Dexter Is Dead (8 page)

Of course it did; it was doing the best it could do, poor thing. So I turned it loose on the problem with an encouraging pat on the back.
Go on, Brain. I know you can do it….

Shyly at first, and then with increasing confidence, my thoughts began to form. First, there were two immediately obvious points of attack. The first was to find proof that somebody else did it. That should have been simple—even elementary, a word my brain suggested to show that it was getting back just a little panache. But after all, somebody else actually
did
do it—Robert Chase. But he was universally beloved, particularly by the cops, who he’d buddied up with. I would have to find very solid proof of his guilt, and that would be tough. Anderson would control all the forensic evidence, and he’d choke off anything that pointed to someone who was not named Dexter.

And that led to the second point, which was Anderson himself. If I could discredit him, the rest would be much easier. And if not discredit, then perhaps something a little more, um…permanent? As well as entertaining? Brian was quite correct when he suggested that one small accident would go far toward setting everything right. And Anderson had earned it several times over. It would even be fun. But it wouldn’t go quite far enough; someone else would almost certainly pick up the torch and continue the race toward Dexter’s Destruction. And sadly enough, it would probably be Deborah. Even sadder, she was almost certainly far too eager to take on the job. She was a lot smarter than Anderson, and she would not make the same stupid mistakes. She would plod grimly ahead until she had enough rope to hang me, and then, if our recent tête-à-tête was any sign, she would even offer to tie the noose herself.

No, if Deborah was suddenly in charge of investigating Dexter’s guilt, things would be a lot worse than they were now. She might actually uncover evidence of some of the things I had really done. And then I would probably be back to Option One anyway—a sad accident for Deborah. I wasn’t sure I was entirely ready to arrange that, not just yet. It was no longer unthinkable, though, which was certainly a large change. I remembered that night a few paltry years ago when I had stood above her taped, helpless form, knife in hand, every cell in me torn neatly in half between cutting and not cutting, Brian urging me on and the still small voice of Dear Dead Harry telling me it was forbidden.

I wasn’t hearing that voice a whole lot lately. I wondered why. Maybe it was a realization that Harry’s Plan had holes in it; it wasn’t perfect. It had let me down. And maybe it was Deborah’s complete rejection of any kinship between us—I was no longer a Morgan, and therefore no longer subject to Harry’s posthumous manipulation. I was my own man now, and after all, I had never
really
been her brother. If I suddenly felt an urge to dispose of Deborah, why shouldn’t I? And I would, too—if I felt like it. I just didn’t, not quite, not yet.

So, casual assassination aside, what were my options at the moment? They seemed rather limited: trust in Kraunauer, trust in Brian, or take a little independent action of my own.

Trust had always been something I had trouble with. Perhaps it’s a character flaw. But putting my life into someone else’s hands seemed a little rash. To me, even putting my
lunch
in someone else’s hands was lunatic irresponsibility. So even though I had every reason to believe that Kraunauer could pull off another miracle, and even though I had no reason to think that Brian would suddenly stab me in the back like Deborah had done, I decided that Option Three, independent action, was my best course.

Either find evidence that Robert was guilty, or reveal to the world that Anderson was playing dirty. Good—I would start with both and see which one paid off first.

I looked at the bedside clock; as hard to believe as it might be, it was still only a little after ten. I had a meeting with Kraunauer at two—and after that, I would begin.

I felt much better once I’d made my choice—so much better, in fact, that I fell asleep almost at once.

When I woke up, I had no idea where I was, or how much time had passed, and I spent several minutes lying on my back and blinking stupidly at the ceiling. It was the wrong ceiling, unfamiliar, and I was sure I’d never seen it before. My back hurt, too; it was bent in a strange half circle, as if I had fallen asleep inside a huge beach ball.

Slowly, memory came back: I was in a soup-bowl bed in a hotel room because I was out of jail and Anderson had sealed my house as evidence. But I was free; I didn’t have to stay in a tiny cell and wait for odd sandwiches. It was a nice day outside and I could go out and enjoy it if I wanted to, walk the three blocks to the Italian restaurant and eat something that was actually good. I could do whatever I wanted—for the moment. But my first job was to work at making this giddy freedom a more permanent thing. I thought of Kraunauer—and had a brief moment of panic; I was supposed to meet him at two. Had I slept through it? What time was it? I rolled over and scrabbled out of the crater in the center of the bed with some difficulty and looked at the clock: eleven-twelve. Still plenty of time.

