Dexter Is Dead (19 page)

B
y the time my cab arrived I had used my phone to find another hotel, only a few miles from this one. But at the last second, just as I opened my mouth to give the address to the driver, one final tendril of consciousness waved the little red flag of caution and instead I told him to take me to the airport. It would mean an extra hour or more of being painfully awake, but it might also make it a little harder for the bad guys to find me.

At the airport I decided to play the game a little longer. I went in and wandered for a few minutes, and failed to spot anybody following me. I rode the Skytrain around the whole circuit twice, getting off and on suddenly and randomly, until I was quite sure I wasn’t being tailed. I picked up a shuttle to a hotel in Coral Gables, got another cab there, and ended up at a small hotel in Homestead with barely enough strength left to stagger up to my third-floor room and flop onto the bed, still fully dressed.

I remember thinking that this bed, at last, seemed very firm, and then I was blinking at the bedside clock that told me it was eleven-fifty-three. That didn’t seem possible. It had been well after midnight when I fell onto the bed. How could it be seven minutes
before
now? I closed my eyes again and tried to think, which was even harder than it had been lately. For just a moment I thought I must have slept backward through time, finally arriving here in bed before I actually got here. I spent a few pleasant moments thinking of what I should say to myself when I saw me walk in the door. But then I opened my eyes again, and noticed a bright edge of light showing around the bottom of the heavy curtains, and I thought,
Aha. It’s daytime. I slept through the night, and lo! The sun has riz. That explains everything.
Still, a little disappointing. I’d been hoping for a really interesting conversation with someone I knew to be a brilliant conversationalist—Me.

I rolled over and sat up. Everything hurt. My entire body was as sore as if I had just gone ten rounds with the heavyweight champ. Or one of them, anyway—there seemed to be quite a few lately. Perhaps they’d taken turns working me over. On top of all that, each one of the two dozen perforations from the glass splinters was stinging, my head throbbed, my jaw ached where Anderson had hit me, and I had a cramp in the arch of my left foot. I tried very hard for some positive spin: I was alive! It was the best I could do, but at the moment that didn’t seem like any real cause for celebration.

I looked at the clock again: eleven-fifty-seven. At least time was behaving properly and moving
forward
. I got slowly and gingerly off the bed. It was such a painful experience that I just stood there for a minute, hoping that returning circulation would begin to take away a few of the aches and pains. My left foot gradually felt a little better, but that was about it.

Still, I was, in fact, alive, and that had taken some doing. I thought about patting myself on the back, but decided I was too sore. I looked around the room, wondering what other miracle I could perform next. There was a small one-cup coffeemaker on the desk. That seemed like a good place to start.

The coffee began to brew, and as the first tendril of fresh coffee aroma steamed up and tickled my nose, it must have jump-started a synapse or two, because I remembered what Kraunauer had said:
The bomb story will be all over the news.
I looked at the clock again. It was now twelve-oh-one. Miami is blessed—or cursed, depending on your attitude—with several very active TV news departments that broadcast a
News at Noon
program. I clicked on the TV that sat next to the coffeemaker and turned to the station whose reporters had the best hair.

The last person to occupy this room was clearly hard of hearing, because the TV began to blast at a life-threatening volume. I hurriedly turned it down, just in time to hear the breathy blonde at the desk saying,

“…that authorities are now calling a deliberate attempt to murder this man—”

A terribly unflattering picture of Me appeared behind the blonde.

“Dexter Morgan,” she said, “who was recently arrested for multiple murder and molesting his stepdaughter.” And of course she had to say it in a rather accusing tone of voice, since pedophilia was involved. Even so, it was a wonderfully surreal moment to see Me on TV like that, in spite of the fact that I was really not at my best in that picture. But if you don’t love yourself, no one else will, so I admired my features for just a moment, and missed what was being said, until I tuned back in at, “…well-known criminal attorney Frank Kraunauer, who told our Matt Laredo his client was completely innocent and still being harassed by the police.”

The picture cut to a head shot of Frank Kraunauer. He looked much better than the picture of me. In fact, he looked magnificent: angry, yet composed, intelligent, formidable, and every hair in perfect place, which is very important to all major news outlets nowadays.

