Dexter Is Dead

by Jeff Lindsay

  “Dexter, goddamn it, how?” she demanded. “Where are they?”

  I couldn’t decide. I temporized. “I don’t know where they are,” I said. “But,” I went on, overriding a stream of very professional curses from Deborah, “I think I can get them to come to me.”

  “To you? Why would they come to you?”

  I took a deep breath—and I paused.

  I am not a trusting person. From my own hard experience and my unclouded observations of people in general, I have always regarded nontrust as a very wise stance. And I had also made an exception for family, for the most part—especially Deborah.

  But at the moment, when our new relationship was still defining itself, it did not look like a very good idea. For all I knew, telling her about Brian and Raul and that whole mess—and admitting that the children’s abduction was my fault—might have some very unpleasant consequences.

  Trust is such a fragile thing, isn’t it? Once it’s broken, there is no superglue in the world that can put it back together again. Perhaps with time I would come to trust my neo-ex-sister. Not yet.

  “Goddamn it, Dexter!” Debs said. “Why the fuck will they come to you?”

  I fought down the impulse to smile reassuringly, since it might easily turn into a leer at this point, and instead gave her my very best stout and loyal manly stare.

  “You’ll have to trust me,” I said.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Deborah wanted to come along, of course. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust me, though of course she didn’t. It was merely that she was, and always has been, what is known as a Control Freak. She could not stand the thought of letting something she cared about slip out of her sight and into less competent hands—and of course, all hands were less competent, as far as she was concerned.

  But it just wouldn’t do. There were far too many variables, and she might grab at any one of them and use it to upset an applecart or two. So in the end, after she had tried blasphemy, bullying, wheedling, blackmail, extortion, and the threat of enormous and violent physical force, she gave in. She even supplied me with a Cold Piece.

  In case you don’t know the term, or worse, if you know it but believe only crooked cops have them, let me explain. A Cold Piece is a gun with no history. It’s unregistered, and quite often the serial numbers are filed off. This means that if it is used in the course of a casual felony or two, it cannot be traced back to any past or present user. As you can see, this makes it quite a handy thing to have around.

  And if you cherish the notion that no true-blue righteous cop would ever entertain the thought of owning such a vile object, let me just say this: Ha. Even more, Ha, ha.

  Cops won’t talk about it, of course. But every now and then, in the course of doing a job that is routinely life-threatening, demeaning, and contradictory—every now and then a situation arises in which even the Good Cop faces a Bad Situation, and the Greater Good demands just a tiny little bending of the absolute standards entrusted to their care.

  And so, the Cold Piece. Deborah had one, a very nice Ruger nine-millimeter with a fifteen-round clip, and she assured me it was absolutely untraceable. She put it in my hands, even supplying a full second clip, and although she did not actually tear up and whisper, “Godspeed,” she did actually look into my eyes for a full two seconds before saying, “Fuck,” and turning away. For Deborah, it was very close to, “Godspeed.”

  I do not like guns. They are cold, impersonal, nasty things with no beauty at all. They have no real soul, and they take all the fun out of things. But they are also quite effective at evening the odds, and as the adopted son of a man who was an ex-Marine combat vet as well as a cop, I knew how to use them quite well. And since I had no real idea what might be lying in wait for me, the weight of the Ruger in my pocket was reassuring.

  Deborah very grumpily drove me over to Dadeland, an old mall in South Miami, and dropped me there at the main entrance, still with a complete lack of good cheer. She glared at me long and hard before she let me go, but all she said was, “Call me, goddamn it.”

  I wandered through the mall for a half hour or so, just to give Debs a chance to give up lurking hopefully in the parking lot, and then I went straight to the food court and took care of some very important unresolved issues. I had, after all, never gotten my meat loaf. It may be that I should have been so focused on getting my kids back safely that I forgot how hungry I was. But the mighty machine that is Dexter does not work that way. In order to perform at the highest possible level, it needs fuel on a regular schedule. And since I was facing a very daunting task or two in the near future, I needed it now.

