T WAS A FRETFUL NIGHT FOR ME, WITH PATCHES OF SLEEP separated by deep bogs of restless wakefulness. I felt assailed by something I could only think of as nameless dread, a terrible lurking thing egged on by a voiceless unease from the Passenger, who seemed for once to be absolutely uncertain, just as flummoxed as I was. I might possibly have flogged this beast into its cage and found a few hours of blissful unconsciousness—but then, there was also Lily Anne.

Dear, sweet, precious, irreplaceable Lily Anne, the heart and soul of Dexter’s new and human self, turned out to have another wondrous talent far beyond her more obvious charms. She had, apparently, a wonderfully powerful set of lungs, and she was determined to share this gift with all of us, every twenty minutes, all night long. And by some quirk of malignant nature, every time I managed to slide into a brief interlude of real sleep, it coincided exactly with one of Lily Anne’s crying spells.

Rita seemed completely undisturbed by the noise, which did nothing to raise her stock with me. Every time the baby cried, she would say, “Bring her to me, Dexter,” apparently without waking up, and then the two of them would drift off into sleep until Rita, again without opening her eyes, would say, “Put her back, please.” And I would lurch to the crib, put Lily Anne down and cover her carefully, and silently beg her to please, please, sleep for just one small hour.

But when I returned to bed, even in the dark and temporary silence sleep eluded me. As much as I despise a cliché, I did, in fact, toss and turn, and neither option gave me any comfort. And in the few real moments of sleep that came to me, for some reason I dreamed, and they were not happy dreams. I do not, as a rule, dream at all; I believe the act may be connected to having a soul, and since I am quite sure I don’t have one, for the most part I am blissfully brain-dead when I go to sleep, without any disturbance from the subconscious.

But in the sweaty depths of this night, Dexter dreamed. The images were as twisted as the bedsheets: Lily Anne holding a knife in her tiny fist, Brian collapsing into a pool of blood while Rita breast-fed Dexter, Cody and Astor swimming through that same awful red pool. Typical for such nonsense, there was no real meaning in any of it, and yet it still made me vastly uncomfortable on the bottom shelf of my inner cabinet, and when I finally staggered out of bed the next morning I was very far from rested.

I made it into the kitchen unaided, and Rita thumped a cup of coffee in front of me, with not nearly the care she had shown arranging Brian’s cup. And even as I had this unworthy thought, Rita picked up on it, as if she were reading my mind.

“Brian seems like such a great guy,” she said.

“Yes, he does,” I said, thinking to myself that seeming is very far from being.

“The children really like him,” she said, adding to my undefined sense of discomfort, which my pre-coffee partial consciousness had done nothing to dispel.

“Yes, um …” I said, taking a large slurp and silently willing the coffee to work quickly and get my brain back online. “Actually, he’s never really been around kids before, and—”

“Well, then, this will be good for all of us,” Rita said happily. “Has he ever been married?”

“I don’t think so,” I said.

“Don’t you know?” Rita said sharply. “I mean, honestly, Dexter—he is your brother.”

Perhaps it was my newfound human feeling erupting, but irritation at last pushed its way through my morning fog. “Rita,” I said peevishly, “I know he’s my brother. You don’t need to keep telling me.”

“You should have said something,” she said.

“But I didn’t,” I said, quite logically, though admittedly still a bit cranky. “So can we change the channel, please?”

She looked like she had a lot more to say on the subject, but she very wisely held her tongue. She did, however, undercook my fried eggs, and so it was with a sense of real relief that I finally grabbed Cody and Astor and fled out the door. And of course, life being the unpleasant business that it is, they were stuck on the same page as their mother.

“How come you never told us about Uncle Brian, Dexter?” Astor demanded as I pushed the car into gear.

“I thought he was dead,” I said, with what I really hoped was a note of finality in my voice.

“But we don’t have any other uncles,” she said. “Everybody else does, and we don’t. Melissa has five uncles.”

“Melissa sounds like a fascinating individual,” I said, swerving to avoid a large SUV that had stopped in the middle of the road for no apparent reason.

“So we like having an uncle,” Astor said. “And we like Uncle Brian.”

“He’s cool,” Cody added softly.