“There’s no longer any question that Mr. Morgan is being railroaded,” he said. “From the very beginning the evidence has been manipulated or even manufactured. My client has been falsely accused, unjustly and improperly jailed, and even physically assaulted by a member of the Miami-Dade police force.”

An earnest tenor voice cut in and the camera swung to the reporter, Matt Laredo, a young guy with wonderful brown hair and a very serious look. “Mr. Kraunauer, you want us to believe your client was assaulted by a
cop
?”

Back to Kraunauer. “He went into police custody last night unmarked, and came out of custody with a huge bruise on his face.” He favored the reporter with a sardonic smile, one I hadn’t seen before, bringing his total to eight separate great fake smiles. I was overcome with admiration and almost missed him saying, “No doubt the police will tell you he hit himself. But I have a witness who saw the officer hit my client. This is the same rogue cop who threatened my client’s life.”

Matt Laredo jumped in. “Where is your client now? Can we talk to him?”

Kraunauer gave him a pitying look. “No, of course not. Mr. Morgan feels that it isn’t safe to show his face, and I agree.” Kraunauer paused, a perfect two-second interval for maximum dramatic effect. “Mr. Morgan’s life was threatened. By a
cop
. And then
somebody
…put a bomb in his car.”

Matt Laredo’s face filled the screen, wearing a wonderfully crafted expression of dubious amazement and shock. Great hair
and
acting ability—the kid had network potential. “Mr. Kraunauer,” Laredo said, “are you asking us to believe that a
police
officer planted this bomb?”

Back to Kraunauer, who left Laredo in the dust, facially speaking, with a superb expression of cynical amusement, combined with disgust and angry outrage. “Draw your own conclusions,” he said grimly. “I make no accusations. But the threats were made, and then the bomb happened—and it would be very convenient for certain members of the police department if Dexter Morgan was no longer able to testify against them.”

The camera jumped to Matt Laredo, standing at my previous hotel, with the blasted ruins of my car behind him. “Anita, it seems like a clear-cut story of a multiple murder is morphing into an epic case of police corruption and cover-up, and it begs the question: How high does this go? And just how much can we trust our cops to do their job fairly and honestly? With or without Frank Kraunauer, we suddenly have some huge questions…and very few answers.”

Three full seconds of Matt Laredo looking nobly serious, and then back to the breathless blonde in the studio. “Thanks, Matt. And federal authorities have now intervened in the case, although terrorism is not suspected at this time. And that sure makes it look like the FBI doesn’t trust the Miami-Dade police, either.”

The picture behind her changed to an aerial shot of a pod of whales, and the blonde went right on without skipping a beat. “Another tragedy on the beaches of South Florida, as eleven pilot whales have been stranded near Everglades City. Debbie Schultz is on the scene.”

Even with Debbie Schultz on the scene, it was hard to get worked up about the tragic plight of a few whales, when poor Disheveled Dexter was in such terrible straits. I turned off the TV. Of course, it meant that I would never get to admire Debbie’s hair. It might even be riffled by a light breeze, and that was always a marvelous news moment. But perhaps I could comb my own hair instead. Besides, the coffee was ready. As I sipped it, I tried very hard not to gloat, but I admit a few sly smirks snuck out anyway. Kraunauer had done a wonderful job. He was worth every penny I wasn’t paying him. He even made
me
believe I was a poor innocent victim of an evil corrupt police force. And of course I was, at least in this one case, but I would never have dared to suggest it if not for Kraunauer.

The coffee did its job, too, and I was almost up to normal speed when my phone began to chirp. I glanced at it; the call was from Vince Masuoka. I picked up the phone and answered. “Hi, Vince,” I said.

“Dexter, my God! Are you all right?” he said in a voice that was near hysteria. “I mean, I know you must be, because—But holy shit! A
bomb
! The news said? And you were—I mean, are you? Okay, I mean?”

Vince’s outburst had been so frantic it was near the legal definition of assault, but I gathered he had seen something in the news similar to what I had just watched. “I’m fine, Vince, really,” I said. “Just a couple of scratches.”

