Dexter Is Dead (20 page)

I brushed my teeth, combed my hair, and dressed in a clean set of brand-new Walmart clothes, and made it down to a place outside the hotel’s front door with five minutes left in Brian’s half-hour interval. I stood beside a large cement urn with a dead-looking tree in it. It also had quite a few cigarette butts squished down into the potting soil. I tried to look casual, but I was anything but as I looked around the parking area and out onto the street. There was no sign of anything living anywhere, aside from two birds on the power line.

I walked nonchalantly down to each end of the building, as if I was just a bored man waiting for a ride, and glanced to the sides. Still nothing. A handful of empty cars. We were past the hotel’s checkout time, and still a few hours before check-in, and the whole place was as lifeless as it could be, which was all to the good.

I stood beside the urn for another two minutes before Brian arrived. Today he was driving his green Jeep, and he stopped it right beside me and I climbed in. “Good morning, brother,” I told him.

“Hardly morning, and not quite good,” he said. “But thank you for the thought.” He drove slowly out onto the street, turned left, and as soon as he got up to speed he made an abrupt U-turn.

“Nicely done,” I said. “All clear?”

“So it would seem,” he said, peering into each of the three mirrors. He turned down a side street, then another, and finally, after several quick detours, out onto U.S. 1. “Well, then,” he said, relaxing visibly. “What shall we eat?”

“Something nice, not too expensive,” I said, and even as I spoke a franchise restaurant hove into view, one that specialized in pie. “There!” I said.

“Pie! How wonderful!” Brian said. “I do like pie.”

He pulled into the parking lot and drove slowly around the whole thing one time, and I did not think it was an excess of caution. He found a parking spot right in front, where the car would be visible from inside, and we went in and found a booth where we could watch it. I ordered a large breakfast, in spite of the small roll at the waist I had seen in the mirror. Time to improve later; today we live. At least, that was the plan.

Brian ordered something called French Silk Pie, and a cup of coffee, and as we waited for the food to arrive, he lifted one eyebrow at me and said, “Have you given any thought to how they found you?”

“Not a great deal,” I admitted. “But my best guess is, they traced the rental car, just like the hotel room. From my credit card.”

Brian looked doubtful. “Maybe,” he said. “But I used a different credit card at the hotel, with a fake name, totally different. So that would mean they already knew your name well in advance. And they didn’t learn it from me.”

“You’re sure?” I said.

“Positive.”

I thought about it, and from Brian’s expression, he was doing the same. A small and vague thought stirred, deep down on the floor of my brain, but as I reached for it a cheerful clamor from my cell phone interrupted me. I picked it up and looked at the screen. I didn’t recognize the number immediately, but it seemed familiar, and just before I pushed the button to decline the call I knew it—Kraunauer. “My lawyer,” I said to Brian.

He waved his permission. “By all means,” he said.

“Mr. Morgan,” Kraunauer said. “The FBI would like to ask you a few more questions.”

“Oh,” I said. Not a truly brilliant response, but he had reminded me that I had not checked in with the feds as I’d said I would. “Um, in your opinion,” I asked, “will these be
hostile
questions?”

“Not at all,” Kraunauer said. “Apparently just a few loose ends, some bureaucratic stuff. Shouldn’t take more than half an hour. And,” he added in a casually reassuring tone, “I will be there to hold your hand.”

“That’s very thoughtful,” I said.

“All part of the service,” he said. “Can you meet me there in, oh, say, forty-five minutes?”

“Yes, I can,” I told him. “And, Mr. Kraunauer?”

“Mm?”

“That was a wonderful performance on the news,” I said, fighting to keep the naked admiration out of my voice.

Kraunauer chuckled. “I played that kid reporter like a violin,” he said. “It was really much too easy.” There was some background noise, papers rustling and a few whispered words. “Ah—I’m sorry, I have to get going. See you in forty-five minutes,” he said, and hung up.

Brian looked at me with raised eyebrows. “The feds want to ask me a few questions,” I said.

“Oh, dear,” he said. “That sounds a little chancy.”

“I don’t think so,” I said. “They seemed reasonable last night—and Kraunauer will be there with me.”

“Well, then,” Brian said. “I guess it will be all right—if there’s still time for some pie?”

