucky, will you please tell me what the hell you’re talking about?”

Rita stood on the far side of the table and glared down at me with an unchanging look of righteous fury on her face and her arms crossed. “You are so fucking smooth,” she said through her teeth. “Even now, I almost believe you. Bastard.”

I actually
am
smooth, in fact; Dexter is almost
all
smooth, icy control, and it has always served him well to be just that way. But right now I could feel the cool and the smooth melting away into a warm pudding of frustration, and I closed my eyes and took a deep breath in an effort to get things back to a more comfortable temperature. “Rita,” I said, opening my eyes and giving her a very authentic look of patient long suffering. “Let’s pretend for just a minute that I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”

“You bastard, don’t you try—”

I held up a hand. “You don’t need to remind me that I’m a bastard; I remember that part,” I said. “It’s the other part I’m having trouble with
—why
I’m a bastard. Okay?”

She glared a little more, and I heard her toe tapping the floor, and then she uncrossed her arms and took a deep breath. “All right,” she said. “I’ll play your little game, you son of a bitch.” She pointed at me, and if her finger had been loaded I would have died right then and there. “You had an affair with that bitch from work—a
detective
called me!” she said, as if a
detective
calling her proved everything beyond a doubt. “And he said did I know anything about her and the
affair
you had and were there any more
pictures!
And then it was on the news that she’s
dead
, and Jesus Christ, Dexter, did you
kill
her, too, so I wouldn’t find out?”

I am pretty sure that some level of my brain was still working, because apparently it reminded me to breathe. But all the higher mental functions seemed to be completely shut down; little fragments of thought scuttled past but none of them seemed able to pull themselves together into anything I could actually think or say. I felt another breath come in and then go out and I was dimly aware that a certain amount of time had passed and that the silence was getting uncomfortably long—but I really couldn’t bring together enough of the scurrying pieces of thought to make up a real sentence. Slowly, painfully, the wheels turned, and finally single words came back to me—
bastard … kill … detective
—and at last, with that third word, a picture floated up out of the scampering neurons and rose to the top of my swirling nonthoughts—a glowering, knuckleheaded portrait of a human ape with a low brow and a mean smile, and at last I had one entire syllable that made sense. “Hood,” I said. “He called you?”

“I think I have a right to know my husband killed somebody,” Rita said. “And he’s
cheating
on me?” she added, as if killing might be overlooked, but
cheating
was something truly despicable. It was not quite the proper order of our society’s priorities as I had come to understand them, but this was not the time to debate contemporary ethical concepts.

“Rita,” I said, with all the calm authority I could muster. “I barely knew this woman. Camilla.”

“Bullshit,” she said. “Richard said—the detective said there were pictures of you
everywhere
!”

“Yes, and Astor has pictures of the Jonas Brothers,” I said; and I thought it was a pretty good point, but for some reason Rita didn’t agree.

“Astor is eleven years old,” Rita said venomously, as if I was totally vile even to try this argument and she would never let me get away with something that low. “And
she
doesn’t stay out all night with the Jonas Brothers.”

“Camilla and I worked together,” I said, trying to break through the cloud of unreason. “And sometimes we have to work late. In
public
. With lots of cops all around us.”

“And did all of the
cops
have
pictures
of you?” she demanded. “In a binder? On the back of the
toilet
?! Please. Don’t insult my intelligence.”

I very badly wanted to say that I had to find it before I could insult it, but sometimes we have to sacrifice a very good line for the larger purpose at hand, and this was almost certainly one of those times. “Rita,” I said. “Camilla took pictures of me.” I put the palms of my hands up to show that I was man enough to admit an awkward fact. “Lots of them, apparently. Deborah says she had a crush on me. I can’t control any of that.” I sighed and shook my head, to let her see that the full weight of an unjust world lay comfortably on my broad shoulders. “But I have never,
ever
cheated on you. Not with Camilla, not with anyone else.”

I saw a first small flicker of doubt on her face—I really am very good at portraying a real human being, and this time I had the advantage of telling something that was very close to the truth. It was a genuine Method Acting Moment, and Rita could see that I was being sincere.

