Picnic Bench
Setting: "Return to Sender"

I can feel myself sweating as I slowly hunt around the lawn for random bits of paper and wayward plates and forks. At some point in the last hour, the humidity climbed up to a thousand percent, and dark, heavy clouds have pretty much filled up the sky in every direction. It's not raining yet, but at this point 'yet' is just an operative word.

Shit, I hope my umbrella's still in the car. It wouldn't surprise me if I forgot to put it back.

I catch sight of one of the plastic glasses with the nose and the eyebrows on a palm frond, pull it off. Just below it is a glop of icing and a plastic fork. I pick that up too.

"Hey, you don't have to do that," I hear from behind me, and I glance back to see Rita walking toward me holding a trash bag.

"It's fine," I say, tossing the fork and the other random crap I've collected into her bag. "Honestly, I kind of needed a break."

She smiles. "I understand. It's hard enough having two kids hopped up on sugar, but nine?"

"Yeah, especially after five of them asked how many criminals I've killed and if they could see my gun." Not to mention the mothers. All of them must be rabid Nancy Grace fans.

She snorts. "Sorry about that."

"It's fine." I wave it off, set the glasses on the table and take a seat. "I don't know how you can keep up with them."

"Oh, sometimes I don't." She sits across from me. "And I wanted to thank you again for coming over. I know Dexter's said you've been working like a dog lately."

"Has he?" I say, glancing toward the house. Before I stepped out he was entertaining Cody with some game on the TV.

"Yeah, and I've seen all the news lately. Dexter told me you were the one who found that guard?"

Immediately, I think of that basement: Tucci and the rats and the bed, the smell of iron and piss. His blood, soaked into the sheets. "Yeah," I say, and leave it at that. Rita doesn't need that kind of imagery in her life.

"I don't know how you can do it, see what you see every day," she says. "You or Dexter."

I shrug. "I don't know. Our dad was a homicide cop, and he never really left it at the office. I'm not sure he realized exactly how much we both grew up with it." I cross my arms on the table, wanting to steer the conversation away from the case and my father. "So how're you doing?" I ask.

"Oh, you know..." She trails off, and her expression seems to fall. "Actually, Paul called a few days ago," she says after a beat. "He was just released from prison. Overcrowding, apparently."

I feel a ping in my chest. I sit up. "What? Are you serious?"

"Yeah." Her gaze slips down. "He actually wanted to come today, to the party. I threatened him, reminded him of the restraining order, but who knows how long that'll stop him."

"Shit." I reach over and gently squeeze her hand. She looks up. "Listen," I say, "you ever feel threatened and need me to bring some heat down on his ass, just call me."

She smiles again. "Oh, I... thanks, but for now I just want to play this by ear. Cody, you know, he doesn't remember much of it, but Astor does. I don't want to put her through all that again— having to watch her father get dragged out of here in cuffs. Not unless it comes to it."

I nod. "I understand, but, hey, you've got my number. Just know I'm here if it does come to it."

"Thanks." She squeezes my hand back. "I admit, having both Dexter and you here made me feel better about this party, since I'm still not sure he won't decide to show up. By the way," she changes the subject in the same breath, "what's going on with you two? Dexter, I mean."

"Oh, it's nothing." I slide back my hand, making a sort of waving gesture. "We had a disagreement over a case. He was right. I was..." I trail off as the person in question opens the door and pops his head out. "Speak of the devil," I mutter.

"Deb," he says, waggling something in his hand. "Doakes called. Twice."

I can't help but feel some slight, automatic annoyance that he went pawing through my purse, but I shove it down. "Oh, yeah?" I say, sliding off the bench and walking to him. "What's he want?"

"I don't know," he says. "I didn't catch it in time."

"Hm." I take my phone from him. "Thanks."

"Sure," he says, then looks at me for an awkward moment before I step away for a corner of the lawn and hit redial. He walks over to Rita, and I hear them talking quietly as I press the phone to my ear.

