Dexter Is Dead (Dexter 8)

“All right,” I said encouragingly.

Brian shrugged. “It’s an old and tawdry story,” he said. “I was doing very well out of it, financially speaking, and rather enjoying my work.” He gave me his terrible smile, but this time there seemed to be real pleasure behind it. “Lots and lots of little jobs. A surplus of…encounters?”

I nodded. Brian shared my sense that actually speaking aloud about what we did was somehow indelicate, but we both knew what he meant. He had been permanently and painfully removing people who his employers considered obstacles. It seemed like a wonderful job, and apparently quite lucrative. “Freelance?” I asked. “Or working for one particular outfit?”

“Just one. Just Raul.” He smiled again. “Rather melodramatic, but they called him ‘El Carnicero.’ The Butcher.”

“Yes,” I said. “It is a bit over-the-top.”

“That’s their world,” Brian said with a shrug. “They seem to enjoy histrionics.”

“So what happened?” I said. “Did you piss off the Butcher?”

“Oh, no, not at all,” he said emphatically. “I was very good at my job, and he appreciated that. But unfortunately for all concerned, the Butcher pissed off Santo Rojo.” He showed me his teeth. “More histrionics, I’m afraid. It means the Red Saint?”

“Yes, I know.”

“Apparently Raul overstepped his proper boundaries,” Brian said, trying very hard to sound regretful. He wasn’t nearly as good as I was at that kind of thing. “Santo resented it. And soon we were in a full-scale war.” He paused and cocked his head to one side, as if seeing the things he described. “Santo was a much bigger man—far more powerful, with lots more minions and money and influence. Raul was relatively small-potatoes—an up-and-comer, but definitely not there yet.”

He shrugged. “To cut to the chase, it seemed to me that I was on the losing side, and it was only a matter of time until Raul and all of us in his little family were eliminated. I discussed this with a coworker—”

“Octavio,” I said.

Brian nodded. “Yes. Because as it happened, Octavio knew where Raul had stashed a rather sizable chunk of money in case he needed to, um, relocate? Quickly?” He twitched his mouth in a brief and unconvincing smile. “One of the hazards of the trade, you know,” he said. “Every now and then you really do have to get away in a hurry.”

“So I understand,” I said. “So you and Octavio took the money and ran.”

“Yes, that’s right,” he said, and he sighed. “All that money. I had no idea there would be so much.” He looked at me happily. “So very much, brother. You have no idea.”

“I’m sure,” I said. “But where’s the problem? With Raul and most of his gang dead, who was left to come after you?”

“Ah, well, that’s the thing,” Brian said ruefully. “You see, we made a very small miscalculation. As it happens, Raul managed to plant a bomb in Santo’s headquarters. It went off quite successfully; Santo Rojo and a large number of his minions were killed, and the rest flocked to Raul’s banner. The war was over—but unfortunately, Raul was still alive.” He smiled at me again, no more convincingly than any other time. “And among the missing were two of his trusted associates and an extremely large piece of untraceable cash. Raul feels very possessive about his cash,” he said.

“A common failing,” I said.

“And so, to conclude,” Brian said, “Raul and all his remaining henchmen are working very hard to find me. Probably not with the intention of begging me to return to work.”

“Almost certainly not,” I said. I frowned and tried to reason out loud. “All right,” I said. “So Raul’s computer guy tracks your credit card to my hotel room. No doubt he assumes that Dexter Morgan is you, a nom de guerre. He sends someone to conduct your exit interview—”

“Nicely put,” Brian murmured.

“And he waits in the closet, thinking your return is imminent,” I said, and then I stopped. “But what about Octavio? What was he doing there?”

Brian sighed again—the third time he’d done it. It was getting a little annoying, especially since I knew quite well he felt nothing at all, let alone anything that might induce a sigh. It had to be a new habit he was trying out for some reason, just for the effect. “I can only guess,” he said at last. “Octavio was staying at your hotel.” I must have looked surprised, because Brian spread his hands in apology. “Mere convenience,” he said. “Octavio must have seen this other man and recognized him. He followed him to your room, and…” He snapped his fingers. “The rest is tragic history.”

We were both silent for a minute. “Is it likely,” I said at last, “that Raul would send one mere henchman to dispose of you?”

“Oh, no, certainly not,” Brian said cheerfully. “He had great respect for my talents.”

“So there would be two? Three?”

“Several of them, without a doubt—five, six, even ten,” he said, still quite cheerful. “I think this would be rather a high priority for Raul. And he would almost certainly come along with them.”

“Just because of a little money?” I asked.

Brian got even merrier. “Oh, it’s not a little, very far from it,” he said. “But of course, it’s much more than the money. If he lets me rip him off, he loses a great deal of respect.” He raised an eyebrow at me. “That’s everything to these people, you know. No, Raul will send a good number—and keep sending more until it’s done.” And he nodded with satisfaction.

Somehow I could not bring myself to share his lighthearted joy at being pursued relentlessly by several platoons of dedicated, experienced assassins. “Wonderful,” I said.