There was only one piece of that important question that I could unravel, because in general terms there were only two possible explanations for why it happened here, in my room. First, it was entirely coincidental. This was Miami, after all. Random murders happen all the time, and they have to happen somewhere. The killers had simply chosen the handiest room, and that just happened to be mine. I thought about that for nearly a full second before concluding that it was nearly as likely that the sun would come up in the west, and just stay there for a few weeks.
All right, coincidence was laughable, and that led inevitably to the second possibility: The two strangers had deliberately come to
my
room,
knowing
it was my room, in order to (a) snoop, (b) kill me, or (c) something I didn’t have enough data to guess. That was more likely—but it also meant that there were two sides in the struggle, and apparently neither side looked on poor mistreated Me with anything approaching Loving Compassion.
I am quite comfortable with the notion that someday, somewhere, I may meet some benighted, unenlightened individual who decides they just don’t like me. Different strokes for different folks, and so on.
Carrying this thought to its logical conclusion, I can even accept that in some distant time and place, one of these people may decide he dislikes me enough to kill me.
But two
teams
of people? In the same time and place? And both teams finding my existence so distasteful that they break into my room carrying sharp instruments?
Who would want to kill me that much? And what had I done to deserve two separate squads of haters?
Of course, Anderson, or someone lurking in his shadow, was the most obvious suspect. But I could not believe he would approve something that was a major felony. His faults were so numerous they left almost no room for virtues, and he would certainly fool around with misdemeanors, if it served the end of Dishing Dexter. But murder was a bit much, even for him. Even if his victim was somebody who richly deserved to die, what kind of law enforcement officer could possibly countenance murder, even of another killer? It was unimaginable. Besides, he was clearly having too much fun keeping me alive and miserable.
So who did that leave? Who else really had it in for me enough to try to kill me? Could it be some random vigilante? Somebody who was so enraged to see me released that he decided to take things into his own hands? It was possible, but it seemed just a trifle far-fetched. And then to imagine two of them competing to be first to take my scalp…No. It just wouldn’t do.
But there wasn’t anybody else who hated me this much—at least, not among the living. If you could choose from among those I had helped over the edge and into death, you could easily make up two teams—even an entire league. Other than that, though, it seemed impossible. In truth, aside from my recent unwelcome burst of publicity, nobody even knew I existed. I had worked very hard my whole life to keep a low profile. I had worked even harder to be certain that no surviving friends, relatives, or business associates of my Playmates knew who and what I was. Who did that leave?
Without thinking, I sat on the edge of the bed to ponder. My weight caused the body to roll toward the crater in the middle of the mattress, and one of its arms flopped over toward me. If nothing else, it confirmed that the body was freshly killed. It also confirmed that I was still stupid. I got up quickly and moved over to the desk and pulled out the chair.
I sat, and unconsciously assumed an erect upright position. My second-grade teacher, Mrs. Parker, had always insisted that we sit up straight. She said it encouraged a good flow of blood up the spine and into the brain, which would help us think and learn better. We had always laughed at her for this lunatic idea—behind her back, of course; Mrs. Parker had a temper. After all these years, though, it now seemed that she might be right. Because after only a few seconds of sitting up straight in the wooden desk chair, I had an Actual Thought.
I couldn’t possibly figure out who these dead strangers were, not just from looking at them. And if I didn’t know
who,
I couldn’t tell
why
. Beyond the fact that it’s always nice to know who hates you enough to kill you, I needed to know
who
before I could decide what to do about it. And that’s when my Actual Thought spoke to me.
All right, Dexter,
it said.
Then try to figure out who knew that this was your room.
The list of people who knew I had checked in here was much smaller. I had to assume that Anderson and other interested cops might know. And anybody else who could sneak in the back door of a database could find out, if they wanted to know badly enough. I could have done it myself in under ten minutes, simply by checking for a credit card. The moment I used a card with my name on it my location became public knowledge. And the record would state quite clearly the name and address of the hotel, and then—
I blinked. I had just had
another
thought, something very significant; I was quite sure of it. I didn’t know what it was, but I knew it was there. I rewound my thoughts, marching them by again at a slower speed. I sat up even straighter in my chair as I scanned—and there it was. I don’t know if I found it because I had such excellent posture, but just in case, I sent a little mental thank-you card back through time to Mrs. Parker.
