Read Dexter 4 - Dexter by Design for Free Online Page B

still hear Rita making furious cooking noises in the kitchen, punctuated with the occasional “damn it'. I was hardly an expert on the subject of human expectations, but I was pretty sure she would be upset that I was going to leave without tasting this special and painfully prepared meal.
    “Now I really am on the poop van,” I said, and I went inside, wondering what I could possibly say and hoping some inspiration might hit me before Rita did.

Sin determinar
    SIX
    I WAS NOT AT ALL CERTAIN I WAS GOING TO THE RIGHT PLACE until I got there and pulled up in front —it had seemed like such an unlikely destination before I got to where I could see the yellow crime-scene tape, the lights of the patrol cars flashing in the dusk, and the growing crowd of gawkers hoping to see something unforgettable. It was almost always crowded at Joe's Stone Crab, but not in July. The restaurant would not open again until October, which seemed like a long wait even for Joe's.
    But this was a different crowd tonight, and they weren't here for stone crabs. They were hungry for something else tonight, something Joe would most likely prefer to take off his menu.
    I parked and followed the trail of uniformed officers around to the back, where tonight's entree sat, leaning back against the wall beside the service door. I heard the sibilant interior chuckling before I actually saw any details, but as I got close enough, the lights strung up by the forensic team showed me plenty worth an appreciative smile.
    His feet were crammed into a pair of those black, glove leather shoes that are usually Italian and most often worn for the sole purpose of dancing. He also wore a pair of very nice resort-style shorts in a tasteful cranberry color, and a blue silk shirt with a silver embossed palm tree pattern on it. But the shirt was unbuttoned and pulled back to reveal that the man's chest had been removed and the cavity emptied out of all the natural and awful stuff that should go in there. It was now filled instead with ice, bottles of beer, and what appeared to be a shrimp cocktail ring from the grocery store.
    His right hand was clutching a fistful of Monopoly money, and his face was covered with another of those glued-on plastic masks.
    Vince Masuoka crouched on the far side of the doorway spreading dust in slow, even strokes across the wall, and I stepped over beside him.
    “Are we going to get lucky tonight?” I asked him.
    He snorted. “If they let us take a couple of those free beers,” he said. “They're really cold.”
    “How can you tell?” I asked.
    He jerked his head toward the body. “It's that new kind, the label turns blue when it's cold,” he said. He wiped his arm across his forehead. “It's gotta be over ninety out here, and that beer would taste great right now.”
    “Sure,” I said, looking at the improbable shoes on the body. “And then we could go dancing.”
    “Hey,” he said. “You want to? When we're done?”
    “No,” I answered. “Where's Deborah?” He nodded to his left. “Over there,” he said. “Talking to the woman who found it.”
    I walked over to where Debs was interviewing an hysterical Hispanic woman who was crying into her hands and shaking her head at the same time, which struck me as a very difficult thing to do, like rubbing your belly and patting your head. But she was doing it quite well, and for some reason Deborah was not impressed with the woman's wonderful coordination.
    “Arabelle,” Debs was saying, “Arabelle, please listen to me.” Arabelle was not listening, and I didn't think my sister's vocal tone of combined anger and authority was well calculated to win over anyone —especially not someone who looked like she had been sent over from a casting office to play the part of a cleaning woman with no green card. Deborah glared at me as I approached, as if it was my fault that she was intimidating Arabelle, so I decided to help.
    It is not that I think Debs is incompetent —she is very