“You ever read, Dexter?” he said, and the way he used my first name worried me —it sounded like he was talking to a suspect. And of course he was, but I was still hoping he wouldn't think of me that way.

“Read?” I said. “Um, not a whole lot, no. Why?” I like to read” he said. And then apparently shifting gears he went on, “Once is happenstance, twice is coincidence, three times is enemy action.”

“Excuse me?” I said. He had lost me somewhere around “I like to read“.

“It's from Goldfinger,” he said. “Where he's telling James Bond, I come across you three times where you don't belong, it ain't a coincidence.” He sipped, wiped his mouth, and watched me sweat.

“Love that book. Must of read it like three, four times” he said.

I haven't read it” I said politely.

“So, we got you here” he went on. “And we got you at the house that blows up. And that's two times we shouldn't have you anywhere around. Am I s'posed to think that's coincidence?”

“What else would it be?” I said.

He just looked without blinking. Then he took another sip of his Mountain Dew. I don't know” he said at last. “But I know what Goldfinger would say it is if there's a third time.”

“Well, let's hope there isn't” I said, and I truly meant it this time.

“Yeah” he said. He nodded, stuck his index finger into the mouth of the soda bottle, and stood up. “Let's just hope the shit out of that” he said. He turned away, walked back around his car, got in, and drove away.

If I had been a little bit more of a fond observer of human foible, I'm sure I would have taken great joy in discovering new depths in Detective Coulter. How wonderful to find that he was a devotee of the literary arts! But the joy of this discovery was diminished by the fact that I really had no interest in what Coulter did with his time, provided he did it away from me. I had barely gotten Sergeant Doakes off perpetual Dexter watch, and now here came Coulter to take his place. It was like I was the victim of some strange and sinister Dexter-persecuting Tibetan sect —whenever the old Dexter-hating lama died, a new one was born to take his place.

But there was very little I could do about that right now. I was about to become a major work of art, and at the moment that was a far more pressing problem. I got into my car, started the engine, and drove home.

When I got to the house I had to stand outside and knock for several minutes, since Rita had decided to fasten the security chain on the inside of the door. I suppose I was lucky that she had not piled the couch and the refrigerator in front of the door as well.