Since I was in no hurry, I didn’t rush up off the bed. I kicked my legs over the edge and sat there for another minute or two, trying to organize my thoughts.

It is all very well to decide on independent action. The problem comes when you realize that it is, by its nature, independent. That means that you don’t have anybody else to tell you what to do or how to do it, and that generally means that a great deal of deliberation is required before you get to the actual Action part. I pride myself on my vast talent for deliberation, but for some reason the circuits all seemed a bit rusty today. Maybe I had been sidelined for too long. Perhaps sitting in a tiny cell with every decision made for you tended to encourage your mental processes to take early retirement. Whatever the case, it was surprisingly hard to kick-start the mighty turbines of Dexter’s Giant Brain, and it was another five solid minutes of stupid blinking before I began to have cogent thoughts.

Finally I got up and staggered to the little bathroom. I splashed cold water on my face, and watched in the mirror as the water dripped off and ideas began to trickle back in. “Independent action”—at the moment I wasn’t really even independent. In fact, as I thought about it, I realized that I was stuck here, just as certainly as I’d been stuck in TGK, because Miami is not a city built on the premise that mass transportation is a really good idea. And in spite of the fact that I was only a few blocks from the Metromover, I couldn’t really get anywhere and do anything without a car. Kraunauer’s office, for example, was miles from the nearest Metromover station. I needed a car.

And I had one—somewhere. With any luck at all it was still mine, and still somewhere within the Metro Dade area.

So my first step was to get my car back. I nodded at my reflection:
Nice work, Dexter. That was real thinking there.

The last time I’d seen my battered but trusty little car, it had been parked on the street near the house that was supposed to become Our New House, the Dream Home that had a pool and separate rooms for the kids and nearly every modern convenience. Instead, it was now the house where Robert Chase and Rita had died and, not coincidentally, where I had been arrested. I had to assume that it, too, was evidence now. I could also be pretty sure that somebody had found my car nearby—probably not Anderson himself, but somebody a few pegs down on the food chain who had to do some actual grunt work.

It might well be that my car was now evidence, too—but at least I knew how to find out. I pulled off the wire charging my phone and began to call around.

Half an hour later I had found out that my car was, in fact, impounded—but it was not
in
the actual impound lot. In fact, nobody seemed to have any idea where it might be, and I was not successful at getting anybody to see this as their problem. Since losing an impounded vehicle was highly irregular, I had to assume that I was seeing Anderson’s fine handiwork again. He had probably donated my car to an artificial-reef program and taken the tax deduction for himself.

I actually admired Anderson’s thoroughness; he seemed to have thought of nearly everything. It wasn’t at all his usual slapdash knuckleheaded style of doing things—or to be more accurate, his style of Not Doing things. He had clearly taken a special interest in making me as miserable as possible.

Whatever the case, I didn’t have a car, and I needed one. And because my Magnificent Mind was functioning at last, it was the work of mere moments for me to find a solution to this vexing problem. I called a nearby rental office. It took two more phone calls, but I found one that agreed to bring the car to me, and within a surprisingly short time the agreeable clerk called me from the lobby. I hung the Do Not Disturb sign on my doorknob and went down, and before I knew it I was behind the wheel of my very own vehicle again, relishing the new-car smell and the security of knowing that I’d bought the supplemental insurance and I could hit something if I really wanted to. Now if only I could find Detective Anderson in a pedestrian crosswalk…

I drove the rental clerk back to his office and then turned out onto Dixie Highway. I was free, I was mobile, and truly independent at last.

So what should I do with all this intoxicating freedom? And was it true, after all, that freedom was just another word for nothing left to lose? I had already lost my family, my house, all my clothes, my car—I should have felt
really
free. I didn’t—I felt cheated, robbed, and victimized. But at least they’d left me my arms and legs, and my powerful-again brain. That alone put me way ahead of Anderson. Although he probably had more clean socks.

Still, that made me feel a little better—enough to realize that I was hungry. I glanced at the dashboard clock; less than an hour before my meeting with Kraunauer. Not a lot of time. I ran my mind over the list of gourmet dining establishments in Miami that might fit my somewhat narrow needs: sandwich, good, fifteen minutes…It was a surprisingly small list. In fact, it was a completely blank list. There was no place that was close and quick that also offered something that was actually good to eat. I would have to do without. I heard a small grumble of protest from my stomach; it seemed to say,
Not really…?
And it was a fair complaint. Maybe I could eliminate one of my three qualifications? It had to be fast, no matter what, since time waits for no man, and neither did Frank Kraunauer. That meant it really had to be close, too. That left only “good,” and to eliminate that meant an outright abuse of the values for which I lived.

