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 entrée 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 a 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 good at her job; it’s in her blood, after all. And the idea that to know me is to love me is one that has never crossed the shadowed threshold of my mind. Just the opposite, in fact. But Arabelle was so upset, it was clear that she was not filled with the thrill of discovery. Instead she was several steps over the edge into hysteria, and talking to hysterical people, like so much of ordinary human interaction, takes no particular empathy or liking for people, happily for Dark and Dismal Dexter. It was all technique, a craft and not an art, and that put it squarely inside the expertise of anyone who has studied and copied human behavior. Smile in the right places, nod your head, pretend to listen—I had mastered it ages ago.

“Arabelle,” I said in a soothing voice and with the proper Central American accent, and she stopped shaking her head for a moment. “Arabelle, necesitamos descubrir este monstre.” I looked over at Debs and said, “It is a monster that did this, right?” and she snapped her chin up and down in a nod of agreement.

“Digame, por favor,” I said soothingly, and Arabelle very gratifyingly lowered one hand from her face.

“Si?” she said shyly, and I marveled once again at the power of my totally smarmy synthetic charm. And in two languages, too.

“En Inglés?” I said with a really good fake smile. “Por qué mi hermana no habla Español.” I said nodding at Deborah. I was sure that referring to Debs as “my sister’, rather than “the authority figure with a gun who wants to send you back to El Salvador after she has seen you beaten and raped,’ would help to open her up a little bit. “Do you speak English?”

“Lee-tell beet,” she said.

“Good,” I said. “Tell my sister what you saw.” And I took a step back, only to find that Arabelle had shot out a hand and clamped it onto my arm.

“You no go?” she said shyly.

“I stay here,” I said. She looked at me searchingly for a moment. I don’t have any idea what she was looking for, but she apparently thought she saw it. She let go of my arm, dropped both hands to clasp them in front of her, and faced Deborah, standing almost at attention.

I looked at Deborah, too, and found her staring at me with a look of disbelief on her face. “Jesus,” she said. “She trusts you and not me?”

“She can tell that my heart is pure,” I said.

“Pure what?” Debs said, and she shook her head. “Jesus. If only she knew.”

I had to admit there was some truth in my sister’s ironic observation. She had only recently discovered what I am, and to say that she was not quite comfortable with it was a bit of an understatement. Still, it had all been sanctioned and set up by her father, Saint Harry, and even in death his was not an authority that Debs would question—nor would I, for that matter. But her tone of voice was a little sharp for someone who was counting on me for help, and it stung just a little. “If you like,” I said, “I can leave and let you do this alone.”

“No!” said Arabelle, and once again her hand flew over and attached itself to my arm. “You say that you stay,” she said, accusation and near-panic in her voice.

I raised an eyebrow at Deborah.

She shrugged. “Yeah,” she said. “You stay.”

I patted Arabelle’s hand and pried it off me. “I’ll be right here,” I said, adding, “Yo Espero aquí,” with another completely artificial smile that for some reason seemed to reassure her. She looked into my eyes, smiled back, took a deep breath and faced Debs.

“Tell me,” she said to Arabelle.

“I get here same hour, like every time,” she said.

“What hour is that?” Deborah asked.

Arabelle shrugged. “Five o’clock,” she said. “Threes time a week now, because is close en Julio, but they wan keep it clean. No coke-roachess.” She looked at me and I nodded; coke-roachess bad.

“And you went to the back door?” Deborah asked.

“Esway, es—” She looked at me and made an awkward face. “Siempre?”

“Always,” I translated.

Arabelle nodded. “Always back door,” she said. “Frawnt ees close hasta octobre.”

Deborah cocked her head for a moment, but then got it: front closed until October. “Okay,” she said. “So you get here, you go around to the back door, and you see the body?”

Arabelle covered her face again, just for a moment. She looked at me and I nodded, so she dropped her hands. “Yes.”

“Did you notice anything else, anything unusual?” Debs asked, and Arabelle looked at her blankly. “Did you see something that shouldn’t be there?”

“El cuerpo,” Arabelle said indignantly, pointing at the corpse. “He no shood be there.”

“And did you see anybody else at all?”

Arabelle shook her head. “Nobody. Me only”

“How about nearby?” Arabelle looked blank, and Deborah pointed. “Over there? On the sidewalk? Anybody at all over there?”

Arabelle shrugged. “Turistas. Weeth cameras.” She frowned and lowered her voice, speaking confidentially to me. “Creado que es posible que estan maricones,” she said, shrugging.

I nodded. “Gay tourists,” I said to Deborah.

Deborah glared at her, then turned it on me, as if she could scare one of us into thinking up another really good question. But even my legendary wit had run dry, and I shrugged. “I don’t know,” I said. “She probably can’t tell you any more than that.”

“Ask her where she lives,” Deborah said, and an expression of alarm flitted across Arabelle’s face.

“I don’t think she’ll tell you,” I said.

“Why the fuck not?” Deborah demanded.

“She’s afraid you’ll tell la migra,” I said, and Arabelle visibly jumped when I said it. “Immigration.”

“I know what the fuck la migra means,” Deborah snapped. “I live here, too, remember?”

“Yes,” I said. “But you refused to learn Spanish.”

“Then ask her to tell you,” Deborah said.

I shrugged and turned to Arabelle. “Necesito su dirección,” I said.

“Por qué?” she said rather shyly.

“Vamos a bailando,” I said. We’ll go dancing.

She giggled. “Estoy casada,” she said. I’m married.

“Por favor?” I said, with my very best one hundred watt smile, and I added, “Nunca por la migra, verdadamente.” Arabelle smiled, leaned forward, and whispered an address in my ear. I nodded; it was in an area flooded with Central American immigrants, several of them here legally. It made perfect sense for her to live there, and I was certain she was telling me the truth. “Gracias,” I said, and as I started to pull away, she grabbed my arm again.

“Nunca por la migra?” she asked.

“Nunca,” I said. Never. “Solamente para hellar este matador.” Only to catch this killer.

She nodded as if that made sense, that I needed her address to find the killer, and gave me her shy smile again. “Gracias,” she said. “Te creo.” I believe you. Her faith in me was really quite touching, especially considering there was no reason for it, beyond the fact that I had given her a completely phony smile. It made me wonder if a career change was in order—perhaps I should sell cars, or even run for president.

“All right,” Deborah said. “She can go home.”

I nodded at Arabelle. “Va a su casa,” I said.

“Gracias,” she said again. And she smiled hugely and then turned and almost ran for the street.

“Shit,” Deborah said. “Shit shit SHIT.”

I looked at her with raised eyebrows, and she shook her head. She seemed deflated, the anger and tension drained out of her. “I know it’s stupid,” she said. “I just hoped she might have seen something. I mean—” She shrugged and turned away, looking in the direction of the body in the doorway. “We’ll never find the gay tourists, either. Not in South Beach.”

“They can’t have seen anything anyway,” I said.

“In broad daylight. And nobody saw anything?”

“People see what they expect to see,” I said. “He probably used a delivery van, and that would make him invisible.”

“Well, shit,” she said again, and it didn’t seem like a good time to criticize her for such a limited vocabulary. She faced me again. “I don’t suppose you got anything helpful from looking at this one?”

“Let me take some pictures and think about it,” I said.

“That’s a no, right?”

“It’s not a stated no,” I said. “It’s an implied no.”

Deborah held up a middle finger. “Imply this,” she said, and she turned away and trudged back to look at the body.