“Bullshit,” she said, but with less conviction. “All those nights when you just leave the house? With some stupid excuse about work? As if I was supposed to believe …” She shook her head and gathered steam again. “Goddamn it, I
knew
it was something like this. I just
knew
it, because— And now you
killed
her?”

It was a very uncomfortable moment, even more so than when she had first accused me. “All those nights” in question, I actually
had
been up to something: not quite an affair, and certainly nothing involving Camilla—just the quiet pursuit of my hobby, which was relatively innocent, at least in the present context. But I couldn’t tell her that, and of course, there was no proof of this innocence—at least, I hoped not; I mean, I was sure I’d always cleaned up quite thoroughly. Worst of all, though, was realizing that I had just assumed she hadn’t really noticed when I slipped “casually” out of the house, which made me look incredibly stupid, even to me.

But surviving in this life almost always means making the best of bad situations, and if a small moment of creativity is called for, I am usually up to the task—especially since I am not burdened by any compulsion to tell the truth. And so I took a breath and let my giant brain lead me out of the woods. “Rita,” I said. “My work is important to me. I help to catch some really bad people—not even people. They’re
animals
. The kind of
animal
that’s a real threat to all of us—even …” And I paused shamelessly for dramatic effect. “Especially the kids. Even Lily Anne.”

“And so you leave the house at night?” she said. “To do
what
?”

“I, um,” I said, as if I was a little bit embarrassed. “Sometimes I get an idea. About something that, you know. Might help break the case.”

“Oh, come on,” Rita said. “That’s incredibly— I mean, I’m not naive enough, for God’s sake—”

“Rita, damn it, you’re the same way—obsessed with your job,” I said. “You’ve been working nights lately, and … I mean, I thought you understood when I did, too.”

“I don’t slink out of the house at night to go to the office,” she said.

“But you don’t
have
to,” I said, and I felt myself gaining a little bit of momentum. “You can do your work in your head, or on a piece of paper. I need the equipment in the lab.”

“Well, but, I mean,” she said, and I could see the doubt creeping
into her eyes. “I just assumed that— I mean, it makes more sense that, you know.”

“It makes more sense that I would cheat on someone as beautiful as you?” I said. “With somebody as drab and shapeless as Camilla Figg?” I know it isn’t considered proper to speak ill of the dead, and doing so puts you at risk of some kind of divine retribution. But as if to prove that God does not really exist, I bad-mouthed dear dead Camilla and yet no bolt of lightning crashed through the ceiling to turn Dexter into chitlins, and Rita’s expression even softened a bit.

“But that’s not …” she said, and to my great relief she was slipping back into her normal speech pattern of partial sentences. “I mean, Richard said— And you never even, all those late nights.” She blinked and fluttered one hand in the air. “How can it just—with all those pictures?”

“I know it looks bad,” I said, and then I had one of those wonderfully happy inspirations that only a totally empty, wicked, hollow mockery of a person could ever have the gall to actually use—which, of course, made it just perfect for me. “It’s looks bad to Detective Hood—
Richard,
” I said, and gave her a bitter shake of the head to show I had noticed she was on a first-name basis with the enemy. “So bad that I’m in a lot of trouble,” I said. “And to be honest, I thought you were the one person I could count on to stand by me. When I really need somebody in my corner.”

It was a perfect punch, a true body blow, and it took the wind out of her so completely that she collapsed into a chair as if she was an inflatable doll and somebody had just punctured her. “But that’s only …” she said. “I didn’t even— And he
said,
” she said. “I mean, he’s a
detective
.”

“A really
bad
detective,” I said. “He likes to beat up suspects to make them talk. And he doesn’t like me.”

“But if you didn’t do anything …” she said, trying one last time to convince herself that I actually did.

“People have been framed before,” I said wearily. “This is Miami.”

She shook her head slowly. “But he was so
sure—
How could he even …? I mean, if you didn’t.”

