Dexter laughed, too. The house was no more inhabited by Javier’s mother than it was by the Queen of England. Javier had bought it in his mother’s name to conceal his ownership, a ploy that many of them had used at one time or another to hide their connection to various properties and valuables they purchased—things decidedly not paid for with their regular cop salaries.
A car, covered by a gray tarp, sat beside the house.
“What’s that?” Dexter asked.
“Something special for you,” Javier said.
They parked. Dexter got out of the car and walked to the covered vehicle, snow and ice crunching under his shoes. He peeked under the tarp.
It was a ten-year-old black Chevy Caprice, a model that was once the ubiquitous police cruiser.
Dexter laughed. “You kill me.”
“Glad the joint hasn’t taken away your sense of humor,” Javier said. He opened the Dodge’s trunk and handed a big, olive green duffel bag to Dexter. “Feliz Navidad, amigo.”
Dexter placed the bag on the ground and unzipped it. It contained a Glock 9mm, five magazines of ammo, a switchblade, a concealable body armor vest, a prepaid cell phone, clothing, keys to the Chevy and the house, a manila envelope, and five thick, bundled packets of cash in denominations of twenties, fifties and hundreds, totaling approximately ten thousand dollars.
It wasn’t a lot of money, but more waited in Chicago. Substantially more.
“Santa brought you everything on your wish list,” Javier said. “In spite of how naughty you’ve been.”
Dexter grinned. In the manila envelope, he found an Illinois driver’s license, U.S. passport, and a Social Security card, all listed under the alias of Alonzo Washington.
“Alonzo Washington?” Dexter asked.
Javier smiled. “Sound familiar?”
“The flick about the narc—Training Day, right? Denzel’s character was named Alonzo something.”
“I thought you’d appreciate it.”
“You’re a regular fucking comedian, aren’t you?” Dexter tapped the IDs. “These solid?”
“As a rock,” Javier said. “The finest money could buy.”
In the ID snapshots, Dexter’s face had been digitally altered to depict him as clean shaven. Dexter rubbed the thick, woolen beard he had grown in prison.
“We threw some Magic Shave and a couple razors in the bag, too,” Javier said.
“I’ve had hair on my chin since I was fifteen. I’ll hardly recognize myself.”
He turned to the house. Although it offered perhaps fifteen hundred square feet, a decent amount of space but nothing spectacular, to a man who had lived in a seven-by-twelve cell it would be like having the run of the Biltmore Estate all to himself.
“Utilities are on,” Javier said. “Christy went grocery shopping this morning, packed the refrigerator with everything a growing boy needs.”
“Your loyalty,” Dexter said. “That means more to me than anything. Thanks.”
“Speaking of loyalty, we tried to track down your ex-wife,” Christy said.
“Wife,” Dexter said.
“Right. Anyway, she’s dropped off the grid, like you thought. We got nothing.”
“That’s good,” Dexter said.
“How the hell is that good, after how she screwed you?” Javier asked.
“Because,” Dexter said, a grin curving across his face. “I get to find her myself.”
1
The night that changed Joshua Moore’s life began, ironically, with a party.
On Sunday, December 16, Joshua and his wife, Rachel, hosted a holiday get-together at their home in south metro Atlanta. Over twenty people, a lively blend of family and friends, crowded into the four-bedroom house. It was their first time holding an event at their home since they had moved in five months ago, and Joshua’s head was spinning from all the activity.
People gathered in the family room, dining room, kitchen, living room, and hallway, eating, drinking, talking, and laughing. The dining room had been turned into a buffet, featuring a full spread of appetizers, desserts, and beverages such as crab cakes, hot wings, egg rolls, meatballs, pasta salad, peel-and-eat shrimp, cheeses, cookies, cakes, fruit punch, soda, wine, and a glass bowl brimming with rum-spiced eggnog. Holiday music played over the in-house stereo system, loud enough to enliven the mood but low enough to encourage conversation.
“You look dazed,” Eddie Barnes said. Standing in the living room beside a seven-foot high Christmas tree that dwarfed his slight frame, Eddie nursed a glass of eggnog. “Take a load off and chill for a sec.”
“Good idea.” Careful not to spill his soda, Joshua sat on one of the new microfiber sofas they had purchased upon moving in. He stretched his legs in front of him—which, at his height of six feet five, was a considerable length. “I can’t remember the last time I threw a party.”
“I do,” Eddie said. “Sixteenth birthday. In your parents’ basement. I was the deejay, remember? Mixmaster E?”
“Man, that was a long time ago. Sixteen years?”
Eddie bobbed his clean-shaven head. “We’re getting old, dawg. Married with kids and shit.”
“Speak for yourself. I don’t have any kids.”
“They’re on the way. See how much Rachel’s been talking to Ariel? She’s getting child-rearing tips, trust me. Look at ’em.” Eddie motioned with his glass.
Joshua looked over his shoulder. Dressed in a red sweater, green slacks, and a cute Santa cap, Rachel was in the hallway speaking to Ariel, Eddie’s wife. Ariel bounced their three-year-old son on her hip with practiced ease, while their six-year-old daughter pranced around them. Tanisha May, Rachel’s business partner, was also part of the group. The two as-yet childless women resembled chicks taking lessons from a mother hen.
Joshua shrugged. “We’re in no rush to have kids. We only got married six months ago. We’re planning to just enjoy being married, do some traveling, you know.”
“What’s that saying? Man plans—God laughs. You never know what life’ll hit you with. Be ready.”
“You must’ve tipped some extra rum into that glass. You’re talking crazy.”
“I joke, but fatherhood is cool, Josh.” Eddie gazed at his young children with a proud smile. “Makes you grow up real quick. Can you honestly say, right now, that you would die for someone else?”
Joshua looked at Rachel again. As sometimes happened when he regarded
