HE TELEPHONE WOKE ME UP WHILE IT WAS STILL DARK, and I rolled over to look at the clock radio beside the bed. It said 4:47 in obnoxiously cheerful digits. I’d had just over twenty minutes of real sleep since the last time Lily Anne had cried, and I did not appreciate the wake-up call. But hoping against hope that the ringing would not reawaken her, I grabbed at the telephone. “Hello,” I said.

“I need you here early,” declared the voice of my sister. She did not sound at all tired, in spite of the hour, and I found that just as annoying as being wakened at this dreadful time of night.

“Deborah,” I said, the hoarseness of sleep still in my throat, “it’s another two and a half hours until early.”

“We matched up your DNA sample,” she said, ignoring what was really a pretty clever remark, considering the hour. “It’s Tyler Spanos.”

I blinked rapidly a few times, trying to bring my brain into some kind of state that approached wakefulness. “The girl in the Everglades?” I said. “That was Tyler Spanos? Not Samantha Aldovar?”

“Yeah,” she said. “So this morning they’re setting up a task force. Chambers is coordinating, but I got lead investigator.” And I could hear the excitement in her voice as she said it.

“That’s great,” I said, “but why do you need me early?”

She dropped her voice as if she was afraid someone would hear her. “I need your help, Dex,” she said. “This is turning into a huge thing and I can’t fuck it up. And it’s getting, you know. Political.” She cleared her throat slightly, sounding a little bit like Captain Matthews. “So I got you down to lead Forensics on the task force.”

“I have to take the kids to school,” I protested, and beside me I heard a soft rustling.

Rita’s hand came down on my arm, and she said, “I can take the kids.”

“You shouldn’t drive yet,” I protested. “Lily Anne is too small.”

“She’ll be fine,” Rita said. “And so will I. Dexter, I’ve done this before, and without help the first two times.”

We never talked about Rita’s ex, the bio dad of Cody and Astor, but I knew enough about him to know that he could not have been terribly helpful. Clearly, she really had done this before. And in truth, Rita looked fine, not at all unhealthy—but naturally enough, it was Lily Anne I was worried about. “But the car seat,” I said.

“It’s fine, Dexter, really,” Rita said. “Go do your job.”

I heard something that might have been a snort from Deborah. “Tell Rita I said thanks,” Debs said. “See you soon.” And she hung up.

“But,” I said into the phone, even though the line was dead.

“Get dressed,” Rita said, and she repeated, “Really, we’ll be fine.”

Our society has many laws and customs to protect women from the brute force of men, but when two women make up their minds about something and gang up on a man there is absolutely nothing he can do but go along. Perhaps someday we will elect a compassionate woman as president, and she will pass new laws on the subject; until then, I was a helpless victim. I got up and showered, and by the time I was dressed Rita had a fried-egg sandwich ready for me to eat in the car, and a cup of coffee in a shiny metal travel mug.

“Work hard,” she said with a tired smile. “I hope you catch these people.” I looked at her with surprise. “It was on the news,” she said. “They said it was—That poor girl was eaten.” She shuddered and took a sip of coffee. “In Miami. In this day and age. I don’t—I mean, cannibals? A whole group of them? How can you …” She shook her head, took another sip of coffee, and put the cup down—and to my surprise I saw a tear form in one corner of her eye.

“Rita,” I said.

“I know,” she said, knuckling away the tear. “It’s just hormones, I’m sure, because—And I don’t really …” She sniffled. “It’s just the baby,” she said. “And now somebody else’s little girl—Go on, Dexter. This is important.”

I went. I was not really awake yet, and still suffering from psychological whiplash from my treatment at the hands of Rita and Debs, but I went. And oddly enough, I was surprised as much by what Rita had said as by her tears. Cannibals. It seems very stupid to say so, but I had not really thought of that word yet. I mean, Dexter is not dull: I knew the poor girl had been eaten by people, and I knew that people who ate other people were called cannibals. But to put those thoughts together and say cannibals had eaten Tyler Spanos—it brought the whole thing onto a level of everyday, toe-stubbing reality that was somehow a little bit strange and scary. I know that the world is full of bad people: After all, I am one of them. But a whole group of partygoers eating a young girl at an outdoor barbecue? That made them real cannibals—contemporary, modern-day, right-here-in-Miami cannibals—and it felt like the level of badness had just gone up a few notches.

And there was an additional tinge of quaintness to the whole thing, too, as if a book of frightening fairy tales had come to life: first vampires and now cannibals. What a very interesting place Miami had suddenly become. Perhaps next I would meet a centaur or a dragon, or even an honest man.

I drove to work in darkness and light traffic. A large chunk of moon hung in the sky, scolding me for my sloth. Get to work, Dexter, it whispered. Slice something up. I gave it the finger and drove on.

One of the conference rooms on the second floor had been set aside to make a command center for Deborah’s task force, and it was already buzzing with activity when I strolled in. Chambers, the shaven-headed man from FDLE, sat at a large table that was already heaped with folders, lab reports, maps, and coffee cups. He had a pile of six or seven cell phones beside him, and he was talking into another one.

