“A grudge against the whole fucking state?” she said. “Is that supposed to make sense?”

“Well, not really” I said.

“Then how about if you come up with something that does make sense? And, like, right now? Because I don't see how this could get much worse.”

If life teaches us anything, it is to flinch away and roll under the furniture whenever anyone is foolish enough to utter those fell words. And sure enough, the dreadful syllables were barely out of Deborah's mouth when the phone on her desk buzzed for her attention, and some small and rather nasty voice whispered in my ear that this would be a great time to wedge myself under the desk in the foetal position.

Deborah snatched up the phone, still glaring at me, and then suddenly turned away and hunched over. She muttered a few shocked syllables that sounded like, “When? Jesus. Right” and then she hung up and turned a look on me that made her previous glare seem like the first kiss of springtime. “You motherfucker” she said.

“What did I do?” I said, rather surprised by the cold fury in her voice.

“That's what I want to know” she said.

Even a monster reaches a point where irritation begins to trickle in, and I believe I was very close to that point. “Deborah, either you start speaking complete sentences that actually make sense, or I'm going back to the lab to polish the spectrometer.”

“There's a break in the case” she said.

“Then why aren't we happy?”

“It's at the Tourist Board” she said.

I opened my mouth to say something witty and cutting, and then I closed it again.

“Yeah” Deborah said. “Almost like somebody had a grudge against the whole state.”

“And you think it's me?” I said, beyond irritation now and all the way to open-mouthed astonishment. She just stared at me. “Debs, I think somebody put lead in your coffee. Florida is my home —you want me to sing “Swanee River?” It might not have been the offer to sing that animated her, but whatever it was she looked at me for another long moment and then jumped up. “Come on, let's get over there” she said.

The? What about Coulter, your partner?”

“He's getting coffee, fuck him,” she said. “Besides, I'd rather partner with a warthog. Come on.” For some reason I did not actually swell with pride at being slightly better than a warthog, but when duty calls, Dexter answers, and I followed her out the door.

Sin determinar

EIGHT

The Greater Miami Convention and Visitor's Bureau was in a high-rise building on Brickell Avenue, as befitted its status as a very important organization.

The full majesty of its purpose was reflected in the view from its windows, which showed a lovely slice of downtown and Government Cut, a swathe of Biscayne Bay, and even the nearby Arena where the basketball team shows up from time to time for some really dramatic losses.