On the other hand, half a block ahead of me I saw a famous burger logo flashing beside the road. My stomach immediately responded to the sight with a shout of,
Go for it! No,
I said firmly.
I refuse. I will not sink so low.

My stomach rumbled threateningly.
You’ll be sorry
….

I told my stomach that I am more than my hunger. I exceed the sum total of any want that is merely physical. And we have standards, damn it! Would we really settle for anything less than excellence, out of mere convenience?

Apparently we would. Seven minutes later I was wiping the last tendrils of grease from my chin and throwing away the meager detritus of my shameful downfall. Lo, how far the proud Dexter has fallen, I thought, and I heard the burbling echo as my stomach replied,
And loving it
.

F
rank Kraunauer’s office was in a high-rise on South Beach. Most of the absurdly expensive attorneys in Miami have their offices along Brickell Avenue, but as I may have mentioned, Frank Kraunauer was in a class by himself. He could have kept an office in the middle of American Airlines Arena, and the Miami Heat would have cheerfully rescheduled their entire season to fit his office hours. But Frank apparently
liked
South Beach, and so he had taken the entire penthouse of a shiny new tower at the south end of Ocean Drive. He had a spectacular view, of course—the open ocean on one side, Government Cut on another, and, crawling along almost under his feet, the beach and the boulevard with their teeming masses of barely dressed Brazilian models, Italian
contessas,
and Midwestern skater girls.

After working my way through three security guards and a busy but very dignified outer office, I was finally handed off to a gray-haired woman at an enormous desk of steel and walnut. She looked like a member of MENSA who had been a supermodel in her youth before moving on to a career as a Marine Corps drill instructor. She looked me over with a steely, unflinching eye, and then nodded, stood up, and led me to the end of a hall, where a massive door stood open. She waved a hand to indicate that I might have the great boon of passing through the portal and into the Presence. I bowed to her formally and stepped into a large office, and found Frank Kraunauer standing by the window looking down at the beach. The window was actually a floor-to-ceiling wall of thick and tinted glass, but in spite of the huge expanse of window I didn’t think he could see very much detail from this high up. Still, the light from the window lit him with what looked like a full-body halo, the perfect effect for the Attorney Messiah. I wondered whether it was on purpose.

His suit today was clearly a first cousin to the one he’d worn to see me at TGK. It was a lighter shade, but the same unearthly fabric: light, supple, and very nearly self-aware. Kraunauer turned to face me as I came in, gave me his polite-shark smile, and waved at a chair that almost certainly cost more than a new Cadillac Escalade. I sat in it carefully, determined to avoid wrinkling it, while at the same time savoring the luxury. There wasn’t a lot to savor. It didn’t feel much different from the chair I had at home that cost twenty-nine dollars at a thrift shop.

“Mr. Morgan,” Frank said. He slid into his own high-backed chair behind a slim and shiny glass desk. “How are you enjoying your freedom?”

“It’s very nice,” I said. “I don’t even miss the room service.”

“I wouldn’t think so,” he said. He opened a folder and frowned at it. “I’m afraid we need to think of this as temporary, however.”

I had of course been expecting some such pronouncement, but even so I felt my heart sink a few notches. “Oh,” I said. “Um, how long have I got?”

Kraunauer’s frown deepened and he drummed his fingers on the glass of his desktop. “I can’t say right now,” he said slowly, as if he really hated admitting that there was something he didn’t know. “That’s going to depend on a lot of things. But the state attorney’s office has three years to file.” He looked up. “I would be very surprised if they take that long. Somebody really wants to see you go down for this,” he said.

“Quite a few somebodies,” I said.

He nodded. “It’s the kind of crime that makes people more than usually upset,” he said.

“Including me,” I said. “I didn’t do it.”

Kraunauer gave a quick wave of the hand and one small twitch of a smile, to show that even though he didn’t believe me, it didn’t matter in the least. “The important thing is,” he said, “they’ve played a little bit fast and loose with legal procedure. In some cases, way over the line. That’s how I got you out. But!” He shook his head. “It cuts the other way, too.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know what other procedural surprises might be waiting for us,” he said. “And now that they know I’m onto them, they’re much more likely to dot all the i’s from here on out. Next time they arrest you…” He shrugged. “Anyway, fair warning. The easy part is over.”