“There’s always time for pie,” I said.

I
n spite of my grand claim, it was closer to fifty-five minutes before Brian dropped me at the corner of NW 2nd Avenue and 165th Street, across the street from the FBI’s Miami Field Office. I didn’t mind the short extra walk across the street and a half block down. Brian was certainly not going to put himself any closer than necessary to such a hornets’ nest of law enforcement.

Kraunauer was waiting for me in the lobby. “There you are,” he said in greeting.

“Yes, sorry to keep you waiting,” I said. “Travel is a little iffy without a car.”

He nodded. “Miami is a big city with a small-town infrastructure,” he said. “They’re waiting for us.” He nodded toward reception, where a young woman in a severe blue business suit stood beside the desk. She was looking at us with a very serious expression, which told me even more certainly than the suit that she was an agent and not a secretary or file clerk.

She led us to a conference room on the second floor, where Revis and Blanton, my two new friends from last night, were waiting. And alas for all that is right and decent in the world, they were not alone. Sitting at the foot of the table, leaning back in his chair and displaying his well-polished sneer, was Detective Anderson.

“Oh, wonderful,” I said. “You’ve arrested him already.”

Kraunauer gave a short snort of amusement, but nobody else thought it was terribly funny—especially not Anderson, who scowled at me, which at least meant he understood me. “Mr. Morgan,” Agent Revis said, taking the lead again. “In the interest of interagency cooperation, we have agreed to allow a representative of the Miami-Dade police to be present at your questioning.”

“You are aware, are you not,” said Kraunauer smoothly, “that this officer has a history of animosity toward my client? As well as a great deal of questionable behavior?”

“Detective Anderson will not take any active part here,” Blanton said. “He’s here as an observer only.”

Kraunauer looked at me and raised one perfectly groomed eyebrow. I shrugged, and he turned back to the feds. “As long as that is clearly understood,” he said. Revis and Blanton nodded in unison. Kraunauer turned to Anderson, but he merely looked away, so Kraunauer shrugged. “Then I have no objections,” he said to Revis. “Let’s get started.”

Blanton pulled out a chair and nodded me toward it; I sat, Kraunauer sat next to me, and the two feds sat side by side across the table from us. Blanton opened a manila folder and frowned into it, but it was Revis who began. “Mr. Morgan, have you ever been arrested for possession of a controlled substance?”

She said it very seriously, as if she was asking whether I had a driver’s license, but it was such a totally loony question I was speechless for several long seconds, and my sad state was not helped by the fact that Anderson had leaned forward with glittering eyes and a new improved version of his sneer. I found my tongue again, but all I managed was a pathetic, “Have I—What, what?”

“Just yes or no, Mr. Morgan,” Blanton said.

“No, of course not,” I said. Anderson shook his head, as if to point out how sad it was when somebody tells blatant fibs.

But Revis just nodded, very calm and reassuring. “How long have you been using illegal drugs?” she said, with a slight emphasis on
using
.

“Is this really relevant?” Kraunauer said, a slight twist of dry irony in his voice. “That was a
bomb
in Mr. Morgan’s car. Not a
bong
.”

Two pairs of Official Federal Eyeballs clicked to Kraunauer, but he just looked back at them with an easy amusement that was contagious, at least to me. I felt like putting my feet up on the table and lighting a cigar.

“We think it might be relevant,” Blanton said.

“Really,” Kraunauer said with mild disbelief. “How so?”

“Counselor,” Revis said. “We have some reason to believe the bomb was built by a known narcoterrorist. And”—she nodded seriously—“we have received information that Mr. Morgan has a well-established pattern of drug use.”

Kraunauer looked at Anderson. So did I. But Revis and Blanton were far too polished. They looked straight ahead, as if they’d forgotten that Anderson existed. I wished I could forget, too. “Received…information,” Kraunauer drawled, caressing the words and still looking straight at Anderson. “May I ask
where
you received it from?”

Anderson had begun to squirm just a little in his seat, and as Kraunauer’s accusing stare went on he actually started to blush. It was very gratifying to see, worth the entire field trip to the Field Office.

“Our source is confidential,” Blanton said.

Kraunauer slowly turned his head back to the feds. “Really,” he said. “Confidential.”

