Secrets
Setting: "Shrink Wrap"


The drive-thru window at Checkers is completely impacted as we reach it, but I pull in behind the nearest bumper anyway, too hungry to care. Breakfast was two cups of coffee at home and another three at the court house. It's now 2:30, and at this point I could eat the car tire.

I tap my fingers against the wheel, craving a cigarette. The pack is in my purse, which is sitting on the floor in the back. I'm debating asking Batista if he'd care if I reached for it when a car's length opens up ahead of us. I drop the idea as I shift forward.

I continue tapping, thinking about the long session we just had with Pascal's attorney. He's finally seen the light, decided to plea out, which is just as well, since I hadn't really been looking forward to court— slam dunk or not.

Meanwhile, there's our dead sales rep. Donald Martinez agreed to come in this morning, met with Doakes while Batista and I and the prosecuting attorney were trapped in between white, nondescript walls in plea negotiation hell. When I called for an update, my partner told me with his usual brusqueness that Wagner had a gambling problem and he was going to go check into it. If the revelation holds, we're calling in the wife again.

He still likes her for this, but I can't stop thinking about her face that night we told her her husband was dead. That wasn't the look of a guilty woman, and I feel it in my gut that Doakes is wasting his energy on her.

Then again, what the fuck do I know, right?

"Morgan." Batista's voice catches my attention. I look over at him, and he clears his throat, glancing at my fingers.

"Oh, sorry," I murmur, dropping my hands off the wheel.

Drawn temporarily from my thoughts, I watch Batista as he turns to look out the window again, lightly working his jaw. He's been in a mood since we left the precinct this morning, his usual smiling self replaced by some stone-faced, cheerless lookalike. At first I thought it was just the court appointment in the middle of his other investigations, but more and more I'm starting to doubt it. Something else is bothering him, and I can't help my mild curiosity.

I glance left as brake lights glow red in front of me, shift out of park to roll the handful of feet forward. Once we've stopped, I look at Batista again, decide to just open my mouth. "Everything alright?" I ask.

He glances at me, meets my gaze, pinches his jaw. "Yeah."

Sensing a warning flag, I back off, shift my arm on the wheel. "Good."

He studies something on the dash for a few, long moments. Through the window, pedestrians in tank tops and shorts drift by, palm trees blow gently in the breeze against a blue, blue sky. We've got a week or so of decent weather ahead of us, at least according to the guy on the TV this morning.

"Actually, no," Batista corrects himself to my slight surprise, and I look over at him again.

I arch my brows, unsure if I should prompt.

He swallows. "Nina and I..." He stops. "She wants a divorce. Called me last night to talk about it."

My brows sink, and a "What?" slips out. "But," I say, "I thought—"

"I've been lying to you guys, for awhile now," he cuts me off, ducking his head. "I didn't want to admit that things had gotten so bad, and I figured..." He trails off. "Well, I honestly never figured it would ever come to this, and once it went away, nobody needed to know, you know, coz it wasn't anybody's business. But now..." He looks at me again. "I don't know what to do. I'm not ready to give up on our marriage."

I stare at him, totally amazed by his admission. Batista's been going on about his marriage for as long as I've known him. I can remember him talking about Nina and his daughter for years, back long before I was in Homicide, before I was even in Vice, when I'd wander into the pen to find my brother for one reason or another. But they're divorcing.

"What happened?" I ask.

"This is all my fault," he says. "Three months ago, I made a mistake." He looks at me meaningfully.

It takes a second.

Oh.

"A terrible, stupid mistake," he continues miserably, "and I felt like a real asshole for it. No," he stops himself, "I was an asshole for what I did, but I felt so bad about it I told her when I came home, straight away. I figured, you know, my father, he raised me to tell the truth, to be an honest, straight-up guy. What I did he never would've done, and it was unforgivable, but I didn't try to hide it." He takes a breath, and at this precise moment I notice that more space has opened up between us and the ever-diminishing line for our lunch.

I pull forward gently, but he doesn't resume talking until I park again, and he recaptures my eyes with a begging sort of look.

"She kicked me out," he says. "Said she needed time. First it was a few days, then weeks, and suddenly it was three months and our anniversary came and went. And you know, fine, I appreciate that. I messed up. I had to give her her space. But then to have her call out of the blue like that..." Again, he trails off, but this time there's a finality to it.

"I'm sorry," is the only thing I can think to say.

"Ten years," he says. "Ten years for one stupid, fucking mistake."

I sit here uncomfortably, thinking that that's about nine years longer than most of my past relationships; thinking of Sean (that lying sack of shit), and the Sean before that; thinking of Rudy, my still secret... whatever he is (guy I'm seeing? boyfriend?). I'm the last person I'd turn to for relationship advice.

Seriously. I'd almost sooner go to Shanda the street walker.

"I'm not giving up on us yet though," Batista continues, oblivious to my thoughts. "I told her I need time to think about this. I'm thinking we could see a counselor. Maybe if we talked to someone, you know... I don't know." He plays with his air conditioning vent, drops his hand and looks at me again. "I'd appreciate you not telling anyone at the station. No one else knows about Nina and I, the separation and all that. Besides your brother, anyway."

I look at him in amazement. Dexter? How did he get into the chosen circle, the guy who never asks questions? "Yeah, no," I say, instead of that. "Of course I won't tell anybody."

