suffering their occupational depression, and it’s not my career. For a dead friend, like Naomi, if she had died that way, I might feel compelled to dig. I don’t know why Steve Gomez shot himself, and I don’t know if anyone else shot him. He had friends, and I wasn’t one of them. I didn’t dislike him, or anything like that. I simply didn’t know him well. If I ever drank a beer with him, it was only because he and I were in a bar at the same time. We never met to have a few. He wasn’t a tight part of my life. He was mayor of a place where I pay taxes.”
She stood and tightened the towel around her, as if now not wishing to have me see any part of her unclothed. “I was afraid you’d say that.”
So much for coffee every morning.
“Look,” I said, “just because I’m not into it doesn’t mean I won’t help. If you’ve got a hunch, turn yourself into a steel trap. Keep your eyes open and notice everything. Remember it all, but don’t write it down at work. If you want help, okay. But I’m going to be your admin assistant, not your deputy.”
Teresa didn’t loosen her grip on the towel, but her mouth twitched. “If I need help, you’re going to be in Grand Cayman. Thanks for the offer. And have a nice trip.”
She went to work, I finished the coffee, and I wondered why I had blown off her suspicions. A week earlier I would have taken them as gospel. I would have marched to Dex Hayes, embellished her argument with a theory or two of my own, and pitched evidence no matter how circumstantial. To advance my bullheaded cause, I would have challenged Dexter’s abilities as a detective and a human being. I hadn’t done any of that.
Instead, I had found fault with Teresa’s behavior of the past fifteen hours. I had ignored the stresses of her past few days. She had vacated her condo, stored her furniture, moved her belongings to my house, and dealt with a media crush because of Steve Gomez’s position in the community. She had capped it by doing a poor job of juggling her gentleman friends. A charitable person would anticipate and forgive her neurotic impulses and views.
An objective and selfish person would ignore her.
The half gallon of straight caffeine failed me. I reclined on my bed to think out my day ahead, fell asleep, and was wakened by pounding rain. Thousands of ball peen hammers pounded my tin roof while someone slapped the yard with flat rubber paddles. There was no lightning, no thunder. Only percussion. I leaned off the mattress to look out the bedroom door. Slivers of sun shone through the living room blinds. I threw off my sheet, went to the main room, watched pouring rain form puddles and reflect sunlight. When it stopped, the humidity would skyrocket, and the air would weigh more than wet towels. Unwaxed cars and corroded tin shingles would look fresher. It would be a three-T-shirt day.
In that short nap, dreams had bounced in my head. I had been in Naomi Douglas’s bedroom only once, to help hang a framed watercolor above her headboard. I had hoped several times that she had shown me the room as a subtle invitation. I’d never acted on those hopes. In my dream a woman’s body lay in repose, in that room. Her face had been Julia Balbuena’s, a former lover who’d been murdered up the Keys two years ago. In the dream her face had been blue, as it had been when I had arrived to take photos for the sheriff at Bahia Honda. Unsuspecting and unwarned, I had recognized her corpse, had identified her to the deputies.
Not a nightmare, but the beginning of one.
I fled to my backyard shower where I searched for tokens, figments of reality. I noted the beginnings of a wasp’s nest. One more thrill for my new roomie. I found her pastel-handled shaver hung on a teak peg. I would have to inform Teresa that a razor left outside in Key West would grow hair of its own, would rust in minutes to a glistening copper-hued wedge of iron oxide. It was time for WD-40 on the door hinges. Time to
She stood and tightened the towel around her, as if now not wishing to have me see any part of her unclothed. “I was afraid you’d say that.”
So much for coffee every morning.
“Look,” I said, “just because I’m not into it doesn’t mean I won’t help. If you’ve got a hunch, turn yourself into a steel trap. Keep your eyes open and notice everything. Remember it all, but don’t write it down at work. If you want help, okay. But I’m going to be your admin assistant, not your deputy.”
Teresa didn’t loosen her grip on the towel, but her mouth twitched. “If I need help, you’re going to be in Grand Cayman. Thanks for the offer. And have a nice trip.”
She went to work, I finished the coffee, and I wondered why I had blown off her suspicions. A week earlier I would have taken them as gospel. I would have marched to Dex Hayes, embellished her argument with a theory or two of my own, and pitched evidence no matter how circumstantial. To advance my bullheaded cause, I would have challenged Dexter’s abilities as a detective and a human being. I hadn’t done any of that.
Instead, I had found fault with Teresa’s behavior of the past fifteen hours. I had ignored the stresses of her past few days. She had vacated her condo, stored her furniture, moved her belongings to my house, and dealt with a media crush because of Steve Gomez’s position in the community. She had capped it by doing a poor job of juggling her gentleman friends. A charitable person would anticipate and forgive her neurotic impulses and views.
An objective and selfish person would ignore her.
The half gallon of straight caffeine failed me. I reclined on my bed to think out my day ahead, fell asleep, and was wakened by pounding rain. Thousands of ball peen hammers pounded my tin roof while someone slapped the yard with flat rubber paddles. There was no lightning, no thunder. Only percussion. I leaned off the mattress to look out the bedroom door. Slivers of sun shone through the living room blinds. I threw off my sheet, went to the main room, watched pouring rain form puddles and reflect sunlight. When it stopped, the humidity would skyrocket, and the air would weigh more than wet towels. Unwaxed cars and corroded tin shingles would look fresher. It would be a three-T-shirt day.
In that short nap, dreams had bounced in my head. I had been in Naomi Douglas’s bedroom only once, to help hang a framed watercolor above her headboard. I had hoped several times that she had shown me the room as a subtle invitation. I’d never acted on those hopes. In my dream a woman’s body lay in repose, in that room. Her face had been Julia Balbuena’s, a former lover who’d been murdered up the Keys two years ago. In the dream her face had been blue, as it had been when I had arrived to take photos for the sheriff at Bahia Honda. Unsuspecting and unwarned, I had recognized her corpse, had identified her to the deputies.
Not a nightmare, but the beginning of one.
I fled to my backyard shower where I searched for tokens, figments of reality. I noted the beginnings of a wasp’s nest. One more thrill for my new roomie. I found her pastel-handled shaver hung on a teak peg. I would have to inform Teresa that a razor left outside in Key West would grow hair of its own, would rust in minutes to a glistening copper-hued wedge of iron oxide. It was time for WD-40 on the door hinges. Time to
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