Dexter Is Dead (Dexter 8)

Matt Laredo’s face filled the screen, wearing a wonderfully crafted expression of dubious amazement and shock. Great hair and acting ability—the kid had network potential. “Mr. Kraunauer,” Laredo said, “are you asking us to believe that a police officer planted this bomb?”

Back to Kraunauer, who left Laredo in the dust, facially speaking, with a superb expression of cynical amusement, combined with disgust and angry outrage. “Draw your own conclusions,” he said grimly. “I make no accusations. But the threats were made, and then the bomb happened—and it would be very convenient for certain members of the police department if Dexter Morgan was no longer able to testify against them.”

The camera jumped to Matt Laredo, standing at my previous hotel, with the blasted ruins of my car behind him. “Anita, it seems like a clear-cut story of a multiple murder is morphing into an epic case of police corruption and cover-up, and it begs the question: How high does this go? And just how much can we trust our cops to do their job fairly and honestly? With or without Frank Kraunauer, we suddenly have some huge questions…and very few answers.”

Three full seconds of Matt Laredo looking nobly serious, and then back to the breathless blonde in the studio. “Thanks, Matt. And federal authorities have now intervened in the case, although terrorism is not suspected at this time. And that sure makes it look like the FBI doesn’t trust the Miami-Dade police, either.”

The picture behind her changed to an aerial shot of a pod of whales, and the blonde went right on without skipping a beat. “Another tragedy on the beaches of South Florida, as eleven pilot whales have been stranded near Everglades City. Debbie Schultz is on the scene.”

Even with Debbie Schultz on the scene, it was hard to get worked up about the tragic plight of a few whales, when poor Disheveled Dexter was in such terrible straits. I turned off the TV. Of course, it meant that I would never get to admire Debbie’s hair. It might even be riffled by a light breeze, and that was always a marvelous news moment. But perhaps I could comb my own hair instead. Besides, the coffee was ready. As I sipped it, I tried very hard not to gloat, but I admit a few sly smirks snuck out anyway. Kraunauer had done a wonderful job. He was worth every penny I wasn’t paying him. He even made me believe I was a poor innocent victim of an evil corrupt police force. And of course I was, at least in this one case, but I would never have dared to suggest it if not for Kraunauer.

The coffee did its job, too, and I was almost up to normal speed when my phone began to chirp. I glanced at it; the call was from Vince Masuoka. I picked up the phone and answered. “Hi, Vince,” I said.

“Dexter, my God! Are you all right?” he said in a voice that was near hysteria. “I mean, I know you must be, because—But holy shit! A bomb! The news said? And you were—I mean, are you? Okay, I mean?”

Vince’s outburst had been so frantic it was near the legal definition of assault, but I gathered he had seen something in the news similar to what I had just watched. “I’m fine, Vince, really,” I said. “Just a couple of scratches.”

“Oh, my God, but you could have been killed!” he said.

“I think that was the idea,” I said, but he was already rushing on.

“Jesus, Dexter—a bomb?! And they just…I mean, who would do that? To you, I mean?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “But the FBI is handling it now. They took it away from Anderson.”

“Anderson?” he said, sounding even more alarmed. “But that’s—Anderson is…” He lowered his voice to a near whisper and added, “Dexter, you think Anderson might have—I mean,” he said, dropping to a full whisper, “I found out he’s reading my e-mail.”

It’s always wonderful to witness the emotional agility that some people with actual feelings can manage, and Vince had just performed a truly acrobatic feat, from concern for my life right to a petty problem he was having at work, all without losing a step. But beyond that, it was interesting in another way. Anderson? Hacking? “Vince, that’s not possible,” I said. “Anderson can barely work his phone.”

“I’m positive, Dexter,” Vince said. “I wrote a note to my mother? Just, you know, about going to see her at Easter. And then Anderson comes up to me and he says, ‘What makes you think you’ll still be alive at Easter, Masookoh?’ He calls me Masookoh,” he added, in case I wanted to remind him that wasn’t really his name.

“Oh,” I said. It certainly sounded like Anderson was, in fact, reading Vince’s e-mail. “He must have some technical help.”

“I know, but it could be anybody,” Vince said. “Dexter, this thing is just crazy—it’s like everybody is in on it all of a sudden, and I—I mean, it’s so totally overwhelming….”

Vince sounded like he was about to cry, which would have been a bit much for me, so I tried to calm him down. “It’s almost over, Vince,” I said. “It’s all coming to a head now. You just hang on for a couple of days.”

“Days, but Dexter,” he said. “I mean, it’s just crazy here.”

There was more, but I got him calmed down eventually. I told him he was a good boy who had done a good thing and only good things could happen to him, and oddly enough, he began to believe it. So I said I had to go, and promised to call him and let him know what was going on, and put the phone down with a cramp in my neck and a sore ear. Anderson was growing into an even bigger problem, which hardly seemed possible—or fair, for that matter. If this truly was a rational and well-ordered Universe, wouldn’t it be enough that somebody was being chased by a posse of hired killers, and nearly blown up by an enormous bomb? I mean, what was the point of adding Anderson’s persecution on top of that? It really seemed kind of small-minded of the Universe, like cutting off somebody’s legs and then saying, “And you’re ugly, too!”

I thought briefly about doing Something about Anderson, but I quickly realized I was fantasizing rather than planning. He was a problem, yes—but not as immediate as my other ones. I could worry about Anderson if I managed to stay alive for a few more days.

I reached for my phone and called Brian. He answered right away, but instead of hello, he said, “Front page of the Herald, lead story on TV, and now me? So glad you haven’t forgotten the little people now that you’re famous.”

“Fame has its price,” I said. “That was a terrible picture of me.”

“It was,” he said agreeably. “But unfortunately, it’s good enough to help my former friends ident

ify you.”

“I don’t think they need help,” I said.

“Perhaps not,” he said. “And perhaps the phone is not the place to speak of it. Can we meet somewhere?”

“As it happens, I’m hungry,” I said.

“What a surprise,” Brian said.