  The food court offered a wide array of choices, as they often do. I settled on two slices of pizza, for very good reasons. First, it was the first place I came to. Second, and almost as important, it was lying right there under a red spotlight all ready to go. I wolfed it down fast, so I wouldn’t notice that I didn’t like it.

  After I’d eaten I found a Starbucks and got a Double Super Reverse Mega Ultra Extra Wonder Something-or-Other that tasted surprisingly like coffee. I took it to a table in a quiet corner, sat, and called Brian.

  He answered right away. “Brother,” he said with his usual fake bonhomie.

  “I have something of great importance,” I said. “Can you come get me?”

  “Great importance?” he said.

  “Practically immense,” I assured him. “A problem solved.”

  “Oh, well, then,” he said. “On my way.”

  I sat and sipped my Ultimo Ridiculoso Stupenda blend while I waited for Brian to arrive. I went through my reasoning again, checking it carefully, looking for any indications that I had added things up wrong, and found none. I was as sure as I could be, and that’s always a nice feeling. If I lived through all this, I must remember to have that feeling more often.

  And why couldn’t I have it more often right now? Why couldn’t I think of something feeling-forming to solve the absurd bumbling malice of Anderson? It really was too bad; for the first time since this whole thing started I’d just begun to think there might be a way out. But if my new theory was right, I still had to deal with Detective Dolt.

  I remembered something my adoptive mother, Doris, had been fond of saying: “Two little problems make for one big solution.” It had been her version of turning stumbling blocks into stepping-stones, I suppose, and I’d never really found it to be true. But if it ever could be true, this would be a wonderful time.

  Every now and then, I think my thoughts are fixed on one thing, and in fact they are not. When this happens, they will quite often clear their throat politely to get my attention, and then let me know what I was really thinking. And as I sat there in Dadeland Mall remembering Dear Doris, I heard a soft but very distinct ahem coming from an unused corner of my brain. I politely turned my focus there, expecting to hear a request for one more slice of the awful pizza. But what I found instead was much, much tastier.

  So much better, in fact, that I had That Feeling again.

  Once more I picked up my phone, and this time I had only good feelings about the device. In fact, I regretted ever disliking it—what a marvelous piece of equipment it was! It can take pictures, send text messages, access the Internet, become a GPS or a dictating machine or a hundred other things—and even make phone calls! And on top of all that wonderful possibility, it can send e-mails!

  Working quickly, I began to use a few of those splendid features. I went online and found a site that allows you to book hotel rooms; I booked one at the Galleon in South Miami under the name of Brian Murphy, the name that had been on my brother’s fake credit card. The site allowed me to pick a room and I chose Room 1221 for no particular reason, pressed confirm, and clicked off.

  Next, I used my beloved phone to send an e-mail to Vince Masuoka. “Hi, Vince,” I wrote. “Thot u shd know—I am @ Galleon Hotel, room 1221. Don’t tell anybody!!!” And then I added, “PS—I am out of the room for about 2 hrs, so don’t come right now.”

/>   And finally, just to keep things in proper perspective, I used the delightful device to make an actual phone call. “Vince,” I said when he answered. “I just sent you an e-mail—”

  “What?! No!” he wailed. “Dexter, I told you—Anderson is reading my mail!”

  “Yes, I know,” I said soothingly. “I’m counting on it.”

  “You’re—what?”

  “Just make sure you ignore it,” I said. “Okay?”

  “Ignore—But it’s my e-mail.”

  “Vince, please, it’s very simple,” I said. “Pay no attention to e-mails from me. Understand?”

  “I—I guess so,” he said. “But, Dexter—”

  “Gotta go, Vince,” I said quickly, before he could take off again. “Bye!” and I hung up.

  Have you ever noticed what a wonderful place the world can be sometimes, on those very rare occasions when Things behave properly and fall into place the way they should? This was just such a time, and to celebrate it with all due ceremony I got up and bought another Mighty Superbo Magnum Yum-Yum. Once again, it tasted a lot like coffee, but that was all good, too. I sipped and waited for my brother.

