Chapter 2

The Miami Sun Times had a glorious reputation for keeping readers entertained with news that was mostly true. Owner and editor Kyle Cobb was notorious for printing stories that sparked emotions and frequent lawsuits, but Cobb was rich enough that lawsuits were no more nuisances than mosquitoes.

So when a serial killer began sending envelopes with case files that detailed his 'artistic' murder scenes, Kyle Cob was more than happy to print as much as the FCC allowed. The paper reached readers before the police and by the time police arrived on scene, tabloid reporters, thrill seekers, macabre enthusiasts, and quacks had trampled and destroyed it. Evidence was ruined before the police even had a chance to begin, just as The Artist planned it.

Detectives Debra Morgan and Joseph Quinn were furious with Kyle Cobb for contributing to The Artists evading capture. The different law enforcement offices tried to reason with Cobb. They sent PR reps to plead to the man's goodness – it was determined he didn't have one. They had tried lawyers – his were better.

So Debra and Quinn decided to try a different approach and arrived without an appointment.

"We're here to see Kyle Cobb," Debra told the receptionist.

"Do you have an appointment?"

As if rehearsed they slapped their badges on the counter.

"We do now," Debra said.

The woman made a phone call, spoke to someone in a hushed voice, and then stood.

"Follow me," she told them.

The two were led through the newsroom and up to the mezzanine. They walked past offices to a corner office. On one side it looked down on the newsroom, on the other side it looked on downtown Miami. Cobb sat behind a desk, watching the two enter.

He stood with a large, white toothed grin. It wasn't an inviting smile. It was one that said he planned on giving them hell and welcomed this game.

"Good afternoon, detectives," he said. He motioned to a chair. "Won't you have a seat?"

The three sat.

"Would you like something to drink?" Cobb offered.

"No," they answered in unison.

Quinn led, saying, "Saw you ran another story on The Artist's latest sculpture this morning."

Cobb's smile grew. "Yes. He titled it The Lovers. Did you get to see it in person? It is a beautiful piece."

"You call two dead people who were frozen to death or died of carbon monoxide poisoning beautiful?" Debra snapped. "They had children who are still missing. If they show up dead, you'll have helped murder them too."

Cobb opened a drawer, pulled out a digital recorder, and turned it on before he sat it on his desk with the mic facing them.

"Detective Morgan, do you think you're experience with the Ice Truck Killer is helping this investigation? And how?"

Debra scorned. "Fuck you, asshole!"

"My wife wouldn't approve, but thank you for your ladylike offer."

Debra lurched forward to launch a verbal attack, but stopped when Quinn laid his hand on her arm.

"Look," Quinn said, interrupting her from saying anything stupid. "We need to talk about when you get information from The Artist. We're not asking you to not print it, we're just—

"Oh. You're not?" Cobb crooned, grinning.

"Sir, do you have any idea what it feels like to freeze to death or die from carbon monoxide poisoning? Men, women, children – he kills them all the same way. Do you want me to describe it to you? On the record?"

"Oh no. You don't need to describe it. Didn't you read Monday's special? It sold very well, set us forward in sales for the year. We interviewed four doctors and they gave excellent details about how the victims died. Perhaps your forensics team should read it."

"You really don't care that these people died," Debra stated. "You don't care that he murdered a twelve week old baby, or a five year old, or four teenagers? That he killed a pregnant woman? That doesn't bother you at all, does it?"

Cobb leaned back in his chair. "I didn't know them. Why should I care?"

Debra stood up, knocking over her chair. She stormed out. Quinn and Cobb stared at each other.

"All we're asking, Mister Cobb, is to let us get a firsthand look at the case file and photographs he's sent you, give us a crack at the crime scene before we lose evidence."

Cobb eased back his chair. He laced his fingers together before putting them behind his head.

"No."

Quinn drew a slow breath. He stood up and took a folded newspaper page out of his back pocket, unfolded it, and sat it down in front of Cobb.

"This will be the front page of your competitor's newspaper this evening."

The headline read: Heartless Sun Editor Kills Competitors Daughter.

"See," Quinn told Cobb, "That girl in the piece, that was his daughter. And the man, his son-in-law. The children missing are his grandchildren. And in the letter your friend The Artist sent him, it said he was doing this for you."

Cobb smiled. "The Artist sent him a letter to that effect?"