And, unfortunately for all concerned—except possibly the ghost of J. Edgar Hoover, who must have been hovering protectively in a spectral house frock—sitting next to Chambers was Special Agent Brenda Recht. She had a pair of very chic reading glasses on the end of her nose that she pushed down even farther in order to look at me with disapproval. I smiled back at her and looked to the far end of the room, where a man in a state trooper uniform was standing next to the giant black man I had seen at the crime scene. He turned to stare at me, so I just nodded and moved on.

Deborah was briefing two Miami-Dade detectives, with her partner, Deke, sitting beside her, flossing his teeth. She looked up at me and beckoned for me to join her. I pulled a chair over next to her group and sat as one of the detectives, a guy named Ray Alvarez, interrupted her.

“Yeah, hey, listen,” he said. “I don’t like it at all. I mean, the guy is fucking city hall—you been called off once already.”

“It’s different now,” Deborah told him. “We got a murder like nobody’s ever seen, and the press is going nuts.”

“Yeah, sure,” Alvarez said, “but you know fucking well Acosta is just waiting to bust somebody’s balls.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Deborah said.

“Easy for you,” Alvarez said. “No balls to bust.”

“That’s what you think,” said Hood, the other detective, a hulking brute I knew a little. “She got twice your balls, Ray.”

“Fuck you,” Alvarez said. Deke snorted, either a laugh, or perhaps some small particle of food had gotten flossed out and become lodged in his nose.

“You just find Bobby Acosta,” Debs said sharply, “or you won’t have any balls to worry about.” She glared at him, and he shrugged, looking up at the ceiling as if to ask why God was picking on him. “Start with the motorcycle,” she said. She glanced at a folder in her lap. “It’s a red Suzuki Hayabusa, one year old.”

Deke whistled and Alvarez said, “A what?”

“Hayabusa,” Deke said, looking suitably impressed. “Very hot bike.”

“Right, got it,” Alvarez said, looking at Deke with weary resignation, and Debs turned to Hood.

“You get on Tyler Spanos’s car,” she said. “It’s a 2009 Porsche, blue, convertible. It’s gotta turn up somewhere.”

“Probably Colombia,” Hood said, and as Deborah opened her mouth to scold him he added, “Yeah, I know; I’ll find it if it isn’t gone already.” He shrugged. “Not that it’ll do any good.”

“Hey,” Deke said. “Gotta do the routine stuff, you know?”

Hood looked at him with amusement. “Yeah, Deke,” he said. “I know.”

“All right,” Chambers said in a loud voice, and all eyes in the room clicked over to him as if they were on the same switch. “If I could have your attention over here for a minute.”

Chambers stood up and backed to a spot where he could see everybody. “First, I want to thank Major Nelson”—he nodded at the man in the trooper uniform—“and Detective Weems from the Miccosukee Tribal Police.” And the giant man raised a hand to wave and, oddly, smiled at everyone.

I nudged Deborah and whispered, “Watch and learn, Debs. Politics.”

She elbowed me hard and whispered, “Shut up.”

Chambers went on. “They’re here because this thing is turning into an A-one, world-class, top-of-the-line screamer, and we might need their help. We got a possible connection into the Everglades,” he said, nodding again to Weems, “and we’re gonna need all the help we can get covering the roads statewide.” Major Nelson didn’t even blink at this.

“What about the Fibby?” Hood said, pointing at Special Agent Recht, and Chambers stared at him for a moment.

“The FBI is here,” Chambers said carefully, “because this is a group we’re looking for, and if it’s at all organized, maybe national, they want to know about it. Besides, we still got one girl missing, and it may turn out to be kidnapping. And frankly, since this is such a freaking mess, you are damned lucky you don’t have Treasury, ATF, and Naval Intelligence in here, too, so shut up and cowboy on.”

“Yes, sir,” Hood said with a sarcastic little salute. Chambers watched him just long enough to make Hood squirm, before he started talking again.

“All right,” he said. “Sergeant Morgan has the lead here in the Miami area. Anything points somewhere else, bring it to me first.” Deborah nodded.

“Questions,” Chambers said, looking around the room. Nobody said anything. “Okay,” he said. “Sergeant Morgan is going to give you a summary of what we know so far.”

Deborah stood up and walked over to where Chambers stood, and he sat down, yielding the floor to her. Debs cleared her throat and started on her summary. It was painful to watch; she is not a good public speaker, and aside from that she is extremely self-conscious. It seems to me that she has always felt ill at ease in the body of a beautiful woman, since she has a personality more suited to Dirty Harry, and she hates to have people looking at her. So for anyone who really cared about her, which was probably limited to me at the moment, it was an uncomfortable experience to see her stumble over words, repeatedly clear her throat, and lunge at cop-talk clichés as if she were drowning.

Still, everything has to end sometime, no matter how unpleasant it is, and after a long and nerve-racking interlude Debs finished up and said, “Questions?” And then she blushed and looked at Chambers, as if he would be upset that she had used his line.

