Dexter Is Dead (Dexter 8)

“No, but it will,” he said. “The bomb story will be all over the news tomorrow, and when they find out that you are the intended victim—no, no, this is excellent. We can use it to get some sympathy going—it could be a real turning point.”

“Really,” I said.

“Absolutely. Don’t kid yourself, Mr. Morgan. Nine out of ten cases are won in the media before you even meet the judge. And if we roll into it with something like this—I hate to repeat myself, but this really is a big break.”

“Oh, well, good,” I said. And in spite of being well aware that I needed to maintain my sense of awe when speaking with Kraunauer, I was suddenly overcome with fatigue—and I yawned. “Excuse me,” I said.

“Perfectly all right, you must be exhausted,” he said briskly. “You go get some sleep, and we’ll talk in the morning. Ah…” His voice slowed down and he sounded suddenly very casual. “Where are you staying?”

“I don’t know yet,” I said. “I’ll find another hotel somewhere.”

“Of course. All right,” he said, all business again. “Get some sleep, and call me tomorrow.”

“All right,” I said.

“Good night,” he said cheerfully, and broke the connection.

I thought about his excellent advice: sleep. The whole concept was starting to take on mythical proportions. It had begun to seem like something only epic heroes could do; I certainly couldn’t manage it. I wasn’t yet so tired that I would take the risk of sleeping here, in the lobby, surrounded by Anderson and mad bombers and horrible tattered curtains.

Mere rest was no longer enough, and I didn’t think I could face the couch again anyway. So I did the only thing I could, the last pitiful choice left to me in this world of pain and dwindling options. I left the lobby and stood outside beside what had once been my room, standing in a miserable bovine stupor until forensics finally finished. Then I went in and put on a shirt, grabbed my few sad belongings, and used my phone to call a cab.

SEVENTEEN

By the time my cab arrived I had used my phone to find another hotel, only a few miles from this one. But at the last second, just as I opened my mouth to give the address to the driver, one final tendril of consciousness waved the little red flag of caution and instead I told him to take me to the airport. It would mean an extra hour or more of being painfully awake, but it might also make it a little harder for the bad guys to find me.

At the airport I decided to play the game a little longer. I went in and wandered for a few minutes, and failed to spot anybody following me. I rode the Skytrain around the whole circuit twice, getting off and on suddenly and randomly, until I was quite sure I wasn’t being tailed. I picked up a shuttle to a hotel in Coral Gables, got another cab there, and ended up at a small hotel in Homestead with barely enough strength left to stagger up to my third-floor room and flop onto the bed, still fully dressed.

I remember thinking that this bed, at last, seemed very firm, and then I was blinking at the bedside clock that told me it was eleven-fifty-three. That didn’t seem possible. It had been well after midnight when I fell onto the bed. How could it be seven minutes before now? I closed my eyes again and tried to think, which was even harder than it had been lately. For just a moment I thought I must have slept backward through time, finally arriving here in bed before I actually got here. I spent a few pleasant moments thinking of what I should say to myself when I saw me walk in the door. But then I opened my eyes again, and noticed a bright edge of light showing around the bottom of the heavy curtains, and I thought, Aha. It’s daytime. I slept through the night, and lo! The sun has riz. That explains everything. Still, a little disappointing. I’d been hoping for a really interesting conversation with someone I knew to be a brilliant conversationalist—Me.

I rolled over and sat up. Everything hurt. My entire body was as sore as if I had just gone ten rounds with the heavyweight champ. Or one of them, anyway—there seemed to be quite a few lately. Perhaps they’d taken turns working me over. On top of all that, each one of the two dozen perforations from the glass splinters was stinging, my head throbbed, my jaw ached where Anderson had hit me, and I had a cramp in the arch of my left foot. I tried very hard for some positive spin: I was alive! It was the best I could do, but at the moment that didn’t seem like any real cause for celebration.

I looked at the clock again: eleven-fifty-seven. At least time was behaving properly and moving forward. I got slowly and gingerly off the bed. It was such a painful experience that I just stood there

for a minute, hoping that returning circulation would begin to take away a few of the aches and pains. My left foot gradually felt a little better, but that was about it.

Still, I was, in fact, alive, and that had taken some doing. I thought about patting myself on the back, but decided I was too sore. I looked around the room, wondering what other miracle I could perform next. There was a small one-cup coffeemaker on the desk. That seemed like a good place to start.

The coffee began to brew, and as the first tendril of fresh coffee aroma steamed up and tickled my nose, it must have jump-started a synapse or two, because I remembered what Kraunauer had said: The bomb story will be all over the news. I looked at the clock again. It was now twelve-oh-one. Miami is blessed—or cursed, depending on your attitude—with several very active TV news departments that broadcast a News at Noon program. I clicked on the TV that sat next to the coffeemaker and turned to the station whose reporters had the best hair.

The last person to occupy this room was clearly hard of hearing, because the TV began to blast at a life-threatening volume. I hurriedly turned it down, just in time to hear the breathy blonde at the desk saying,

“…that authorities are now calling a deliberate attempt to murder this man—”

A terribly unflattering picture of Me appeared behind the blonde.

“Dexter Morgan,” she said, “who was recently arrested for multiple murder and molesting his stepdaughter.” And of course she had to say it in a rather accusing tone of voice, since pedophilia was involved. Even so, it was a wonderfully surreal moment to see Me on TV like that, in spite of the fact that I was really not at my best in that picture. But if you don’t love yourself, no one else will, so I admired my features for just a moment, and missed what was being said, until I tuned back in at, “…well-known criminal attorney Frank Kraunauer, who told our Matt Laredo his client was completely innocent and still being harassed by the police.”

The picture cut to a head shot of Frank Kraunauer. He looked much better than the picture of me. In fact, he looked magnificent: angry, yet composed, intelligent, formidable, and every hair in perfect place, which is very important to all major news outlets nowadays.

“There’s no longer any question that Mr. Morgan is being railroaded,” he said. “From the very beginning the evidence has been manipulated or even manufactured. My client has been falsely accused, unjustly and improperly jailed, and even physically assaulted by a member of the Miami-Dade police force.”

An earnest tenor voice cut in and the camera swung to the reporter, Matt Laredo, a young guy with wonderful brown hair and a very serious look. “Mr. Kraunauer, you want us to believe your client was assaulted by a cop?”

Back to Kraunauer. “He went into police custody last night unmarked, and came out of custody with a huge bruise on his face.” He favored the reporter with a sardonic smile, one I hadn’t seen before, bringing his total to eight separate great fake smiles. I was overcome with admiration and almost missed him saying, “No doubt the police will tell you he hit himself. But I have a witness who saw the officer hit my client. This is the same rogue cop who threatened my client’s life.”

Matt Laredo jumped in. “Where is your client now? Can we talk to him?”

Kraunauer gave him a pitying look. “No, of course not. Mr. Morgan feels that it isn’t safe to show his face, and I agree.” Kraunauer paused, a perfect two-second interval for maximum dramatic effect. “Mr. Morgan’s life was threatened. By a cop. And then somebody…put a bomb in his car.”