Dexter Is Dead (Dexter 8)

Kraunauer slowly turned his head back to the feds. “Really,” he said. “Confidential.”

Blanton looked uncomfortable, and he and Revis had one of their wordless conferences. “We can’t reveal the source,” Revis said at last. “But I’ll show you the file.”

Kraunauer nodded. “Good enough.”

Blanton pushed the manila folder across the top of the conference table and Kraunauer picked it up. I leaned over and looked, too.

The top page was a copy of the log from the evidence room. Whenever anyone accesses the evidence room, cop or forensics geek, they are required to sign the log. On this page, picked out in bright yellow highlighter, was an entry that said Dexter Morgan had been there, and it was signed with a childish scrawl that looked as much like my signature as Egyptian cuneiform writing does.

Kraunauer flipped the page: The second page was a copy of an interdepartmental memo stating that someone had removed two kilos of confiscated cocaine from the evidence room, at a date and time that was amazingly similar to the time “Dexter Morgan” had been there.

“Well, it does prove one thing,” I said. “I have superpowers.” Kraunauer looked at me and raised an eyebrow. I tapped the line with the date. “I was in a cell at Turner Guilford Knight on this date.”

Kraunauer looked at me blandly for a moment, then turned to Revis. “Easy enough to check,” he said.

“What about the signature?” Blanton asked.

“It’s not even a good forgery,” I said. “It looks like a third grader’s handwriting. Tell me, Detective,” I said, facing Anderson, “as the only third grader here, do you always have trouble making your letters?”

Kraunauer cleared his throat, whether from amusement or postnasal drip I couldn’t tell. “Agent Revis,” he said. “My client seems to think that’s not his signature.”

Revis nodded. “May I see your driver’s license, Mr. Morgan?” she said, holding out a hand.

I looked at Kraunauer, who nodded. “Of course,” I said. I pulled out my wallet and placed the license in Revis’s hand. Kraunauer slid the folder back across the table and Blanton picked it up. He and Revis huddled together for a moment, comparing the signature on my license to the cheesy scrawl on the evidence log.

It didn’t take long. I have always prided myself on my penmanship. I like to make neat, regular letters, and write words that are legible to anyone who can read. The forged signature was so obviously by a different hand that even a total clot like Anderson should have known better. And the two feds were by no means total clots, nor even partial. After just a few seconds Revis flipped my license back to me.

“Not the same signature?” Kraunauer said to her.

“Probably not,” Revis said.

“He changed it!” Anderson said.

“Detective,” Revis said warningly.

“He disguised his signature; it’s obvious!” Anderson went on.

Blanton stood up. He took the two steps along the table to Anderson and stood over him, looking down at him with an expression of ice-cold annoyance. Anderson looked back, and for a moment he thought he might bluster on. But Blanton leaned down, until his face was only an inch from Anderson’s.

“The understanding was,” Blanton said softly, “that you would observe.” He held up a finger, making Anderson flinch. “Not talk. Observe.”

Anderson opened his mouth, but thought better of it, and Blanton nodded and returned to his own chair. He sat, looked briefly at Revis, and then both agents looked at me. “Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Morgan, Mr. Kraunauer,” Revis said. “You can go now.”

Kraunauer stood up and said politely, “Thank you, Agent Revis. Agent Blanton.” He looked at me, said, “Mr. Morgan?” and then turned away and headed out the door.

I stood up, too. I felt like I should say something polite to the two feds, but nothing came to me that didn’t make me sound like a puerile lick-spittle, so I just nodded and turned for the door.

Anderson was there ahead of me. He stood right in the doorway, filling it with his bulk and making it impossible for me to pass. “This ain’t over yet, fuckwad,” he said softly.

“Not while you’re still at liberty,” I said. “I mean, really, Detective. Drugs? That’s the best you can do?”

He stared at me some more, perhaps hoping I would melt. But I didn’t, and after a long and dull pause, he just nodded. “It ain’t over yet,” he repeated, and stepped aside. I went gratefully through the unblocked door, and closed it behind me.

Kraunauer was waiting for me, standing next to the same young and serious agent who had brought us up. “I’m beginning to believe,” Kraunauer said, “that Detective Anderson may not like you.”

“Whatever gave you that idea?” I said. He just chuckled briefly, and said to the young woman, “Agent?”

She had clearly been waiting with some impatience to take us down to the lobby, and now, given her freedom, she did so very briskly, without wasting any expensive Bureau time on idle chitchat. She set such a vigorous pace, in fact, that it was not until we arrived at the reception area that I remembered I had no way to get back to my hotel. “Oh,” I said to her, “um, Ms. Agent?”