"Not effect. The exact words were, and I quote, I made this piece especially for my editor Kyle Cobb. Please enjoy."

Cobb laughed. "That's amusing. I didn't know them. I don't care."

"You should. He's going to sue you for endangering the public – something your lawyers can't get you out of. Oh, and tonight, when you drive home, you know all those unpaid parking tickets you have…" Quinn smiled. "We'll be collecting on them tonight. There's a bench warrant for your arrest that was effective at eight this morning when you didn't show up for court."

"I wasn't notified of—"

"Of course you were. It was in your newspaper's legal section yesterday. You should have read the paper. Have a good day, sir."

Quinn walked out.

#

Debra was waiting in their car. Quinn got in and headed down the street. They didn't talk right away. Debra smiled, looking at him.

"Did he like traffic's little gift?"

Quinn laughed. "Loved it. You were right. He never saw the notice."

The kicked her feet and laughed. "Right on! What about the letter? Did he believe that letter was actually sent to the editor?"

"I think so, but I thought the Herald editor was blaming us for his daughter and son-in-law being killed. How'd you get him to agree to this, Deb?

Debra told him, "Someone owed me a favor and knew how to get to him."

"Oh yeah? Who and how?"

She shrugged. "I didn't ask and if this works, I don't care."

"I guess, on the plus side, if this doesn't work, we aren't any worse off."

Debra grinned. "And if it does, we might actually get a leg up on the mother fucking Artist!"

Quinn smiled, nodding.

#

Most of the ride to the Juen house Batista and I didn't speak. His phone kept ringing. He kept ignoring it. It was annoying me. Something had to be said about it.

"Marital trouble?" I asked.

"Ex-marital trouble," he snarled.

Oh. On second thought, maybe it was better if I steered clear of this one.

From out of nowhere he told me, "Maria and I wanted to invite you and the kids to supper Friday night."

I didn't say no right away. I did have plans Friday. I was going to kill someone. I just didn't know who, yet.

"I really don't—"

"Maria bought the roast last night. Said it was your favorite. It was her idea."

She was expecting me to say yes. Great.

"I'll ask the kids."

"They're kids, Dexter. Just tell them they're going. They are supposed to listen to you. You are their father."

Adopted father. "We don't do things like that at our house. We talk about family decisions as a family – just like Rita used to do."

Batista glanced as me. He looked like I'd just proposed the most outrageous thing in the world.

"Fine. Never mind."

We turned the corner into a cul-de-sac. The houses in this neighborhood were huge.

"I'll talk to them, Angel."

He nodded once.

Pulling up to the front of the Juen house, I was very intrigued. The home was enormous, so it didn't appear that the Juen's were in financial distress — in theory. If money wasn't the motivation, what would make a man snap and kill his own flesh and blood?

Could I be capable of that?

Batista got out and I followed with kit in hand. He stopped to ring the doorbell. When he looked back he must have thought I was questioning why he'd done that.

"She might be lying about all this," he said.

"Okay."

No one answered. He tried the door, but it was locked.

"I'm going around back. Wait here, Morgan."

He left. I waited until he was gone and then pulled my lock pick kit from a pocket. In five seconds I had the door open and having secured the kit in my pocket, was stepping inside the house. I waited for Batista – I could explain the open door, but not why I had gone searching the house without him. It gave me time to look over the photographs set on the table in the foyer. Abriella, Jason, and Carter Juen looked like a happy family. They smiled a lot. The baby was a nice touch. But I knew his eyes. I looked into eyes like his every day. This man had killed before. Abriella wasn't his first attempt, but she was his last.

"What the… That door was locked!"

I turned to face Batista. "No. It was just stuck."

He accepted the lie.

"Stay here. I'm going to look around."

I didn't argue, watching him go up the steps. I returned to looking over the photographs and getting to know the Juen's

"Morgan, come up here," Batista called.

I walked up the steps. I found him in the baby's nursery. A well-known cartoon with talking cars decorated the room – I'm glad Rita had wanted cowboys for our son. Batista stood at the crib. I walked up and stared down at the small, colorless, bloated, corpse lying in the crib. This was a strange feeling. Was I feeling sympathy?

"Could you do that to your son? Shake him to death because he was crying? What father could do that?"

I wouldn't do that to Harris. Ever.

Batista's phone rang. He looked at it and the dark anger resurfaced. He answered it this time.