It was indeed quite true that anybody with a computer and half a brain could track me by following what I did with my credit card. But there was a tiny factoid that was even truer.
I hadn’t used my credit card.
Brian had used
his
credit card.
What had he called it? A “nice anonymous” card. I’d thought nothing of it at the time, so I tried to make up for that lapse now. Brian could not possibly have a credit rating of any kind; he had no fixed address—for that matter, I wasn’t sure he even had a fixed identity. That obviously meant that the card was either fake or stolen. Most financial companies would look on this with very strong disapproval. But as evil and mercenary as they are, most credit card companies stop just a wee bit short of actually killing people who abuse them, even if unwillingly.
Could it be the hypothetical person Brian had possibly stolen the card from? That was a little more likely—but then why were there two of him?
I thought deeper. Aside from this faux card, Brian had a sudden excess of cash, enough to hire Kraunauer. Where do sudden large chunks of money come from, and what connection could they have to the corpses in my room? I stood and looked at them again, first on the bed, then in the closet, and then I went back and stood over One, where he lay so peacefully on my bed.
All of us who work in law enforcement are taught to shun racial profiling, so I tried not to leap to any conclusions that might offend anyone, no matter their ethnic background. But it was not possible to avoid the observation that the dead men looked very much like they might be Mexican or Central American. And having said that, one could not help adding, with all possible political correctness, that if indeed they
were
Mexican or Central American, and since they had actually been violently murdered, and it had happened right here in Miami—and if, additionally, there truly were significant amounts of money lurking in the background, then it was at least possible—
possible,
mind you, no more than a chance that had very little to do with the men’s ethnic identity—it was, as I say,
possible
that drugs might be involved somewhere along the line.
Brian would certainly have no moral scruples about the drug trade. In truth, he had no actual morals at all. He had all the advantages I enjoyed of being heartless, soulless, empty inside, and devoid of human feelings—but he was not burdened with any of my disadvantages of artificially grafted-on standards. The business of buying and selling drugs would seem like a perfect opportunity for profit, and even self-expression, considering the nature of the competition. He might well have gotten involved in some way. And knowing Brian, he could just as easily have done something that made someone in this ultraviolent world just a trifle peeved.
That didn’t explain who my new friends were. But it did offer the first clear explanation of how and why, and it had the added virtue of being very easy to check.
I picked up my phone and called.
After only three rings, Brian answered. “Brother,” he said with low-quality artificial bonhomie. “How art thou?”
“Not bad,” I said. “A great deal better than my uninvited company.”
“Company?” he said. “Is this wise in your present circumstance?”
“Terribly
un
wise,” I said. “Especially since they are both exceptionally dead.”
For a long moment Brian said nothing.
“Should I add that I have no idea who they are?” I said at last. “And that I also didn’t do it?”
“Good additions,” Brian said softly, and there was a dangerous edge to his voice I hadn’t heard before. “Describe them.”
“Both about five-foot-six and stocky,” I said. “The nearer one is mid-thirties, dark hair, olive skin, pockmarked face.”
Brian hissed. “The left wrist,” he said. “Please examine it.”
I stepped over to the bed and flipped the left arm off the chest. There was a tattoo, about four inches long. It showed a bleeding Jesus wrapped in the coils of a cobra. “Interesting tattoo,” I said into the phone.
“Jesus with a snake?” Brian said.
“Yes,” I said. “You know this guy?”
“Stay put,” he said. “I’m on my way.”
“Brian, there are cops in the lobby,” I said. But he had already hung up.
I looked at my phone and wondered whether I should call Brian back. I decided not to. He probably wouldn’t answer, and anyway, I felt that somehow the phone had let me down. I didn’t trust it anymore.
