Dexter Is Dead (Dexter 8)

Brian looked at me with raised eyebrows. “The feds want to ask me a few questions,” I said.

“Oh, dear,” he said. “That sounds a little chancy.”

“I don’t think so,” I said. “They seemed reasonable last night—and Kraunauer will be there with me.”

“Well, then,” Brian said. “I guess it will be all right—if there’s still time for some pie?”

“There’s always time for pie,” I said.

EIGHTEEN

In spite of my grand claim, it was closer to fifty-five minutes before Brian dropped me at the corner of NW 2nd Avenue and 165th Street, across the street from the FBI’s Miami Field Office. I didn’t mind the short extra walk across the street and a half block down. Brian was certainly not going to put himself any closer than necessary to such a hornets’ nest of law enforcement.

Kraunauer was waiting for me in the lobby. “There you are,” he said in greeting.

“Yes, sorry to keep you waiting,” I said. “Travel is a little iffy without a car.”

He nodded. “Miami is a big city with a small-town infrastructure,” he said. “They’re waiting for us.” He nodded toward reception, where a young woman in a severe blue business suit stood beside the desk. She was looking at us with a very serious expression, which told me even more certainly than the suit that she was an agent and not a secretary or file clerk.

She led us to a conference room on the second floor, where Revis and Blanton, my two new friends from last night, were waiting. And alas for all that is right and decent in the world, they were not alone. Sitting at the foot of the table, leaning back in his chair and displaying his well-polished sneer, was Detective Anderson.

“Oh, wonderful,” I said. “You’ve arrested him already.”

Kraunauer gave a short snort of amusement, but nobody else thought it was terribly funny—especially not Anderson, who scowled at me, which at least meant he understood me. “Mr. Morgan,” Agent Revis said, taking the lead again. “In the interest of interagency cooperation, we have agreed to allow a representative of the Miami-Dade police to be present at your questioning.”

“You are aware, are you not,” said Kraunauer smoothly, “that this officer has a history of animosity toward my client? As well as a great deal of questionable behavior?”

&n

bsp; “Detective Anderson will not take any active part here,” Blanton said. “He’s here as an observer only.”

Kraunauer looked at me and raised one perfectly groomed eyebrow. I shrugged, and he turned back to the feds. “As long as that is clearly understood,” he said. Revis and Blanton nodded in unison. Kraunauer turned to Anderson, but he merely looked away, so Kraunauer shrugged. “Then I have no objections,” he said to Revis. “Let’s get started.”

Blanton pulled out a chair and nodded me toward it; I sat, Kraunauer sat next to me, and the two feds sat side by side across the table from us. Blanton opened a manila folder and frowned into it, but it was Revis who began. “Mr. Morgan, have you ever been arrested for possession of a controlled substance?”

She said it very seriously, as if she was asking whether I had a driver’s license, but it was such a totally loony question I was speechless for several long seconds, and my sad state was not helped by the fact that Anderson had leaned forward with glittering eyes and a new improved version of his sneer. I found my tongue again, but all I managed was a pathetic, “Have I—What, what?”

“Just yes or no, Mr. Morgan,” Blanton said.

“No, of course not,” I said. Anderson shook his head, as if to point out how sad it was when somebody tells blatant fibs.

But Revis just nodded, very calm and reassuring. “How long have you been using illegal drugs?” she said, with a slight emphasis on using.

“Is this really relevant?” Kraunauer said, a slight twist of dry irony in his voice. “That was a bomb in Mr. Morgan’s car. Not a bong.”

Two pairs of Official Federal Eyeballs clicked to Kraunauer, but he just looked back at them with an easy amusement that was contagious, at least to me. I felt like putting my feet up on the table and lighting a cigar.

“We think it might be relevant,” Blanton said.

“Really,” Kraunauer said with mild disbelief. “How so?”

“Counselor,” Revis said. “We have some reason to believe the bomb was built by a known narcoterrorist. And”—she nodded seriously—“we have received information that Mr. Morgan has a well-established pattern of drug use.”

Kraunauer looked at Anderson. So did I. But Revis and Blanton were far too polished. They looked straight ahead, as if they’d forgotten that Anderson existed. I wished I could forget, too. “Received…information,” Kraunauer drawled, caressing the words and still looking straight at Anderson. “May I ask where you received it from?”

Anderson had begun to squirm just a little in his seat, and as Kraunauer’s accusing stare went on he actually started to blush. It was very gratifying to see, worth the entire field trip to the Field Office.

“Our source is confidential,” Blanton said.