"I appreciate that. I mean, who knows, maybe she'll agree to see the counselor, and once we finally spend some time together again she'll realize that this marriage is worth holding onto. I have faith, you know?"

I nod, not sure that three months of separation and talk of divorce bodes as well as Batista seems to hope it does. "She'll come around," I say, trying to be reassuring.

"I really think she will," he says, and he almost sounds like he believes it. "Thanks for listening to me, Morgan."

I almost want to correct him to 'Deb,' but he's a colleague and a superior, and I want to keep a distance between us. Maybe that's the other reason I'm still keeping Rudy to myself, I don't know.

Before either of us can speak again, the line moves along, and we finally hit the intercom. Batista asks for a double with bacon, cheese, lots of pickles, fries, and a Mr. Pibb; I opt for a cheeseburger, fries, and the largest possible size of Diet Coke. We don't say anything more to each other until we get to the counter window, where Batista starts digging through his pockets for change, and I offer to just cover his 47 cents.

Six minutes later we're cruising down the road with windows down, the moist, coolish air rolling through the car as I alternate between munching fries and chomping into my burger. Batista seems to have retracted back into his thoughts, and I can't really blame him. I remember all those nights he claimed to have been going home to his wife, but they've been separated since before I even landed the transfer out of Vice. Maybe this is why he's always going out with Masuka. (because I was starting to wonder...)

Clearly I'm not the only one at the station keeping secrets. I still don't know what the fuck was going on with Doakes and that Guerrero bust, where that mysterious line of stitches came from.

Wonder who else is keeping secrets. Wonder what or if Dexter's keeping anything else to himself, besides, apparently, Batista's marital issues. Wonder if he'd tell me if I asked.

Yeah, probably not.

I stop thinking about much of anything but my lunch as I drive back in the direction of the station and the bay. Batista eats his greasy-ass burger with relish in the other seat, his elbow hanging out the window, the brim of his hat flapping around with the breeze. At least he's not still working his jaw.

By the time we've reached the station again, my burger's long since dead and there's only a handful of fries left in the plastic basket. I grab that with my drink and the wrappers and my purse, get out with Batista.

"I'll see you inside," I say, and he nods, gives me a little smile, then trudges to the building, tossing his own trash as he goes.

I settle against the trunk, slowly working my way through the last of my now cold fries between long sips of soda. Just as I'm finishing off the fries, I spot a familiar car pull into the lot and park a few yards from where I'm leaning.

I push off my car, walk over to Dexter's as he gets out. He's wearing that dark blue, striped shirt that always reminds me vaguely of tweed.

"You're just getting back?" I ask, sipping my drink.

He glances at me and gives me a weird look, like he's surprised to see me here. "Yeah," he says. "That lunch thing I had ran late."

"What lunch thing?" I ask, not remembering him mentioning anything.

"Oh, nothing important." He waves it off, slams his door. Locks the car.

Hm, speaking of hiding things...

I lean in, grin at him evilly. "You go and toss Rita a quickie on her lunch break?" I ask quietly.

He grimaces, then moves past me. I follow him, binning my trash as we head inside. "Fine, don't tell me," I say when my protracted silence doesn't goad him into talking.

"Okay," he says. Annoyingly.

We move through the lobby, reach the elevator. He taps the button, oblivious as usual to my reaction. Sighing slightly, I reach into my purse for my glasses case, take off my aviators and slip them inside, drop it back into my purse.

"How was court?" he asks after the doors open and we step inside.

"Long," I exhale. "How was Rita?"

"I wasn't—" he collects himself mid-sentence, "with Rita. We haven't even..."

"Liar," I cut him off. I want to ask him about this whole Batista thing, but before I can quite formulate the question, the doors open.

"See you, sis," he says, heading off in the direction of the bathroom.

"See you, brother," I mutter, watching him flee. Bet he doesn't even have to go.

With a sigh and a vague feeling of disappointment about the lack of gossip, I go back to my desk. Before I've even set down my purse, I look around to see Doakes getting up and moving toward me.

"Tox screen came back on Vanessa Gayle," he says without preamble, despite the fact that this is the first time we've seen each other face-to-face today.

"Yeah?" I say, putting down my purse.

"Came back positive for sedatives." He indicates some new piece of paper that's appeared on my desk since yesterday. "So far, looks like you were right. Unless the coroner wants to make any revisions, we're closing this is as a suicide."

I feel a puff of triumph rise up my chest as I nod. "Great," I say, then automatically revise, "For us."

"Mm," he grunts. "Julia Wagner's coming in in an hour. You need to get up to speed before she does."

I nod, follow him to his desk. I notice Batista's in with LaGuerta as I take a seat next to my partner. I remember suddenly that she was going to see Perry today. I wonder if she found anything out...

I refocus on Doakes. "You still liking her for this?" I ask. "The wife, I mean."

"It's always the spouse, Morgan," he says.

I bite back the urge to mention Vanessa Gayle, whose late husband seemed like a way better suspect than the newly-minted mother who drives a station wagon.

"So what've you got?" I say instead.

He grabs his notepad and a folder, hands me the latter. "Turns out our vic was into poker, was running games out of a few of the houses his bank foreclosed on."

"Maybe he was extorting someone?" I offer helpfully.

He shoots me his stink eye, and I close my mouth, purse my lips. "Go on," I say.

After a slight pause, he does.