“That's part of her job” I said, even though I realized it would probably feed the hero-worship.

“How come you're never on TV, Dexter?” she said accusingly.

I don't want to be on TV” I said, and she looked at me like I had suggested outlawing ice cream. “It's true” I said. “Imagine if everybody knew what I look like. I couldn't walk down the street without people pointing at me and talking behind my back.”

“Nobody points at Sergeant Debbie” she said.

I nodded. “Of course not”1 said. “Who would dare?” Astor looked like she was ready to argue, so I put my coffee cup down with a bang and stood up. “I'm off to another day of mighty work defending the good people of our city” I said.

“You can't defend people with a microscope” Astor said.

“That's enough, Astor” Rita said, and she hustled over to plant another kiss on me, on the face this time. I hope you catch this one, Dexter” she said. “It sounds awful.” I rather hoped we would catch this one, too. Four victims in one day seemed a little bit overzealous, even to me, and it would certainly create a city-wide atmosphere of paranoid watchfulness that would make it almost impossible for me to have any quiet fun of my own.

So it was with a real determination to see justice done that I went in to work. Of course, any real attempt at justice would have to start with the traffic, since Miami drivers have long ago taken the simple chore of going from one place to another and turned it into a kind of high-speed, heavily armed game of high stakes bumper cars. It's even more interesting because the rules change from one driver to the next. For example, as I drove along in the tight bundle of cars on the expressway, a man in the next lane suddenly started honking his horn. When I turned to look, he flipped me off, yelled, “Maricon!” and forced his way in front of me, and then over on to the shoulder, where he accelerated away.

I had no idea what had caused the display, so I simply waved at his car as it vanished in a distant concerto of honking and shouting.

The Miami Rush Hour Symphony.

I arrived at work a little bit early, but the building was already buzzing with frantic activity. The press room was overflowing with more people than I had ever seen before —at least, I assumed they were people, although with reporters you can never be sure. And the true seriousness of the situation hit me when I realized that there were dozens of cameras and microphones and no sign of Captain Matthews.

More unprecedented shocks awaited: a uniformed cop stood at the elevator and demanded to see my credentials before he let me past, even though he was a guy I knew slightly. And even worse when I finally got to the lab area, I found that Vince had actually brought in a bag of croissants.