Blanton looked uncomfortable, and he and Revis had one of their wordless conferences. “We can’t reveal the source,” Revis said at last. “But I’ll show you the file.”

Kraunauer nodded. “Good enough.”

Blanton pushed the manila folder across the top of the conference table and Kraunauer picked it up. I leaned over and looked, too.

The top page was a copy of the log from the evidence room. Whenever anyone accesses the evidence room, cop or forensics geek, they are required to sign the log. On this page, picked out in bright yellow highlighter, was an entry that said Dexter Morgan had been there, and it was signed with a childish scrawl that looked as much like my signature as Egyptian cuneiform writing does.

Kraunauer flipped the page: The second page was a copy of an interdepartmental memo stating that someone had removed two kilos of confiscated cocaine from the evidence room, at a date and time that was amazingly similar to the time “Dexter Morgan” had been there.

“Well, it does prove one thing,” I said. “I have superpowers.” Kraunauer looked at me and raised an eyebrow. I tapped the line with the date. “I was in a cell at Turner Guilford Knight on this date.”

Kraunauer looked at me blandly for a moment, then turned to Revis. “Easy enough to check,” he said.

“What about the signature?” Blanton asked.

“It’s not even a good forgery,” I said. “It looks like a third grader’s handwriting. Tell me, Detective,” I said, facing Anderson, “as the only third grader here, do you always have trouble making your letters?”

Kraunauer cleared his throat, whether from amusement or postnasal drip I couldn’t tell. “Agent Revis,” he said. “My client seems to think that’s not his signature.”

Revis nodded. “May I see your driver’s license, Mr. Morgan?” she said, holding out a hand.

I looked at Kraunauer, who nodded. “Of course,” I said. I pulled out my wallet and placed the license in Revis’s hand. Kraunauer slid the folder back across the table and Blanton picked it up. He and Revis huddled together for a moment, comparing the signature on my license to the cheesy scrawl on the evidence log.

It didn’t take long. I have always prided myself on my penmanship. I like to make neat, regular letters, and write words that are legible to anyone who can read. The forged signature was so obviously by a different hand that even a total clot like Anderson should have known better. And the two feds were by no means total clots, nor even partial. After just a few seconds Revis flipped my license back to me.

“Not the same signature?” Kraunauer said to her.

“Probably not,” Revis said.

“He changed it!” Anderson said.

“Detective,” Revis said warningly.

“He disguised his signature; it’s obvious!” Anderson went on.

Blanton stood up. He took the two steps along the table to Anderson and stood over him, looking down at him with an expression of ice-cold annoyance. Anderson looked back, and for a moment he thought he might bluster on. But Blanton leaned down, until his face was only an inch from Anderson’s.

“The understanding was,” Blanton said softly, “that you would observe.” He held up a finger, making Anderson flinch. “Not talk. Observe.”

Anderson opened his mouth, but thought better of it, and Blanton nodded and returned to his own chair. He sat, looked briefly at Revis, and then both agents looked at me. “Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Morgan, Mr. Kraunauer,” Revis said. “You can go now.”

Kraunauer stood up and said politely, “Thank
you,
Agent Revis. Agent Blanton.” He looked at me, said, “Mr. Morgan?” and then turned away and headed out the door.

I stood up, too. I felt like I should say something polite to the two feds, but nothing came to me that didn’t make me sound like a puerile lick-spittle, so I just nodded and turned for the door.

Anderson was there ahead of me. He stood right in the doorway, filling it with his bulk and making it impossible for me to pass. “This ain’t over yet, fuckwad,” he said softly.

“Not while you’re still at liberty,” I said. “I mean, really, Detective. Drugs? That’s the best you can do?”

He stared at me some more, perhaps hoping I would melt. But I didn’t, and after a long and dull pause, he just nodded. “It ain’t over yet,” he repeated, and stepped aside. I went gratefully through the unblocked door, and closed it behind me.

Kraunauer was waiting for me, standing next to the same young and serious agent who had brought us up. “I’m beginning to believe,” Kraunauer said, “that Detective Anderson may not like you.”

“Whatever gave you that idea?” I said. He just chuckled briefly, and said to the young woman, “Agent?”