I had a little trouble thinking of anything that had happened so far as “easy,” but maybe he meant easy for
him
. In any case, I took his point. “What can I do to help?” I said.

“Oh, well,” he said, looking slightly amused and forbidding at the same time. “You can’t really approach any potential witnesses or anything like that. I don’t want any amateur sleuthing.”

“Actually, it wouldn’t be amateur,” I said. “I am a trained forensics investigator…?”

“Yes, of course,” he said politely. “The point is, we don’t want to muddy the water, or give them any more ammunition than they already have.” He gave his head a very slight, very elegant shake. “I don’t want you to kid yourself. The state attorney is taking this on in person, and he’s pretty good.” He spread both hands about six inches apart and then let them drop back to the desktop. “I happen to think I’m better—but he will make a good case. You are in very real danger here.” He waited for it to sink in for a moment, then let me see three gleaming teeth. “On the plus side,” he said, “they
don’t
know what I’m doing—or what I know. I can tell you, I’ve seen the paperwork they’ve filed already, and I think I know what they’re going for. A lot of it having to do with your daughter—ah,
step
daughter?” He waggled a finger at me absentmindedly. “They’re going to hang the whole case around the pedophile angle.”

“I’m not a pedophile,” I protested.

He waved a hand dismissively. “They’ll make you look like one. And they’ll assume you threatened your daughter and she’ll say what you want her to. Standard scenario, predigested, and the courts eat it up. So whatever you can do with the forensic stuff won’t matter.” He nodded, as if he approved of the prosecutor taking that approach. “I think that’s the plan.”

“I see,” I said, and to be honest, I almost did. “And do
we
have a, um, counterplan?”

“We do,” he said, with the kind of firm, decisive command that added at least one more zero to his fee. “But it’s not a sure thing; it never is.” This time I got four teeth. “I do have a pretty good batting average,” he said modestly. “And I think we have a decent chance of beating this thing. But for the time being, I want you to keep a low profile. You can’t leave town, of course. But stay out of sight; don’t make trouble.” He nodded at his own wisdom, and added, “And keep all your receipts, naturally. We’re going to tack all your expenses onto our countersuit.”

“Oh,” I said, mildly surprised. “There’s a countersuit?”

Kraunauer smacked the desktop with both hands, and for the first time he looked genuinely happy. “Absolutely!” he said. “After the bullshit they put you through? They’re going to pay for this, believe me. Through the
nose
.” I thought for a moment he would rub his hands together and say
mwa-hahaha
—but the moment passed, and all he said was, “Seven figures, certainly. If it’s the right judge, eight.”

“Eight figures—as in, more than ten million?” I said, almost sure I was misunderstanding him.

“At the very least a healthy seven,” he assured me.

“Um—do you mean
dollars
?” I said, which was certainly feeble, but I couldn’t really picture that kind of money—in the abstract, no problem, but in my bank account? Three Ferraris, fly-to-Paris-for-breakfast money for little old
moi
?

“Dollars,” he said, nodding very seriously.

And I believe he said a few more things, but I’m not quite sure I remember them. Ten minutes later, with my head still spinning, I was back in my rental car. The meeting with Kraunauer had obviously been intended to reassure me and, of course, to keep me from killing anyone else for a while, which was a little more problematic. Other than that, it had seemed like a waste of time. Aside from dazzling me with the picture of Dexter the Fabulously Rich, I had learned nothing except that I couldn’t leave town. And the farther I got from Kraunauer, the more unreal the promised money seemed. Still, at least everything was deductible, if I kept my receipts. Hotel, car rental, even food.

I thought it all through again. The tantalizing tease of a ridiculously large payout was clearly just talk, designed to keep me in line. Even if we won some mythical enormous judgment, it would go into the appeals process for years, and when it finally came out the other end, most of the cash would go to Kraunauer. So aside from pie in the sky, the only thing of substance I could really take from the meeting was the warning: My freedom was temporary, and it was far from certain that I would escape a permanent place in prison. I knew a little about the state penitentiary. It made TGK look like a luxury resort. It would probably make me yearn for my old cell, and wish I could have the Brown Meat Sandwich again.

