“I tried to explain it to her,” Deborah said in a very small, very tired voice that gave me a terrible feeling of sinking under the waves without a bailing bucket. “I gave her the whole thing. I was even polite.”

“That's very good,” I said. “What did she say?” “Nothing,” Deb said. “Nothing at all?” “Nothing at all,” Deb repeated. “Except she just says thanks, in a kind of way like you'd say it to the valet parking attendant. And she gives me this funny little smile and turns away.” “Well, but Deb,” I said, “you can't really expect her to—” “And then I found out why she smiled like that,” Deb said. “Like I'm some kind of unwashed half-wit and she's finally figured out where to lock me up.” “Oh, no,” I said. “You mean you're off the case?” “We're all off the case, Dexter,” Deb said, her voice as tired as I felt. “LaGuerta's made an arrest.” There was far too much silence on the line all of a sudden and I couldn't think at all, but at least I was wide awake. “What?” I said. “LaGuerta has arrested somebody. Some guy who works at the arena. She has him in custody and she's sure he's the killer.” “That's not possible,” I said, although I knew it was possible, the brain-dead bitch. LaGuerta, not Deb. “I know that, Dexter. But don't try to tell LaGuerta. She's sure she got the right guy.” “How sure?” I asked. My head was spinning and I felt a little bit like throwing up. I couldn't really say why. Deb snorted. “She has a press conference in one hour,” she said. “For her, that's positive.”

The pounding in my head got too loud to hear what Deb might have said next. LaGuerta had made an arrest? Who? Who could she possibly have tagged for it? Could she truly ignore all the clues, the smell and feel and taste of these kills, and arrest somebody? Because nobody who could do what this killer had done—was doing!—could possibly allow a pimple like LaGuerta to catch him. Never. I would bet my life on it.

“No, Deborah,” I said. “No. Not possible. She's got the wrong guy.” Deborah laughed, a tired, dirty-up-to-here cop's laugh. “Yeah,” she said. “I know it. You know it. But she doesn't know it. And you want to know something funny? Neither does he.”

That made no sense at all. “What are you saying, Deb? Who doesn't know?” She repeated that awful little laugh. “The guy she arrested. I guess he must be almost as confused as LaGuerta, Dex. Because he confessed.”

“What?” “He confessed, Dexter. The bastard confessed.”CHAPTER 12