Dexter Is Dead (Dexter 8)

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 b

elieve. 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.

“Don’t talk to anybody in the media; that’s vital,” he said.

“I won’t,” I said, and I actually did intend to avoid that.

“All right, then,” he said. He pushed a small button and my door unlocked. It was a clear signal for me to go, and I opened the door.

“Thanks, Mr. Kraunauer,” I said. “For everything.”

“Oh, don’t thank me yet,” he said with an airy wave. I got out of his luxurious rolling pleasure palace, and he vanished, silently, before I was even in the hotel’s door.

NINETEEN