She had clearly been waiting with some impatience to take us down to the lobby, and now, given her freedom, she did so very briskly, without wasting any expensive Bureau time on idle chitchat. She set such a vigorous pace, in fact, that it was not until we arrived at the reception area that I remembered I had no way to get back to my hotel. “Oh,” I said to her, “um, Ms. Agent?”

She looked at me without any trace of expression. “Yes?” she said.

“Is it possible to get a cab in this area? I don’t have a car.”

“Oh!” Kraunauer said, before the agent could speak. “My God, of course you don’t! Well, hell, I can certainly run you back to your hotel.”

“That’s very kind,” I said. “If you really don’t mind?”

“Not at all, of course not, come on,” Kraunauer said, sounding oddly eager. He put a hand on my elbow and propelled me toward the front door, leaving in his wake the serious young agent, who looked rather relieved to be rid of both of us.

“My car is right over here,” Kraunauer said, steering me toward a modest-looking gray sedan with a stylized letter “B” on each hubcap. And in spite of that, it wasn’t until I opened the door and saw the walnut-lined instrument panel and soft glove-leather seats that I realized the “B” stood for “Bentley.” I slid onto the sweet-smelling seat and tried not to soil it by sweating or thinking impure thoughts.

Kraunauer jumped in behind the wheel and started the car. It started right up, with a purr like a large cat with a throat full of honey. “All right,” he said. “Where are you staying?”

I gave him the hotel’s name and address, and he took us up onto I-95 and headed south. His car was so quiet I was afraid even to clear my throat, so we rode in silence for a few minutes, and then Kraunauer finally spoke.

“I hope you understand that this is all positive,” he said. “Extremely positive.”

“I know,” I said. “Except for the bomb.”

“Oh, no, that was the best part,” he said quite seriously. “That bomb is buying you a lot of sympathy, Mr. Morgan. The newshounds are already starting to wonder out loud if you might be innocent.”

“I actually am innocent, you know,” I said. He just nodded, poker-faced, and kept his eyes on the road. “I suppose all your clients say that,” I said.

“No, not all of them,” he said, and added a small chuckle. “One or two of them have been quite proud of their accomplishments.”

“That must make it a lot harder for you,” I said.

“Not at all,” Kraunauer said. “It doesn’t matter at all what I know, or what I believe. All that matters is what I make the court believe. And in your case, that just got a lot easier. And anyway, I’d be very surprised if your case even goes to trial,” he said. And then he jerked his head around to give me a quick look, as if I’d startled him somehow. “I mean,” he said, “they might, you know. Drop the charges.”

“Oh. Great,” I said, and he turned his attention back to the road and left me wondering what that strange facial expression had been about. Other than that, it was a quiet and exceptionally smooth trip down to my hotel. The Bentley provided a ride that was supernaturally gentle, and neither one of us had anything else to say, which was a relief, to tell the truth. Most of the time, when you’re cooped up in a car with a relative stranger, they want to talk about football or politics or sex. I can’t muster much interest in any of those things. Of course, as one small part of my Human Disguise I’ve learned enough about all of them to keep a polite conversation going, but it really was a relief not to have to try to compare the Dolphins’ current offensive line to the one they’d fielded in 2008.

In a little more than twenty minutes Kraunauer was pulling into the driveway of my new hotel. I looked at it out the window as we ghosted up to the door, wondering how long I would be able stay at this place before something forced me to move again. I hoped I could get a couple of nights out of it; it had the best bed yet, and I was looking forward to spending a little more quality time on it.

“Well,” Kraunauer said as he came to a halt at the front door, “this place looks adequate, at least.” He smiled at me, a small and polite smile, not really one of his world-beaters. “I hope the room’s okay—they didn’t put you on the ground floor, I hope?”

“No, the third floor, with a lovely view of the Dumpster,” I said.

“Excellent,” he said. “Now, uh—I may have to send you some papers for signature. So what’s your room number?”

“Three seventeen,” I said.

“Good. All right,” he said. “Now, I know it’s got to be frustrating, but I want you to stay put up there as much as possible. We can’t have you showing your face, giving the reporters a chance to find you.”

“Yes, I know,” I said. It was not technically a promise to stay put, which of course I had no intention of doing.