  And mere minutes later Brian was sitting across from me and sipping a Gigundo Fantastica Triple Colossal Cosmic Miracle of his own. “You’re quite sure about this?” he asked me, wiping some whipped cream from his upper lip.

  “I am,” I said. “But if I’m wrong, the worst that happens is that nobody shows up.”

  He nodded, sipped again. “Well, then,” he said. “Let’s do it.”

  I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone, as well as the business card that I’d kept in the same pocket. I dialed, waited three rings, and then heard, “Frank Kraunauer.”

  “Dexter Morgan, Mr. Kraunauer,” I said. “I think a reporter saw me in the lobby? So I moved to a different hotel, and I wanted to let you know where I am. You know, just in case.”

  “I’m sure that’s wise,” Kraunauer said. “Better safe than sorry, after all. Where are you?”

  “The Galleon Hotel in South Miami, Room 1221,” I said, thinking that this was the very first time I’d heard him use any phrase as stale as that. Clearly his mind was occupied with other more important matters—like giving Dexter’s new location to his pet killers. Using a cliché wasn’t truly airtight proof of guilt in any legal sense, but it was enough for me.

  “All right,” he said. “Be patient, and stay put as much as you can, right there in the room.”

  “I rented a movie,” I said. “I’m not going anywhere for two hours, and then I’m going out for something to eat.”

  “Terrific,” he said. “I think we’ll have some good news very soon.”

  “Wonderful,” I said. “Thanks, Mr. Kraunauer.”

  “You’re entirely welcome,” he said, and broke the connection.

  Brian was looking at me inquisitively, so I shrugged and said, “He didn’t actually confess.”

  “No, he wouldn’t.”

  “But I think I’m right,” I said. “And I think it will be soon. Now if only the timing works out.”

  “It’s still a bit hard to believe,” Brian said. “He has a very good reputation in certain circles.” He flashed me a quick smile. “You know, the circles I recently left behind.” He frowned at his coffee. “Why would he do this to you? A client?”

  “Simple economics,” I said. “I am one case, and with a limited fee. Raul, on the other hand, represents a limitless wellspring of high-cash clients. And,” I said, “Raul would probably kill Kraunauer if he didn’t do this.”

  “That can be persuasive,” Brian said.

  “And since you learned about Kraunauer from your work with Raul?” I said, and Brian nodded a yes. “We know that there is already a connection. I think it’s pretty close to conclusive.”

  “I suppose it is,” he said thoughtfully. He was silent for a moment. Then he sighed and shook his head. “What a world,” he said. “I guess nothing is sacred after all.”

  “Only two things,” I said. “Lawyers and money.”

  “Amen,” he said. “Well. What do we do next?” he asked.

  “We wait,” I said. “Somewhere near the hotel, where we can see without being seen, would be best.”

  “Yes,” Brian said. “With an emphasis on Not Being Seen, I think.”

  The Galleon was only about a mile from the mall, and we were in place in under a half hour. We found a perfect spot half a block away, in a parking lot that was surrounded by a chain-link fence. A scraggly hedge had been planted right up against the mesh of the fence for extra privacy. It was twilight, and rush hour was starting to die down a little, and we had a clear view of the hotel’s front door through small breaks in the hedge. But no one over there could see us, not through the hedge and our windshield.

  We waited, and I had a disturbing thought. “What if they use a bomb again?” I asked.

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” Brian said. He smiled a happy little smile. “Raul is very impatient with failure. They’ll want face-to-face confirmation this time.”

  “How many of them?”

  “This will be the first team,” Brian said. “Raul’s best shooters. At least two of them, and maybe a driver.”

  “I hope so,” I said. “The driver would be easiest to take alive.”

  “If we really have to,” Brian said.

  “We do,” I said firmly. “We need at least one of them to talk to us.”

  Brian actually pouted. “It seems a shame,” he said.

  “Yes, but, Brian,” I said, “we need somebody to tell us where the children are.”

