he Greater Miami Convention and Visitors’ Bureau was in a high-rise building on Brickell Avenue, as befitted its status as a Very Important Organization. The full majesty of its purpose was reflected in the view from its windows, which showed a lovely slice of downtown and Government Cut, a swathe of Biscayne Bay, and even the nearby arena where the basketball team shows up from time to time for some really dramatic losses. It was a wonderful view, almost a postcard, as if to say, Look—this is Miami: we weren’t kidding.

Very few of the bureau’s employees seemed to be enjoying the view today, however. The office resembled a giant oak-lined bees’ nest that somebody had poked with a stick. There could not have been more than a handful of employees, but they were flitting in and out of doors and up and down the hallway so rapidly it looked like there were hundreds of them in constant motion, like crazed particles in a whirring jar of oil. Deborah stood at the receptionist’s desk for two full minutes—a lifetime as far as her sense of patience was concerned—before a large woman paused and stared at her.

“What do you want?” the woman demanded.

Debs immediately flashed her badge. “I’m Sergeant Morgan. From the police?”

“Oh my God,” the woman said. “I’ll get Jo Anne,” and disappeared through a door on the right.

Deborah looked at me as if it was my fault and said, “Jesus,” and then the door slammed open again and a small woman with a long nose and a short haircut came barreling out.

“Police?” she said with real outrage in her voice. She looked beyond us and then back to Deborah. “YOU’RE the police? What, the pinup police?”

Of course, Deborah was used to having people challenge her, but usually not quite so brutally. She actually blushed a little before she held up her badge again and said, “Sergeant Morgan. Do you have some information for us?”

“This is no time for being politically correct,” the woman said. “I need Dirty Harry, and they send Legally Blonde.”

Deborah’s eyes narrowed and the pretty red flush left her cheeks. “If you’d like, I can charge you with obstructing an investigation.”

The woman just stared. Then there was a yell from the back room and something large fell over and broke. She jumped a little, then said, “My God. All right, come on,” and she vanished through the door again. Deborah breathed out hard, showing a few teeth, and then we followed.

The small woman was already disappearing through a door at the end of the hall, and by the time we caught up with her she was settling into a swivel chair at a conference table. “Sit down,” she said, waving at the other chairs with a large black remote control. Without waiting to see if we sat, she pointed the remote at a big flat-screen TV and said, “This came yesterday, but we didn’t get around to looking at it until this morning.” She glanced up at us. “We called right away,” she said, perhaps still trembling with fear from Deborah’s threat. If so, she was controlling her trembles remarkably well.

“What is it?” Deborah said, sliding into a chair.

I sat in one next to her as the woman said, “The TV. Lookit.”

The TV blinked into life, went through a few wonderfully informative screens asking us to wait or select, and then blurted into life with a high-pitched scream. Beside me, Deborah jumped involuntarily.

The screen lit up and an image jumped into focus: from an unmoving position above, we saw a body lying against a white porcelain background. The eyes were wide and staring and, to someone of my modest experience, obviously dead. Then a figure moved into view and partially blocked the body. We saw only the back, and then the upraised arm holding a power saw. The arm went down and we heard the whine of the blade biting into flesh.

“Jesus Christ,” Deborah said.

“It gets worse,” said the short woman.

The blade whirred and growled, and we could see the figure in the foreground working hard. Then the saw stopped, the figure dropped it onto the porcelain, reached forward, and pulled a huge heap of terrible gleaming guts out and dropped them where the camera could see them best. And then large white letters appeared on the screen, superimposed on the heap of intestines:

THE NEW MIAMI: IT WILL RIP YOUR GUTS OUT.

The picture held for a moment, and then the screen went blank.

“Wait,” the woman said, and the screen blinked again, and then new letters glowed to life.

THE NEW MIAMI—SPOT #2

Then we were looking at sunrise on a beach. Mellow Latin music played. A wave rolled in on the sand. An early morning jogger trotted into frame, stumbled, and then came to a shocked halt. The camera moved in on the jogger’s face as it went from shock to terror. Then the jogger lurched into a sprint, up away from the water and across the sand toward the street in the distance. The camera moved back to show my old friends, the happy couple we had found disemboweled on the sand at South Beach.

Then a jump cut took us to the first officer on the scene as his face crumpled and he turned away to vomit. Another jump to faces in the crowd of onlookers craning their necks and freezing, and several more faces, coming faster and faster, each expression different, each showing horror in its own way.

Then the screen whirled, and began to show a frozen shot of each face we had seen, lined up in little boxes until the screen was filled with them and looked like a page from a high school yearbook, with a dozen shocked mug shots in three neat rows.

Again the letters glowed into life:

THE NEW MIAMI: IT WILL GET TO YOU.

And then the screen went dark.

