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  “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.”

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  “The Patriarch” copyright © 2008 by Brandon Massey

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  ISBN: 978-0-7582-2382-1