Dexter Is Dead (Dexter 8)

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.

EIGHT

Frank 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.