As that word,
sandwich,
bounced through my head, my stomach rumbled unhappily. The burger was not sitting well, and my finely tuned digestive system was clearly troubled.
Who’s sorry now?
I told it. It growled back. Even the taste in my mouth was bad: rancid grease, chemical-tasting sauce, and something that hinted at old and badly abused meat. And even that was luxurious compared to what I might be eating soon, and for the rest of my natural life. I was suddenly forlorn. I remembered an old phrase Harry had used:
down in the dumps
. Considering the taste in my mouth, it was very appropriate.

And what could Dexter possibly do to chase away the blues? The answer occurred to me at once, and I accelerated off South Beach, onto the causeway, and away into a slightly brighter afternoon.

By the time I got close to the airport, I was practically drooling again. There was really only one valid way to cheer up Dexter. But since that was out of the question, food is always a satisfactory, though somewhat distant second best. The food that does it better than any other for me has always been Cuban, and for Cuban food there is only one possible destination for me. And so, in spite of my recent Unhappy Meal, I was eager to get there and set things right in the Land of Lunch.

Two generations of Morgans have been going to Café Relampago for their
comidas Cubanas
—three if you count my baby, Lily Anne. She was very partial to the
maduras
. I was, too—and the
medianoches
and
ropa vieja
and
palomilla
and the
batidos de mamey
and of course the black beans. Hundreds of other places in Miami made all these things, but to my prejudiced palate none compared to Relampago. So when I realized that I wanted,
needed,
a Cuban sandwich, it was natural for me to head out to the little strip mall near the airport where the Morgans always went for such things.

But as I pulled into the parking lot it occurred to me to wonder whether I would still be welcome there. Technically I was not a real Morgan anymore—at least according to Deborah. And what if she was having her lunch there right now? Would it be awkward? Violent? Anything could happen—the sight of me might even ruin her digestion. But considering our recent history, I decided I could live with that, so I nosed my new-smelling car into a parking spot and went in.

The decor of Café Relampago had not changed much in twenty years. It was rather basic, running to paper place mats rather than tablecloths, and thick, battered white plates, most of them with a chip or two banged out of the rim. The service was, to be diplomatic, indifferent, and sometimes downright odd. But as I walked in and smelled the aromas coming from the kitchen, I felt like I was coming home. Just to be certain that the homecoming wasn’t a little too literal, I looked carefully around; no sign of Deborah. So I just stood for a moment, sniffing, before going to my usual booth toward the back and sliding in, facing the door.

My feeling of homecoming continued through the long and strange ceremony of trying to attract the attention of a waitress, ordering, and then, finally, eating my sandwich and a side of
maduras
. It all seemed to take on the air of a ritual, and when at last my plate was empty and the food was inside me where it belonged, I felt satisfied in a way that went far beyond mere sated appetite. It was very near what I imagine religious bliss must feel like, for those who have souls and can maintain a straight-faced belief in that kind of fairy tale.

In my case, it took the form of a mysterious sense of ungrounded optimism. The sandwich was good, and now it was gone, deep into Dexter; the miracle of transubstantiation had happened again, and now everything would be all right. Even as I recognized this feeling as stupid, I enjoyed it anyway, and I leaned back in the booth, ordered a
café con leche,
and thought about what Kraunauer had said. “Amateur sleuthing.” It nettled a bit, though I did see his point. But I had already decided that my only real hope was exactly that, and nothing he’d said changed that. He had no idea what I was really capable of doing—which was probably a good thing. So I considered where I might start with my Independent Action Project. As always, my mind reacted to being well fed by kicking right into high gear and producing a really top-notch analysis.

First: The case against me depended on motive. Kraunauer had confirmed that they would try to make everyone believe I had killed Robert, Jackie, and Rita because they found out about my pedophiliac interest in Astor. Anderson had probably chosen to go that way because tagging me as a pedophile would automatically trigger the most extreme gag reflexes. I was already guilty just because I was accused of that most heinous of crimes. And just as important, because Astor was a minor, and as Kraunauer had said almost certainly bullied into a fake cover story by me, her brutal slavering stepdad, her testimony would be discounted, if it was presented in evidence at all. That made the whole case a simple matter of my word against a massive amount of circumstantial evidence—and whatever you might have learned to the contrary from watching
Perry Mason
reruns, circumstantial evidence is very convincing. If a prosecutor leads a jury—or even a judge—through a logical, barely credible sequence of events backed up by one or two flimsy pieces of happenstance, he will get a conviction nine times out of ten. When you factor in how badly Anderson, and most of the force, really wanted me to be guilty, it rose to nine and a half.