Dexter Is Dead by Jeff Lindsay

mine,” I said. I let it sink in for a moment, and then I gave him a big smile. “And Frank Kraunauer’s.”
    He blinked rapidly, and then his hand began to drift down toward his gun belt.
    “Shit, Julio, would you get in the car?” Blue Eyes called.
    Ramirez shook himself. “Psycho asshole,” he said. And then he climbed into the car and slammed the door.
    It was a small victory, especially compared to the loss of a shower and a change into clothing without dried blood on it. But it was still a victory, and I hadn’t had many of those lately. In any case, it was a great deal better than collecting a few facial bruises and a ride down to headquarters in chains. So I put on a confident face, turned around, and headed back up the street, to the strip mall where Brian waited.
    I walked briskly: in part because it went with my confident face, but also because I wanted some distance between me and the squad car, just in case Ramirez changed his mind and decided to snap and go medieval on me anyway. Even so, it was a little more than ten minutes before I finally turned the corner and walked the last half block to the parking lot of the strip mall. The day had grown much warmer, and I worked up a nice sweat, which made me regret even more that I hadn’t gotten my shower and some fresh clothing. But at least Brian was right there, pulled up in front of a mattress store, with his engine idling. He saw me coming, took in my sweaty face and unchanged clothes, and nodded, a phony sympathetic smile on his face.
    I walked around his car and climbed in on the passenger side. “Well,” he said in greeting, “may I take it that things did not go as you hoped?”
    “Indeed you may,” I said. I held up my wrists, which were visibly chafed and red from the handcuffs. “Somewhat less than optimal.”
    “At least you can be grateful,” Brian said, “that I am not the type who insists on saying,
told you so
.”
    “Didn’t you just say it?” I asked him.
    “Nobody’s perfect,” he said, and put the car in gear. “What now?”
    I sighed, suddenly feeling very weary of it all. The excitement of my new freedom, and the adrenaline of my encounter with Ramirez had faded. I just felt numb, tired, sick of the monstrous injustice piled at my door—and still angry that my own door was closed to me. I had no idea what to do next. I had thought ahead only as far as a shower in my own snug little shower stall, and some clean, fresh clothing. But now? “I don’t know,” I said, and the weariness showed in my voice. “I suppose it’s time for the hotel. But I don’t have any clean clothes, or…” I sighed again. “I don’t know.”
    “Well, then,” Brian said, suddenly switching to a take-charge voice. “We can get you checked in anytime; that’s easy enough. But you should be presentable first.” He nodded at the knees of my pants. The dried blood was still there, quite visible. “We can’t have you wandering around looking like that.” He shook his head with an expression of distaste. “Nasty stuff. It just won’t do. People would talk.”
    “I suppose you’re right,” I said. “So what do we do?”
    Brian smiled and put the car in gear. “There’s a very ancient and wise saying of our people,” he said. “When in doubt, go shopping.”
    It didn’t seem that wise to me. If I followed it literally, I would be spending all my time at the mall nowadays. But in this case, I supposed he was right. So I held up one weary finger in a valiant attempt at enthusiasm, and said, “Charge.”
    Brian nodded. “Better than cash,” he said.

SEVEN
    B rian drove us a few miles through the relatively light morning traffic and then turned into the lot of a Walmart Supercenter. I raised an eyebrow at him as I realized where he was taking us. He smiled that terrible fake smile and said, “Only the finest for you, brother dearest.”
    He parked as close as possible, and I unbuckled and opened the door, but I paused when I