Free Dexter Is Dead by Jeff Lindsay Page B

Brown Eyes was only about five-foot-four, but he did what he could to make himself taller with his anger.
    “Assume the position,” he said, jerking his head at the side of the car. I opened my mouth to protest that I had done nothing to give him any cause, and as I did his hand drifted down toward his pistol. I closed my mouth and assumed the position.
    I grew up around cops, and spent my whole career among them, and I know perfectly well how to assume the position. I have to say I did it rather well. But Brown Eyes kicked my feet farther apart anyway, hard, and shoved me against the car, clearly hoping that I would bump my head. Considering his mood, it might not have been wise to disappoint him, but it was, after all, my face, and so I risked it and caught myself with my hands.
    He frisked me quickly and thoroughly, “accidentally” hurting me wherever possible, and then pulled my hands roughly behind me and snapped on the cuffs. He pulled them much too tight, naturally. I expected it after the rest of his performance, but there wasn’t a great deal I could do about it. And then, keeping one hand on me, he opened the back door of the squad car.
    I knew what was coming, of course. He was going to push me into the backseat, pausing along the way to “accidentally” slam my forehead into the roof of the car, and I prepared myself to dodge it if I could. But happily for me, before he could shove, his partner called to him.
    “Ramirez, hold it,” Blue Eyes said.
    Ramirez paused, and then grabbed my wrist and yanked my arms upward. It hurt. “Lemme put him in the car,” he said.
    “Ramirez!” Blue Eyes said. “Dispatch says to let him go.”
    Ramirez tightened his grip on me. “He’s resisting arrest,” he said through clenched teeth.
    “No, I’m not,” I said. And it was true; if I was resisting anything at all, it was circulation. My hands were already turning purple from the tight cuffs.
    But Ramirez was locked into Full Bully Mode, and he clearly didn’t care. He pushed on me, bumping me into the car. “Your word against mine,” he hissed.
    “Come on, Julio, he’s not arrested,” Blue Eyes said. “Come on, you gotta let him go. Julio, for shit’s sake, come on.”
    There was a pause that seemed quite long to me, and then I heard a noise that sounded like steam blasting out of a radiator, which I hoped was Ramirez deciding he really did have to let me go.
    It was. He dropped my arms abruptly, and a moment later he unlocked the cuffs. I turned around and looked at him. He was clearly waiting for me to scurry timidly away, and thinking about some ominous parting line to make my heart quail within me, and probably hoping he could stick out his foot and trip me as I went by. He was also standing much too close, a standard ploy of bullies. Maybe he hoped I wouldn’t notice at that distance how short he was. But I did notice, just as I had also noticed all his stupid, petty attempts to intimidate me, cause me pain, and otherwise kill the song in my heart. It wasn’t necessary—in theory, it also wasn’t legal. And I was, after all, innocent. His bullying had irked me. So instead of scurrying, I stepped a little closer to him—not close enough to give him a reason to open fire, but just enough to remind him that I was much taller, and force him to bend his neck a little more to look up at me.
    “Julio Ramirez,” I said, nodding briefly to show I would remember. “You will be hearing from my attorney.” I paused long enough to let him begin a sneer, and then said, “His name is Frank Kraunauer.”
    I knew, of course, that Kraunauer’s name was heap big magic; at its merest mention judges bowed and juries swooned. I had been hoping it might have some small effect on Ramirez, and I was immediately rewarded by a reaction that exceeded my hopes and was very gratifying to watch. He actually turned pale, and then he took a step backward. “I didn’t do anything,” he said.
    “Your word against