But I had to do something. “On my way” could mean a few minutes—but it also might mean half an hour or more. I still had no idea what was going on here, but whatever it was, I didn’t think I could simply stand in my room and wait for the next piece of the puzzle to fall into place. The stakes were very high, and the next piece might well land on my head. Clearly I needed to get out of this room as quickly as possible.
On the other hand, I also needed to meet Brian, and he was coming here. But once again, my newly revived brain rose to the challenge, and this time I wasn’t even sitting straight. Brian would arrive and, just as I had, he would see the cop car out front and proceed to the rear door.
I left the room, making double sure the door latched securely behind me, and the Do Not Disturb sign was still in place. I walked to the stairway. I went all the way down to the ground floor and stood to one side of the door, so I could see out into the parking area without being too easily seen myself.
Ten minutes passed. A woman in a business suit walked by outside and climbed into her car—or at any rate, I assumed it was her car. If not, she was a very smooth car thief.
Five more minutes went by. Two teenage kids came clattering down the stairs from the second floor and slammed out the door to the lobby without paying me any attention.
I looked out the window in the back door. I couldn’t see very much, but none of it was moving. I wondered whether Brian had met with some kind of accident—or, all things considered, more likely an on-purpose. How long should I wait for him? Sooner or later something unpleasant was almost certain to happen. The cops would decide to come up to my room and push me around, or the maid would come to change the sheets. It was even possible that whoever had sent the two Strangers would send another one. Failing that, they might come around in person to make another corpse out of anyone hanging around in my room—or in the stairwell, for that matter. Where the hell was Brian?
I looked out the window again. No sign of him; nothing but a white van. It rolled slowly closer, until I could see the side of it. In big black letters, it said,
ATWATER BROTHERS CARPET.
I blinked. Atwater again? Really?
The van backed up into a position that blocked the door where I stood, and a moment later Brian appeared. He wore a pair of tattered gray coveralls and carried a heavy canvas tool bag, and when he put his hand on the door he saw me, and nodded.
I opened the door and Brian stepped through. “Brother,” he said. “We may not have a lot of time.”
“That thought had occurred to me,” I said. “Along with a few others of a more personal nature.”
He showed me his teeth and took my elbow. “Time for recriminations later,” he said. “Right now there’s work to do.”
I nodded and let him hurry me along up the stairs and down the hall to Room 324. I opened the door and we went in, and Brian stepped directly over to look at the body on the bed.
“Octavio,” he said. “As I feared.”
“You do know him,” I said.
He nodded. “He was an ally. Perhaps even a friend.”
“Friendship is such a fragile thing,” I said.
“Like life itself,” Brian said, looking down at Octavio with an expression that might almost have been regret, if I hadn’t known Brian so well.
“I don’t want to intrude on your grief,” I said. “But—”
His head snapped up and he looked at me, all traces of expression completely gone. “Yes,” he said briskly. “You said there were two?”
“I did,” I said. I motioned him over to the closet, and he pushed the door open and knelt beside Stranger Two for no more than three seconds. Then he stood and said, “I don’t know him.”
“Well,” I said. “Even so…”
“Right,” Brian said. “Let’s get them out of here.” He reached into his canvas bag and took out a rolled-up gray cloth something. “Put this on,” he said, tossing it to me.
I unrolled coveralls that matched his own, and pulled them on over my clothes. By the time I had them buttoned up, Brian had rolled up the bedspread, with Octavio snugly inside. “If you would, brother?” he said politely. “Take that end, please.”
I picked up the near end of the bundle. It felt like the feet. Brian picked up the other end, nodding toward the door, and together we clumsied Octavio out, into the hall, and down the stairs. For some reason dead bodies always seem to be heavier than live ones, and Octavio was no exception. He was surprisingly heavy for such a small corpse, and by the time we had him down the stairs to the back door I was thoroughly winded, and had acquired a brand-new cramp in my back muscles.