Of course, it was very good to hear that they liked my brother, and it really should have made me happy, but it did not. It simply added to the sense of mean-spirited tension that had been rising in me ever since he had appeared. Brian was up to something—I knew it as well as I knew my own name—and until I knew what that something was I was stuck with my sense of lurking dread. It had not gone away by the time I dropped the kids at school and headed into work.

For once there were no freshly discovered headless bodies lying in the streets of Miami and frightening the tourists, and as if to underline this great mystery, Vince Masuoka had even brought in doughnuts. Considering the ragged assault my home life was making on me, this was very welcome indeed, and it seemed to me to call for some positive reinforcement. “Hail, doughnut, well brought,” I said to Vince as he staggered in under the weight of the pastry box.

“Hail, Dexterus Maximus,” he said. “I bring tribute from the Gauls.”

“French doughnuts?” I said. “They don’t put in parsley, do they?”

He flipped open the lid to reveal rows of gleaming doughnuts. “No parsley and no escargot filling, either,” he said. “But they do include Bavarian cream.”

“I shall ask the Senate to declare a triumph in your honor,” I said, quickly grabbing one. And in a world built on the principles of love, wisdom, and compassion, that would have marked an end to the very uncomfortable course my morning had been following. But of course, we live in no such blissful world, and so the doughnut had barely had a chance to settle happily into my stomach where it belonged, when the phone on my desk began to rattle for my attention, and somehow, just from the way it sounded, I could tell it was Deborah.

“What are you doing?” she demanded without saying hello.

“Digesting a doughnut,” I said.

“Do it up here in my office,” she said, and hung up.

It is very difficult to argue with someone who is already off the line, as I am certain Deborah knew, so rather than go through the huge physical effort of redialing, I headed to the Homicide area and Deborah’s desk. It was not, to be fair, actually an office at all but more of an area within a partition. Still, she seemed in no mood for the quibble, so I let it lie.

Deborah was in her chair at the desk clutching what looked like an official report. Her new partner, Deke, stood over by the window with a look of detached and vacuous amusement on his unreasonably handsome face. “Look at this,” Deborah said, smacking the pages with the back of her hand. “Can you believe this shit?”

“No,” I said. “That’s because from this far away I can’t even read that shit.”

“Mr. Chin Dimple,” she said, indicating Deke, “went to interview the Spanos family.”

“Oh, hey,” Deke said.

“And he found me a suspect,” Debs said.

“Person of interest to the investigation,” Deke said very seriously in official reportese. “He’s not really a suspect.”

“He’s the only fucking lead we’ve got, and you sit on it all night,” Debs snarled. “I have to read it in the goddamn report at nine-fucking-thirty the next morning.”

“I had to type it,” he said, sounding slightly hurt.

“With two teenage girls missing, the captain on my ass, and the press about to blow up like Three Mile Island, you type it and don’t tell me first,” she said.

“Hey, well, what the fuck,” Deke said with a shrug.

Deborah gnashed her teeth. I mean, really; it’s something I’d only read about before, mostly in fantasy stories, and I’d never believed it happened in real life, but there it was. I watched, fascinated, as she gnashed her teeth, started to say something very forceful, and instead threw the report on her desk. “Go get some coffee, Deke,” she said at last.

Deke straightened up, made a clicking noise as he pointed a finger at her, and said, “Cream and two sugars,” and sauntered away toward the coffeepot down the hall.

“I thought you liked your coffee black,” I said as Deke disappeared.

Deborah stood up. “If that’s his last fuckup, I am the happiest girl in the world,” she said. “Come on.”

She was already moving down the hall in the opposite direction from Deke, and so once again any protest I might have made was largely irrelevant. I sighed and followed, wondering if Deborah had learned this kind of behavior, perhaps from a book called The Management Style of Bulldozers.

I caught up with her at the elevator and said, “I suppose it would be too much to ask where we’re going?”

“Tiffany Spanos,” she said, hammering at the “down” button a second time, and then a third. “Tyler’s older sister.”

It took me a moment, but as the elevator doors slid open I remembered. “Tyler Spanos,” I said, following her into the elevator. “The girl who’s missing with, um, Samantha Aldovar.”