"Doakes," his brusque voice answers by the second ring.

"It's Morgan," I say. "What's up? You miss me already?"

"No," he says, sounding so matter of fact I'd feel hurt if I wasn't being sarcastic anyway. "I know you took the evening, but you might want to get down here."

"Get down where?" I hold my free palm up to check for rain. The air is so moist I can't tell if it's started sprinkling or not.

"Back to the station. Harbor Patrol finally found Jorge Castillo's boat. They're towing it back to our dock now."

I refocus on the phone. "Is there more evidence on it to incriminate him for killing his wife?"

"We don't know yet, but we definitely found enough to implicate him in at least three other homicides."

Now he's got my full attention. "Three?" I repeat.

"There are bodies in his boat. At least three were floating up at the top of his cargo hold, but who knows how many more people are in there."

"Holy fuck," I mutter. "Yeah, alright, I'll be there soon."

"We'll be at the docks."

We click off, and I just sort of stare off for a second, trying to process what he told me. Three bodies, maybe more. Jorge's been under investigation for a long time in connection to the smuggling and disappearances of immigrants, but now suddenly we've got the corpses to prove it, not to mention enough forensics on his wife to convince a jury. When this guy finally gets popped he's gonna get buried under a fuckton and a half of charges. He'll be lucky to escape the death penalty.

I turn and walk back over to the table. Dexter looks up as I approach. "What's going on?" he asks.

I look at him. He's got that brow thing going again. "Harbor Patrol found Jorge's boat. And you'll never guess what they found inside."

"What?" he says.

"Bodies." I look at Rita. "Sorry to take off like this," I say to her, "but I've gotta get back to the station."

"Oh, no, it's fine," she says. "I'm just glad you came." She walks around the table and gives me a brief hug. "It was nice to see you."

"It was nice to see you too," I say as she releases me, then I glance at my brother. "See you tomorrow, Dex," I say a bit more icily before I turn and head for the door.

I hear footfalls following, then Dexter's voice, "Doakes didn't request me?"

I shrug. "Nope." Open the door. Astor and her friends are all sitting in a circle where the dining room table, and my purse, used to be. The table's now pressed against the wall. I go to it and grab my bag, all the while ignoring my brother.

"How long are you going to be mad at me?" Dexter asks me quietly when I turn around.

I look at him, slinging it over my shoulder. "I'm not mad, I..." I don't know. Is it even right that I'm annoyed with him for disagreeing with me?

"What?" he prompts.

I shrug. "It's fine. We're fine. I'm overreacting. We were both just doing our jobs."

"So everything's fine?"

"Peachy fu..." I stop, glance at all the minors sitting four feet away from us. "Yep, everything's fine," I revise. "I'll see you tomorrow, brother." I make for the door.

"Bye," he calls after me.

I reach the front door, open it, step out, close it. Exhale. Forty seconds later I'm putting on my seat belt and turning over the engine. Then I flip on my lights, pull away from the mini van and the baby blue SUV, coast off the quiet, suburban street.

It finally starts to rain as I head toward the station, as the sky above coalesces into one, thick blanket of grey. Seems like an appropriate scene for whatever it is that's waiting for me back at Miami Metro. I'm not exactly sure what Doakes meant by 'floating in the cargo hold,' but I guess I'm going to find out soon enough.

I wonder what this means for our jurisdiction over Jorge Castillo. If the dead people in his boat are indeed Cuban immigrants, we're likely turning everything over to the feds. I can't honestly say I'd be too disappointed about that. As terrible as it is, I don't feel much of anything for Valerie Castillo. I wouldn't say she deserved to be butchered like a pig and left naked and supine in the middle of a salvage yard, but I'm not sure she deserves to take much more of our department's time either. Let the FBI deal with Jorge. We've already got one sick fuck to find.

I merge onto the freeway for downtown, turn up the wipers another notch. The rain's already coming down harder.