  “Oh, I know that,” he said. And then he brightened visibly. “But that means we’ll have to persuade him to talk! I hadn’t thought of that! Oh, what fun.” He began to hum softly, and somewhat off-key. And almost immediately I found his nonmusic irritating, almost beyond endurance.

  It may be that I was just a little nervous—but who had better right? I finally had a way to hit back at all the pain, persecution, and perfidy that had taken over my life, but it was a risky move, and an exceedingly delicate one. If the timing was just a little off, or if one of my pawns did not react properly, the whole thing could collapse. There were far too many variables, and I couldn’t control any of them, and after three minutes of waiting and hearing Brian’s horrible humming I wanted to strangle him.

  But only a few minutes later a Ford Taurus slid up to the front of the hotel and parked at a sloppy angle. The Taurus was the Miami-Dade motor-pool car, and the parking was vintage I’m-a-cop-whatcha-gonna-do, and sure enough, Anderson climbed out. “Bingo,” I said.

  “Party of the first part?” Brian said.

  “Yup.” We watched as he moved quickly up the short walk and into the hotel, a shoe box under one arm. Now it all came down to the timing. I wished for just a second that there really was a god, and that he would listen to a prayer from something like me. It would have been nice to say a little prayer and actually believe it would work. But as far as I could tell, there was no god, and I didn’t know any prayer except, “Now I lay me down to sleep,” which didn’t really fit the occasion.

  But happily for me, no prayer was needed. Two minutes after Anderson disappeared into the hotel, a blue SUV cruised slowly past our hiding place and into a spot in front of the hotel. “Party of the second part,” I said. “Life is good.”

  Brian nodded, already staring intently at the other car. Two men climbed out: stocky, swarthy, one of them carrying a small suitcase. “The one with the baggage is Cesar,” Brian said softly. “A very bad man. I don’t recognize the other one.”

  The two men slammed the car’s doors and towed their suitcase into the hotel.

  “No driver,” I said, feeling a stomach lurch of anxiety.

  Brian shook his head. “I don’t see one,” he said.

  “Damn.” This made things a bit harder—but there was nothing to do but let it play out and hope for the best.

  We waited two more minute
s, and then Brian looked at me. “Shall we?”

  “We shall,” I said.

  We got out of the car and crossed the street at the corner to the far right of the hotel. And then, moving quickly, but with every sense on high alert, we went up the sidewalk to the front door. “Let me go first,” Brian said, and I nodded.

  He strode in the door, and I waited for thirty seconds that seemed much longer, before he stuck his head out and said, “Clear,” and I followed him in.

  It was a very nice lobby, if you like old terrazzo floors and golden wallpaper, peeling slightly at the edges. A bored clerk at the desk was tapping at an iPad. He didn’t even look up as we went past to the elevators, and I found to my delight that one of them was right there on the ground floor, waiting for us.

  We rode up to the twelfth floor. Soft and flaccid music played, and Brian hummed along to a tune I didn’t recognize. I no longer felt like strangling him. I was too busy wondering what would go wrong next.

  When the doors slid open on the twelfth floor, Brian held up a hand and once again went ahead of me, his pistol held at the ready. But this time he was back in mere seconds. “Quickly, brother,” he hissed, beckoning frantically.

  I stepped out of the elevator and right away I saw what had alarmed him.

  Room 1221 was the second room to the right from the elevators, and the door was wedged open about three inches. Even from fifteen feet away I could smell gunpowder, and I could see that the thing jamming the door open was a human hand. It wasn’t moving.

  I looked down the hall in both directions; surely somebody had heard something? But there was no sign of life, and no cries of, “Police!” or, “Help!” or even, “What ho!” Every other door along the hall was securely closed. It seemed impossible that nobody had heard a thing—and in all likelihood, it was impossible. But this was Miami in the twenty-first century, and when one hears gunshots, piteous cries for help, and multiple bodies hitting the floor, one simply double-locks the door and turns up the sound on the TV. Once more I felt a quiet swelling of civic pride; this is Dexter’s city.