Dearly Devoted Dexter by Jeff Lindsay

physical charms, and standing on the street in hot pants and a tube top had been sheer torture for her. She had been in danger of growing permanent frown lines.
    Because I am an inhuman monster, I tend to be logical, and I had thought that her new assignment would end her martyrdom as Our Lady of Perpetual Grumpiness. Alas, even her transfer to homicide had failed to bring a smile to her face. Somewhere along the way she had decided that serious law enforcement personnel must reshape their faces until they look like large, mean-spirited fish, and she was still working very hard to accomplish this.
    We had come to lunch together in her new motor-pool car, another of the perks of her promotion that really should have brought a small ray of sunshine into her life. It didn’t seem to. I wondered if I should worry about her. I watched her as I slid into a booth at Café Relampago, our favorite Cuban restaurant. She called in her location and status and then sat across from me with a frown.
    “Well, Sergeant Grouper,” I said as we picked up our menus.
    “Is that funny, Dexter?”
    “Yes,” I said. “Very funny. And a little sad, too. Like life itself. Especially your life, Deborah.”
    “Fuck you, Charlie,” she said. “My life is fine.” And to prove it, she ordered a
medianoche
sandwich, the best in Miami, and a
batido de mamey
, a milk shake made from a unique tropical fruit that tastes something like a combination of peach and watermelon.
    My life was every bit as fine as hers, so I ordered the same thing. Because we were regulars here, and had been coming here most of our lives, the aging, unshaven waiter snatched away our menus with a face that might have been the role model for Deborah’s, and stomped off to the kitchen like Godzilla on his way to Tokyo.
    “Everyone is so cheerful and happy,” I said.
    “This isn’t
Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood
, Dex. It’s Miami. Only the bad guys are happy.” She looked at me without expression, a perfect cop stare. “How come you’re not laughing and singing?”
    “Unkind, Deb. Very unkind. I’ve been good for months.”
    She took a sip of water. “Uh-huh. And it’s making you crazy.”
    “Much worse than that,” I said with a shudder. “I think it’s making me normal.”
    “Coulda fooled me,” she said.
    “Sad but true. I’ve become a couch potato.” I hesitated, then blurted it out. After all, if a boy can’t share his problems with his family, who can he confide in? “It’s Sergeant Doakes,” I said.
    She nodded. “He’s got a real hard-on for you,” she said. “You better keep away from him.”
    “I would love to,” I said. “But HE won’t keep away from ME.”
    Her cop stare got harder. “What do you plan to do about it?”
    I opened my mouth to deny all the things I had been thinking, but happily for the good of my immortal soul, before I could lie to her we were interrupted by the sound of Deb’s radio. She cocked her head to one side, snatched up the radio, and said she was on her way. “Come on,” she snapped, heading for the door. I followed meekly behind, pausing only to throw some money on the table.
    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