“Oh, my
God,
but you could have been
killed
!” he said.

“I think that was the idea,” I said, but he was already rushing on.

“Jesus, Dexter—a
bomb
?! And they just…I mean, who would do that? To you, I mean?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “But the FBI is handling it now. They took it away from Anderson.”

“Anderson?” he said, sounding even more alarmed. “But that’s—Anderson is…” He lowered his voice to a near whisper and added, “Dexter, you think
Anderson
might have—I mean,” he said, dropping to a full whisper, “I found out he’s reading my e-mail.”

It’s always wonderful to witness the emotional agility that some people with actual feelings can manage, and Vince had just performed a truly acrobatic feat, from concern for my life right to a petty problem he was having at work, all without losing a step. But beyond that, it was interesting in another way. Anderson?
Hacking?
“Vince, that’s not possible,” I said. “Anderson can barely work his phone.”

“I’m positive, Dexter,” Vince said. “I wrote a note to my mother? Just, you know, about going to see her at Easter. And then Anderson comes up to me and he says, ‘What makes you think you’ll still be
alive
at Easter, Masookoh?’ He calls me Masookoh,” he added, in case I wanted to remind him that wasn’t really his name.

“Oh,” I said. It certainly sounded like Anderson was, in fact, reading Vince’s e-mail. “He must have some technical help.”

“I know, but it could be anybody,” Vince said. “Dexter, this thing is just crazy—it’s like
everybody
is in on it all of a sudden, and I—I mean, it’s so totally
overwhelming
….”

Vince sounded like he was about to cry, which would have been a bit much for me, so I tried to calm him down. “It’s almost over, Vince,” I said. “It’s all coming to a head now. You just hang on for a couple of days.”

“Days, but Dexter,” he said. “I mean, it’s just
crazy
here.”

There was more, but I got him calmed down eventually. I told him he was a good boy who had done a good thing and only good things could happen to him, and oddly enough, he began to believe it. So I said I had to go, and promised to call him and let him know what was going on, and put the phone down with a cramp in my neck and a sore ear. Anderson was growing into an even bigger problem, which hardly seemed possible—or fair, for that matter. If this truly was a rational and well-ordered Universe, wouldn’t it be enough that somebody was being chased by a posse of hired killers, and nearly blown up by an enormous bomb? I mean, what was the point of adding Anderson’s persecution on top of that? It really seemed kind of small-minded of the Universe, like cutting off somebody’s legs and then saying, “And you’re ugly, too!”

I thought briefly about doing Something about Anderson, but I quickly realized I was fantasizing rather than planning. He was a problem, yes—but not as immediate as my other ones. I could worry about Anderson if I managed to stay alive for a few more days.

I reached for my phone and called Brian. He answered right away, but instead of hello, he said, “Front page of the
Herald,
lead story on TV, and now me? So glad you haven’t forgotten the little people now that you’re famous.”

“Fame has its price,” I said. “That was a terrible picture of me.”

“It was,” he said agreeably. “But unfortunately, it’s good enough to help my former friends identify you.”

“I don’t think they need help,” I said.

“Perhaps not,” he said. “And perhaps the phone is not the place to speak of it. Can we meet somewhere?”

“As it happens, I’m hungry,” I said.

“What a surprise,” Brian said.

“It might be wise to pick a new place, though,” I said. “And not because I’m tired of doughnuts.”

“Where would you suggest?” he said.

“Well,” I started—and then stopped as a relatively relevant thought hit me. “Brian, I am carless. Can you come get me?”

“Where are you?”

I told him, and he promised to arrive within a half hour. I spent the next twenty minutes showering, and then looking at my multiple punctures in the mirror. None of them actually seemed life-threatening. In fact, they seemed to be healing up nicely already. I remembered what the paramedic had said, that I looked like a fireman, and I tried out a calendar pose in the mirror. It was not terribly convincing; aside from the fact that I’d never actually seen a fireman calendar, I still had an unhealthy jail pallor to my skin, and it must be admitted that there was a slight roll of nonessential material beginning to form around my waist. I frowned at it, and then realized what I was doing. Oh, Vanity, thy name is Dexter.