Deborah was already backing out her car by the time I came out of Relampago’s. I hurried over and lunged for the door. She was moving forward and out of the parking lot before I even got both feet in. Really, Deb, I said. I almost lost a shoe. What’s so important?

Deborah frowned, accelerating through a small gap in traffic that only a Miami driver would have attempted. I don’t know, she said as she turned on the siren.

I blinked and raised my voice over the noise. Didn’t the dispatcher tell you?

Have you ever heard the dispatcher stutter, Dexter?

Why no, Deb, I haven’t. Did this one do that?

Deb swerved around a school bus and roared up onto 836. Yeah, she said. She turned hard to avoid a BMW full of young men, who all flipped her off. I think it’s a homicide.

You think, I said.

Yeah, she answered, and then she concentrated on driving and I let her. High speeds always remind me of my own mortality, especially on Miami’s roads. And as for the Case of the Stuttering Dispatcher—well, Sergeant Nancy Drew and I would find out soon enough, particularly at this speed, and a little excitement is always welcome.

In a very few minutes Deb managed to get us over near the Orange Bowl without causing major loss of life, and we came down onto the surface roads and made a few quick turns before sliding into the curb at a small house on N.W. 4th Street. The street was lined with similar houses, all small and close together and each one with its own wall or chain-link fence. Many of them were brightly colored and had paved yards.

Two patrol cars had already pulled up in front of the house, their lights flashing. A pair of uniformed cops were rolling out the yellow crime-scene tape around the place, and as we got out, I saw a third cop sitting in the front seat of one of the cars, his head in his hands. On the porch of the house a fourth cop stood beside an elderly lady. There were two small steps leading up to the porch and she sat on the top one. She seemed to be alternating weeping with throwing up. Somewhere nearby a dog was howling, the same note over and over.

Deborah marched up to the nearest uniform. He was a square, middle-aged guy with dark hair and a look on his face that said he wished he was sitting in his car with his head in his hands, too. What have we got? Deb asked him, holding up her badge.