Dexter Is Dead (Dexter 8)

But it just wouldn’t do. There were far too many variables, and she might grab at any one of them and use it to upset an applecart or two. So in the end, after she had tried blasphemy, bullying, wheedling, blackmail, extortion, and the threat of enormous and violent physical force, she gave in. She even supplied me with a Cold Piece.

In case you don’t know the term, or worse, if you know it but believe only crooked cops have them, let me explain. A Cold Piece is a gun with no history. It’s unregistered, and quite often the serial numbers are filed off. This means that if it is used in the course of a casual felony or two, it cannot be traced back to any past or present user. As you can see, this makes it quite a handy thing to have around.

And if you cherish the notion that no true-blue righteous cop would ever entertain the thought of owning such a vile object, let me just say this: Ha. Even more, Ha, ha.

Cops won’t talk about it, of course. But every now and then, in the course of doing a job that is routinely life-threatening, demeaning, and contradictory—every now and then a situation arises in which even the Good Cop faces a Bad Situation, and the Greater Good demands just a tiny little bending of the absolute standards entrusted to their care.

And so, the Cold Piece. Deborah had one, a very nice Ruger nine-millimeter with a fifteen-round clip, and she assured me it was absolutely untraceable. She put it in my hands, even supplying a full second clip, and although she did not actually tear up and whisper, “Godspeed,” she did actually look into my eyes for a full two seconds before saying, “Fuck,” and turning away. For Deborah, it was very close to, “Godspeed.”

I do not like guns. They are cold, impersonal, nasty things with no beauty at all. They have no real soul, and they take all the fun out of things. But they are also quite effective at evening the odds, and as the adopted son of a man who was an ex-Marine combat vet as well as a cop, I knew how to use them quite well. And since I had no real idea what might be lying in wait for me, the weight of the Ruger in my pocket was reassuring.

Deborah very grumpily drove me over to Dadeland, an old mall in South Miami, and dropped me there at the main entrance, still with a complete lack of good cheer. She glared at me long and hard before she let me go, but all she said was, “Call me, goddamn it.”

I wandered through the mall for a half hour or so, just to give Debs a chance to give up lurking hopefully in the parking lot, and then I went straight to the food court and took care of some very important unresolved issues. I had, after all, never gotten my meat loaf. It may be that I should have been so focused on getting my kids back safely that I forgot how hungry I was. But the mighty machine that is Dexter does not work that way. In order to perform at the highest possible level, it needs fuel on a regular schedule. And since I was facing a very daunting task or two in the near future, I needed it now.

The food court offered a wide array of choices, as they often do. I settled on two slices of pizza, for very good reasons. First, it was the first place I came to. Second, and almost as important, it was lying right there under a red spotlight all ready to go. I wolfed it down fast, so I wouldn’t notice that I didn’t like it.

After I’d eaten I found a Starbucks and got a Double Super Reverse Mega Ultra Extra Wonder Something-or-Other that tasted surprisingly like coffee. I took it to a table in a quiet corner, sat, and called Brian.

He answered right away. “Brother,” he said with his usual fake bonhomie.

“I have something of great importance,” I said. “Can you come get me?”

“Great importance?” he said.

“Practically immense,” I assured him. “A problem solved.”

“Oh, well, then,” he said. “On my way.”

I sat and sipped my Ultimo Ridiculoso Stupenda blend while I waited for Brian to arrive. I went through my reasoning again, checking it carefully, looking for any indications that I had added things up wrong, and found none. I was as sure as I could be, and that’s always a nice feeling. If I lived through all this, I must remember to have that feeling more often.

And why couldn’t I have it more often right now? Why couldn’t I think of something feeling-forming to solve the absurd bumbling malice of Anderson? It really was too bad; for the first time since this whole thing started I’d just begun to think there might be a way out. But if my new theory was right, I still had to deal with Detective Dolt.

I remembered something my adoptive mother, Doris, had been fond of saying: “Two little problems make for one big solution.” It had been her version of turning stumbling blocks into stepping-stones, I suppose, and I’d never really found it to be true. But if it ever could be true, this would be a wonderful time.

Every now and then, I think my thoughts are fixed on one thing, and in fact they are not. When this happens, they will quite often clear their throat politely to get my attention, and then let me know what I was really thinking. And as I sat there in Dadeland Mall remembering Dear Doris, I heard a soft but very distinct ahem coming from an unused corner of my brain. I politely turned my focus there, expecting to hear a request for one more slice of the awful pizza. But what I found instead was much, much tastier.

So much better, in fact, that I had That Feeling again.

Once more I picked up my phone, and this time I had only good feelings about the device. In fact, I regretted ever disliking it—what a marvelous piece of equipment it was! It can take pictures, send text messages, access the Internet, become a GPS or a dictating machine or a hundred other things—and even make phone calls! And on top of all that wonderful possibility, it can send e-mails!

Working quickly, I began to use a few of those splendid features. I went online and found a site that allows you to book hotel rooms; I booked one at the Galleon in South Miami under the name of Brian Murphy, the name that had been on my brother’s fake credit card. The site allowed me to pick a room and I chose Room 1221 for no particular reason, pressed confirm, and clicked off.

Next, I used my beloved phone to send an e-mail to Vince Masuoka. “Hi, Vince,” I wrote. “Thot u shd know—I am @ Galleon Hotel, room 1221. Don’t tell anybody!!!” And then I added, “PS—I am out of the room for about 2 hrs, so don’t come right now.”

/> And finally, just to keep things in proper perspective, I used the delightful device to make an actual phone call. “Vince,” I said when he answered. “I just sent you an e-mail—”

“What?! No!” he wailed. “Dexter, I told you—Anderson is reading my mail!”

“Yes, I know,” I said soothingly. “I’m counting on it.”

“You’re—what?”

“Just make sure you ignore it,” I said. “Okay?”

“Ignore—But it’s my e-mail.”

“Vince, please, it’s very simple,” I said. “Pay no attention to e-mails from me. Understand?”