Not with Deborah lying unmoving inside. Not that it would be wrong -1 just didn't feel it. I didn't feel anything at all except tired, dull and empty.

Well, I couldn't cure the dull and empty, and I couldn't cure Deborah, but at least I could do something about the tired part.

I went home.

I woke up early, with a bad taste in my mouth. Rita was already in the kitchen and she had a cup of coffee in front of me before I could even settle into a chair. “How is she?” she said.

“It's too soon to tell” I said, and she nodded.

“They always say that” she said.

I took a large slug of the coffee and stood back up. “I'd better check and see how she is this morning” I said. I grabbed my cell phone from the table by the front door and called Chutsky.

“No change” he said, in a voice that was rough with fatigue. “I'll call you if anything happens.” I went back to the kitchen table and sat, feeling like I might fall into a coma myself at any minute. “What did they say?” Rita asked.

“No change” I told her, and I slouched forward into the coffee cup.

Several cups of coffee and six blueberry pancakes later I was somewhat restored and ready to go to work. So I pushed back from the table, said goodbye to Rita and the kids, and headed out the door. I would go through the motions like always, and let the ordinary rhythm of my artificial life lull me into synthetic serenity.

But work was not the sanctuary I had expected. I was greeted everywhere with sympathetic frowns and hushed voices asking, “How is she?” The entire building seemed to be throbbing with concern and echoing with the battle cry of, “It's too soon to tell.” Even Vince Masuoka had gotten into the spirit. He had brought in doughnuts —the second time this week! —and in a spirit of pure sympathetic kindness he had saved me the Bavarian Creme.

“How is she?” he asked, handing me the doughnut.

“She lost a lot of blood” I told him, mostly for the sake of some variety before I wore out my tongue from saying the same thing so many times. “She's still in ICU.”

“They're pretty good at this stuff at Jackson” he said. “Lots of practice.”

“I'd rather have them practice on someone else” I said, and ate the doughnut.

I had been in my chair for less than ten minutes when I got a call from Captain Matthews” executive assistant, Gwen. “The captain wants to see you right away” she said.

“Such a beautiful voice —it can only be that radiant angel Gwen,” I said.

“He means right now” she said, and hung up. And so did I.

I was in the captain's outer office in just under four minutes, looking at Gwen in person. She had been Matthews” assistant forever, all the way back to when she was called a secretary, and for two reasons. The first was that she was incredibly efficient. The second was that she was incredibly plain, and none of the captain's three wives had ever been able to find the slightest objection to her.

The combination of these two things made her irresistible to me, as well, and I was unable to see her without letting some lighthearted jest fly out from my frothy wit. “Ah Gwendolyn,” I said.

“Sweet siren of South Miami.”

“He's waiting for you” she said.

“Never mind him” I said. “Fly away with me to a life of beautiful debauchery.”

“Go on in” she said, nodding at the door. “In the conference room.”

I had assumed that the captain would want to express official sympathy, and the conference room seemed like a strange place to do that. But he was the captain and Dexter a mere underling, so I went on in.

Captain Matthews was, indeed, waiting for me. So were a few other people, most of whom I recognized, and none of whom were particularly good news. There was Israel Salguero, who was head of Internal Affairs; he was bad news all by himself. But he was also joined by Irene Cappuccio whom I knew only by sight and reputation. She was the senior lawyer for the department, and rarely called in unless somebody had filed a credible and substantial law suit against us. Sitting beside her was another department lawyer, Ed Beasley.

Across the table was Lieutenant Stein, Information Officer, who specialized in spinning things to keep the whole force from looking like a rampaging gang of visigoths. Altogether, this was not a group calculated to make Dexter sink into a chair wrapped in a soft cloud of tranquility.

There was a stranger sitting in one of the chairs by Matthews, and it was clear from the cut of his apparently expensive suit that he was not a cop. He was black, with a look of important condescension on his face and a shaved head that gleamed so brightly I was sure he used furniture polish, and as I watched he twitched his arm so that the sleeve rolled up to reveal a large diamond cufflink and a beautiful Rolex watch.

“Morgan” Matthews said, as I hovered in the doorway fighting down a sense of panic. “How is she?”

“Too soon to tell,” I said.

He nodded. “Well, I'm sure we all, ah, hope for the best here” he said. “She's a fine officer, and her dad was, uh —your dad, too, of course.” He cleared his throat and went on. “The, uh, doctors at Jackson are the best, and I want you to know that if there's anything the department can do, um ...” The man beside him glanced up at Matthews, and then at me, and Matthews nodded. “Sit down” he said.

I hooked a chair back away from the table and sat, with no idea what was going on, but an absolute certainty that I wouldn't like it.

Captain Matthews confirmed my opinion right away. “This is an informal conversation” he said. “Just to, ah, ahem.” The stranger turned his large and brittle eyes on the captain with a somewhat withering expression, and then looked back at me. I represent Alex Doncevic” he said.

The name meant absolutely nothing to me, but he said it with such smooth conviction I was sure it ought to, so I just nodded and said, “Oh, all right.”

“In the first place” he said, I am demanding his immediate release. And in the second ...” He paused here, apparently for dramatic effect and to let his righteous anger build up and spill out into the room. “In the second place” he said, as if he was addressing a crowd in a large hall, “we are considering a lawsuit for punitive damages.”

I blinked. They were all looking at me, and I was clearly an important part of something a little bit dire, but I really had no idea what it might be. “I'm sorry to hear that” I said.

“Look” Matthews said. “We're just having an informal, preliminary conversation here. Because Mr Simeon here, ah —has a very respectable position in the community. Our community” he said.

“And because his client is under arrest for several major felonies” Irene Cappuccio said.

“Illegally under arrest” Simeon said.

“That remains to be seen” Cappuccio told him. She nodded at me. “Mr Morgan can possibly shed some light on that.”

“All right” said Matthews. “Let's not, uh.” He put both hands on the conference table, face down. “The important thing is, just —uh, Irene?”

Cappuccio nodded and looked at me. “Can you tell us exactly what happened yesterday, leading up to the assault on Detective Morgan?”

“You know you would never get away with that in court, Irene” Simeon said. “Assault? Come on.” Cappuccio looked at him with a cold, unblinking stare for what seemed like a very long time, but was probably only about ten seconds. “All right” she said, turning back to me. “Leading up to the time his client stuck a knife in Deborah Morgan? You're not denying he stabbed her, are you?” she said to Simeon.

“Let's hear what happened,” Simeon said with a tight smile.

Cappuccio nodded to me. “Go on” she said. “Start at the beginning.”

“Well” I said, and that was all I could really say for the moment.

I could feel the eyes on me and the clock ticking, but I couldn't think of anything more cogent to say. It was nice finally to know who Alex Doncevic was; it's always good to know the names of people who stab your family members.