There comes a time when repeating your arguments starts to sound like you’re only making excuses. I knew this very well from
the hours of daytime drama I had watched over the years, and I was pretty sure I was at that point now. Luckily, I had seen this exact situation so many times on TV that I knew precisely what to do to. I put both hands on the table, pushed upward, and stood. “Rita,” I said, with truly impressive dignity, “I am your husband, and there has never been anybody else but you. If you can’t believe me now, when I really need you—then I might as well let Detective Hood take me away to jail.” I said it very sincerely, and with such conviction and pathos that it nearly persuaded even me.

It was my last round of ammunition—but it was a bull’s-eye. Rita bit her lip, shook her head, and said, “But all those nights when you— And the
pictures
 … And then she’s
dead
.…” For just a second a last small doubt flickered across her face and I thought I had failed; and then she closed her eyes tightly and bit her lip and I knew I had won. “Oh, Dexter, what if they believe him?” She opened her eyes and a tear rolled out of the corner and down across one cheek, but Rita brushed it away with a finger and pursed her lips. “That
bastard,
” she said, and I realized with great relief that she no longer meant me. “And he’s supposed to— But he can’t just …” And she slapped a hand on the table. “Well, we won’t let him,” she said, and then she stood up and ran around the table and grabbed me. “Oh, Dexter,” she said into my shoulder. “I’m so sorry if I— You must be so …”

She snuffled, and then pushed herself away to arm’s length. “But you have to understand,” she said. “And it wasn’t just— It’s … for a while now. And then lately, you’ve been so … kind of …” She shook her head slowly. “I mean, you know,” she said, but in fact I didn’t know, or even have a guess. “It just all made
sense
, because sometimes it seems lately like … I don’t know— And it isn’t just the house,” she said. “The foreclosures? It’s everything, all of it.” She kept shaking her head, faster now. “So many nights, when you— I mean, that’s how … 
men
act. When they’re doing that— And I have to, with the kids here, and all I can do about it is just …”

She turned half away from me and crossed her arms again, placing the knuckle of one finger between her teeth. She bit down and a tear rolled down her cheek. “Jesus, Dexter, I feel so …”

It may be that I really am becoming more human, slowly but surely, but I had a sudden moment of insight of my own as I watched
Rita hunch her shoulders and drip tears onto the floor. “That’s why you’ve been drinking so much wine,” I said. Her head jerked back around toward me and I could see the muscles of her jaw tighten down even more on her poor helpless finger. “You thought I was sneaking out to have an affair.”

“I couldn’t even …” she said, and then she realized she was still chewing her finger and dropped it from her mouth. “I wanted to just— Because what else can I do? When you are just so— I mean, sometimes …” She took a deep breath and then stepped closer. “I didn’t know what else to do and I felt so … 
helpless
. Which is a feeling I really— And then I thought it was probably
me—
because right after a new baby? And you never seem to …” She shook her head vigorously. “I’ve been such an idiot. Oh, Dexter, I’m so sorry.”

Rita leaned her forehead against my chest and snuffled, and I realized it was my line again. “I’m sorry, too,” I said, and I put an arm around her.

She raised her head and looked deep into my eyes. “I’m an
idiot,
” she said again. “I should have known that— Because it’s you and me, Dexter,” she said. “That’s what matters. I mean, I
thought
so. Until just suddenly, it seemed like …” She straightened suddenly and gripped my upper arms. “And you didn’t sleep with her? Really?”

“Really and truly,” I said, greatly relieved to have a sentence fragment with a complete thought behind it that I could react to at last.

“Oh, my God,” she said, and she put her face down onto my shoulder and made wet noises for a minute or two. And from what I know about people, it’s possible that I should have felt a little guilt about the way I had manipulated Rita so completely. Or even better, maybe I should have turned to the camera to show my true villainy with a leer of wicked satisfaction. But there was no camera, as far as I knew, and I had, after all, manipulated Rita with the truth, for the most part. So I just held on to her and let her soak my shirt with tears, mucus, and who knows what else.