Detective Weems raised a finger. “What you want us to do in the Everglades?” he said in a remarkably soft and high-pitched voice.

Deborah cleared her throat. Again. “Just, you know,” she said, “put the word out. If anybody sees something out there, if these guys try to throw, you know, another party. Or if there’s an old one we don’t know about yet, a place that maybe there’s some evidence on the site we could find.” And she cleared her throat. I wondered if I should offer her a cough drop.

Luckily for Deborah’s image as a two-fisted investigator, Chambers decided that enough was enough. He stood up before Deborah actually melted, and said, “All right. You all know what to do. The only thing I want to add is, keep your mouth shut. The press is having too much fun with this already, and I don’t want to give them anything else to kick around. Got it?”

Everybody nodded, even Deborah.

“All right,” Chambers said. “Let’s go get the bad guys.”

The meeting broke up to the sound of squeaking chairs, shuffling feet, and cop chatter, as everyone sitting stood up and formed into little conversation groups with those already standing—except for Major Nelson of the Highway Patrol, who just jammed his hat onto his closely cropped head and marched out the door as if the “Colonel Bogey March” was playing. The huge man from the tribal police, Weems, sauntered over to talk to Chambers, and Special Agent Recht sat by herself and looked around the room, quietly disapproving. Hood caught her eye and shook his head.

“Shit,” he said. “I fucking hate the Fibbies.”

“I bet that worries them,” Alvarez said.

“Hey, Morgan, seriously,” Hood said. “Is there some way we can twist that federal bitch’s tail?”

“Sure,” said Debs, in a tone of voice so reasonable that it could only mean trouble for somebody. “You can find the fucking girl, catch the fucking killer, and do your fucking job so she doesn’t have an excuse to do it for you.” She showed him some teeth; it was not a smile, although possibly Bobby Acosta might have thought so. “Think you can do that, Richard?”

Hood looked at her for a moment and then just shook his head. “Shit,” he said.

“Hey, how about that, you were right,” Alvarez said. “And she got more balls than you, too.”

“Shit,” Hood said again, and, clearly looking for an easy target to win back a few points, he said, “What about you, Deke?”

“What’s that?” Deke said.

“What are you doing?” Hood said.

Deke shrugged. “Oh, you know,” he said. “Captain wants me to stick with, uh, Morgan here.”

“Wow,” Alvarez said. “Really dangerous.”

“We’re partners,” Deke said, looking slightly hurt.

“You be careful, Deke,” Hood said. “Morgan is pretty hard on her partners.”

“Yeah, she kind of loses ’em now and then,” Alvarez said.

“You two assholes want me to hold your hand all the way to the DMV database?” Deborah said. “Or can you get your head out of your ass long enough to find it by yourself?”

Hood stood up and said, “On my way, boss,” and headed for the door, and Alvarez followed. “Watch your back, Deke,” he said as he left.

Deke watched them go with a slight frown, and as the door closed behind them he said, “Why they gotta bust my chops? ’Cause I’m the new guy, or what?” Deborah ignored him, and he turned to me. “I mean, what? What’d I do? Huh?”

I had no answer for him other than the obvious, which was that cops are like all other pack animals—they pick on any member of the herd that seems different or shows weakness. With his absurd good looks and somewhat limited mental abilities, Deke was both, and therefore an obvious target. Still, it seemed like a tough idea to get across without a lot of unpleasantness and groping for small words, so I just gave Deke a reassuring smile. “I’m sure they’ll ease up when they see what you can do,” I told him.

He shook his head slowly. “How’m I supposed to do anything?” he said, leaning his head toward Debs. “I gotta stick with her like a fuckin’ shadow.”

He watched me as if I was supposed to supply an answer, so I said, “Well, I’m sure a chance will come up for you to show some initiative.”

“Initiative,” he said, and for a moment I thought I would have to tell him what that meant. But happily for me, he just shook his head sourly and said, “Shit,” and before we could explore any of the subtleties of that thought, Chambers came over and put a hand on Deborah’s shoulder.

“All right, Morgan,” he said. “You know what you gotta do. Downstairs, ninety minutes.”

Debs looked at him with an expression that was closer to terror than anything I had ever seen on her face before. “I can’t,” she said. “I mean, I thought you were going to—Can’t you do it?”

Chambers shook his head with something like malicious glee in his smile. It made him look like a wicked and very deadly elf. “Can’t,” he said. “You’re the lead here. I’m just the coordinator. Your captain wants you to do this.” He patted her shoulder again and moved away.

“Shit,” Deborah said, and for a moment I felt intense irritation that this was the only word anyone could come up with this morning; and then she ran a hand through her hair and I noticed that her hand was shaking.

“What is it, Debs?” I said, wondering what on earth could cause my fearless sister to tremble like a fragile leaf in a storm.

She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “Press conference,” she said. “They want me to talk to the press.” And she swallowed and then licked her lips as if everything inside her had just gone completely dry. “Shit,” she said again.