“Yeah,” she said. The doors slid shut and we lurched down. “Nimnut talked to Tiffany Spanos about her sister.” I assumed Nimnut meant Deke, so I just nodded. “Tiffany says that Tyler has been into that Goth shit for a while, and then she met this guy at a party who was, like, Goth squared.”

I suppose I lead a very innocent life, but I had thought that “Goth” was a sort of fashion statement for teenagers with bad complexions and a particularly repulsive form of angst. As far as I knew, the whole thing involved cultivating a look of black clothes and very pale skin, and perhaps listening to Euro-tech pop music while looking longingly at a DVD of Twilight. It seemed to me something that would be very hard to conceive of squared. But Deborah’s imagination knew no such boundary.

“Am I allowed to ask what ‘Goth squared’ means?” I said humbly.

Deborah glared at me. “Guy’s a vampire,” she said.

“Really,” I said, and I admit I was surprised. “In this day and age? In Miami?”

“Yeah,” she said, and the elevator doors slid open. “Even had his teeth filed,” she said, heading out the door.

I hurried after her again. “So we’re going to see this guy?” I asked. “What’s his name?”

“Vlad,” she said. “Catchy name, huh?”

“Vlad what?” I said.

“I don’t know,” she said.

“But you know where he lives?” I said hopefully.

“We’ll find him,” she said, stalking toward the exit, and I finally decided that enough was enough. I grabbed her arm, and she turned to glare at me.

“Deborah,” I said, “what the hell are we doing?”

“One more minute with that brain-dead bag of muscles and I’m going to lose it,” she said. “I gotta get out of here.” She tried to pull away, but I held on.

“I am as willing as anyone to flee in terror from your partner,” I said. “But we are going to find somebody and we don’t know his full name or where he might be. So where are we going?”

She tried again to jerk her arm away from my grip, and this time she succeeded. “Cybercafé,” she said. “I’m not stupid.” Apparently I was, because once again I was playing follow the leader as she stormed out the door and into the parking lot.

“You’re paying for coffee,” I said rather feebly as I hurried after.

There was an Internet café only about ten blocks away, and so in no time at all I was sitting at a keyboard with a very good cup of coffee and an impatient Deborah fidgeting at my elbow. My sister is an excellent shot with a pistol, and no doubt has many other sterling character traits, but putting her in front of a computer is like asking a donkey to do the polka, and she very wisely left all her Googling to me. “All right,” I said. “I can search for the name ‘Vlad,’ but—”

“Cosmetic dentistry,” she snapped. “Don’t be an asshole.”

I nodded; it was the smart move, but after all, she was the trained investigator. Within minutes I had a list of dozens of dentists in the Miami area, all of whom practiced cosmetic dentistry. “Shall I print it out?” I said to Debs. She looked at the long list and chewed on her lip so hard I thought she might well need a dentist herself soon.

“No,” she said, grabbing for her cell phone. “I got an idea.”

It must have been a very secret idea, because she didn’t tell it to me, but she called a number she had on speed dial and in just a few seconds I heard her say, “This is Morgan. Gimme the number for that forensic dentist.” She scribbled a hand in the air, indicating that she wanted a pen, and I found one beside the keyboard and passed it to her, along with a scrap of paper from the nearby trash can. “Yeah,” she said. “Dr. Gutmann, that’s the guy. Uh-huh.” She wrote the number down and disconnected.

She immediately punched in the number she’d written down and after a minute of talking to a receptionist and then, judging by the way she began to tap her toe, listening to elevator music, Gutmann came on the line. “Dr. Gutmann,” Deborah said. “This is Sergeant Morgan. I need the name of a local dentist who might sharpen a guy’s teeth so he looks like a vampire.” Gutmann said something and Deborah looked surprised. She scrabbled for the pen and wrote as she said, “Uh-huh. Got it, thanks,” and then flipped the phone closed. “He said there’s only one dentist in town stupid enough to do that. Dr. Lonoff on South Beach.”

I found it quickly on the page of dentists I had called up on the computer. “Just off Lincoln Road,” I said.

Deborah was already out of her chair and moving toward the door. “Come on,” she said, and once again Dutiful Dexter lurched up and followed along.