"Don't hang up," he growled at the caller. To me he said, "I'll go radio this in. Don't touch him, but start with this room."

"Angel, I'm the blood spatter guy, I really don't think—"

"I'm not asking," Batista growled and then walked out.

I watched him leave. It was uncommon for him to be so moody. I sat the kit down, donned gloves, and went in search of evidence.

#

Home.

I parked in the drive and climbed out of my vehicle. I could hear laughter in the backyard but went inside instead. I was met by the smell of spaghetti sauce. I sat my bag down and made a beeline to Harris' playpen. My son was sleeping.

"Mister Morgan?"

I turned and offered a smile to the nanny, something the grandparents had insisted on helping pay for since Rita's death. I didn't object, but I'd gone through six. They were all too nosey and objected when I came home in the middle of the night, hours after they were supposed to get off. Whether those nannies had believed I was actually working or not was unclear – each had given her notice as soon as I walked through the door.

This one was Martine, an immigrant from Haiti. She was good with the kids, a terrible cook, and so far had put up with my strange 'work' hours.

"I'm home, Martine. You can go."

"You are home for the night?"

"Yes. Thank you for starting supper."

"I had you. You were late. Again."

"I told you when you started I sometimes have to work late."

"You work late all the time, Mister Morgan."

She walked over to the playpen and looked in on Harris before looking me in the eye. I didn't like when she did this. Her eyes widened a little. Her dark skinned face tensed. Her breathing picked up a little. I felt like she was looking right at my Dark Passenger.

"I have tomorrow off. Don't call me. Good night." And she left.

"Oh… Okay," I said to the closing door.

"DEXTER!" Cody cried and I turned.

He ran up to me and threw his arm around my waist. Astor walked up behind him. She always looked serious these days.

"Hi," she said.

"Hey. Is the homework done?"

"I didn't have any," Astor answered.

"I have a paper I need help on," Cody told me.

"Okay. After supper we'll work on it."

"Are you going to be home tonight?" Astor asked. She sounded like her mother when she asked that.

"Yes."

Her expression shift was slight. It was very subtle, easy to miss by an untrained eye. It meant she was happy, or as much as a teenager could be.

Rita appeared next to Astor, smiling lovingly at her. "Teenagers just don't show emotions like we do, Dex. You should understand that better than anyone."

"We've were invited to the Batista's for supper Friday night. Any objections?"

"Can I bring my iPod?" Astor asked.

"Yes. Of course."

"Cool." Astor walked away.

I looked down at Cody. He grinned. "A real meal?"

"Yes. A real meal."

"I'm for it!" Cody ran off.

I felt a tug on my pants and turned. Harris stood at the edge of the crib reaching up for me. I lifted him into my arms, but all I could see was Abriella's dead baby. Rita stood next to me, watching our son.

#

Debra had begun re-examining The Artist cases at seven in the morning. It was now just after one the following morning. She was sure that if she dug deeper, she'd find some miniscule clue to help start them on the killer's trail.

But so far, all she'd come up with was how disturbing it was that his victims looked like wax figures instead of flesh and bone. She knew the victims would have known they were dying to the very end. Even the children.

She jumped when a file was slapped down in the middle of her work. She looked up, staring at Cobb.

They were alone in the conference room, surrounded by photographs of the deceased from twelve crime scenes. She glanced at her watch.

"It's one in the morning, Mister Cobb. What are you doing here?"

"The Artist has the case files delivered at midnight." He motioned at the package. "Copy everything and get it to me by three. I need it for the morning edition."

"It's evidence now."

He leaned on the table, staring into her eyes. "If you want this to work, we have to make it look like this never happened, and the police didn't know in advance."

Debra looked down at the package, realizing what he was saying.

"Do you understand, Detective?" Cobb asked.

"I thought you didn't care what happened?" she taunted, lifting her eyes to glare at him.

"This is me cooperating. If you want me to take it away, then fine, I'll—" He reached for the package.

Debra snatched it away.

"Okay. Deal. I'll copy everything and you'll get it by three. Where will you be?"

"It always comes to my house. Don't send someone in a uniform, he might be watching."

"You think like a cop."

"I have to. It's how my paper stays number one in this city." Cobb left.

Debra tore open the envelope, emptying it on her desk, and hoping that somewhere in this would be a clue to who The Artist was.