Dexter by Design (Dexter, #4)

by Jeff Lindsay

“I am riding around in a car with a guy who has killed what, ten, fifteen people?” It’s never pleasant to be so grossly underestimated, but it didn’t seem like the politic thing to correct her. “All right,” I said.

It was unfair, totally unjustified; of course I was a monster—but not that kind. I was neat, focused, polite, and very careful not to cause the tourists any inconvenience with random body parts scattered about.

And if somebody had shouted at me, “Look out behind you! He’s got a gun!” I would have replied with no more than a weary mumble, “Tell him to take a number and wait.”

I wondered if Rita would bring me soup if I was arrested. I wondered if Weiss had anyone to bring him soup. I hoped not—I was starting to dislike him, and he certainly didn’t deserve soup.

“Once is happenstance, twice is coincidence, three times is enemy action.”

By the time I got back to my little cubby at headquarters, I had sweated away most of my artificial human covering and I wanted nothing more out of life than to take a shower, put on some dry clothes, and then possibly slice up somebody who thoroughly deserved it.

Intelligence is generally praised as a good thing, but I really have to admit that I had liked Coulter a lot more when I thought he was a harmless idiot.

“That bad guy has her. The one that crashed into your car.” “The one I got with a pencil?” Cody asked me. “That’s right,” I said. “I hit him in the crotch,” Astor said. “You should have hit him harder,” I said. “He’s got your mom.”