I could think of almost nothing to say, and a glance at my companions showed that I was not the only one. I thought of criticizing the camera technique just to break the awkward silence—after all, today’s audience likes a little more movement in the shot. But the mood in the room didn’t really seem conducive to a discussion of film technique, so I stayed quiet. Deborah sat clenching her teeth. The short woman said nothing, just looked out the window at the beautiful view. Then, finally, she said, “We’re assuming there’s more. I mean, the news said there were four bodies, so...” She shrugged. I tried to see around her and out the window at whatever was so interesting to her, but saw nothing more than a speed boat coming up Government Cut.

“This got here yesterday?” Deborah said. “In the regular mail?”

“It came in a plain envelope with a Miami postmark,” the woman said. “It’s on a plain disc just like the ones we have here in the office. You can get them anywhere—Office Depot, Wal-Mart, whatever.”

She said it with such disdain, and with such a lovely expression of true humanity on her face—something between contempt and indifference—that I had to wonder how she could make anyone like anything, let alone make millions of people want to come to a city partially inhabited by someone like her.

And as that thought clattered onto the floor of my brain and echoed across the marble, a small train chugged out of the Dexter Station and onto the tracks. For a moment I just watched the exhaust billow up out of the smoke stack, and then I closed my eyes and climbed on board.

“What?” Deborah demanded. “What have you got?”

I shook my head and thought it through one more time. I could hear Deborah’s fingers tapping on the table, and then the clatter of the remote as the short woman put it down, and the train finally came up to cruising speed and I opened my eyes. “What if,” I said, “somebody wants negative publicity for Miami?”

“You said that already,” Deborah snarled, “and it’s still stupid. Who could have a grudge against the whole fucking state?”

“But if it’s not against the state?” I said. “What if it’s only against the people who promote the state?” I looked pointedly at the short woman.

“Me?” the short woman said. “Somebody did this to get to me?”

I was touched by her modesty and gave her one of my warmest fake smiles. “You, or your agency,” I said.

She frowned, as if the idea of someone attacking her agency instead of herself was ridiculous. “Well,” she said dubiously.

But Deborah slapped the table and nodded. “That’s it,” she said. “NOW it makes sense. If you fired somebody, and they’re pissed off.”

“Especially if they were a little bit off to begin with,” I said.

“Which most of these artsy types are anyway,” Deborah said. “So somebody loses their job, stews about it for a while, and hits back like this.” She turned to the short woman. “I’ll need to see your personnel files.”

The woman opened and closed her mouth a few times and then started shaking her head. “I can’t let you see our files,” she said.

Deborah glared at her for a moment and then, just when I was expecting her to argue, she stood up. “I understand,” she said. “Come on, Dex.” She headed for the door and I stood to follow.

“What—where are you going?” the woman called out.

“To get a court order. And a warrant,” she said, and turned away without waiting for a reply.

I watched as the woman thought she might bluff it out, for a good two and half seconds, and then she jumped up and ran after Debs, calling, “Wait a sec!”

And that is how, only a few minutes later, I happened to be sitting in the back room in front of a computer terminal. Beside me at the keyboard was Noel, a preposterously skinny Haitian American man with thick glasses and severe facial scars.

For some reason, whenever there is computer work to do Deborah calls on her brother, Digitally Dominant Dexter. And it is true that I am quite accomplished in certain areas of the arcane lore of finding things with a computer, since it has proved very necessary for my small and harmless hobby of tracking down the bad guys who slip through the cracks in the justice system and turning them into a few nice and tidy garbage bags full of spare parts.

But it is also true that our mighty Police Department has several computer experts who could have done the work just as easily without raising the question of why a blood spatter expert was such a good hacker. These questions can eventually turn awkward and make suspicious people ponder, which I do like to avoid at work, since cops are notoriously suspicious people.

Still, complaining is no good. It draws just as much attention, and in any case the entire police force was used to seeing the two of us together and, after all, how could I say no to my poor little sister without receiving a few of her famous powerful arm punches? Besides, she had been somewhat cranky and distant lately, and beefing up my HLQ, or Helpful-Loyal Quotient, could not possibly hurt.

So I played Dutiful Dexter and sat with Noel, who was wearing far too much cologne, and we talked about what to look for.

“Look,” Noel said with a thick Creole accent, “I give you a list of all who are fired for what, two years?”

“Two years is good,” I said. “If there aren’t too many.”

He shrugged, a task that somehow looked painful with his bony shoulders. “Less than a dozen,” he said. He smiled and added, “With Jo Anne, many more just quit.”

“Print the list,” I said. “Then we check their files for any unusual complaints or threats.”

“But also,” he said. “We have a number of independent contractors to design projects, no? And sometimes they do not get the bid, and who can say how unhappy they are?”

“But a contractor could always try again on the next project, right?”

Noel shrugged again, and the motion looked like he was endangering his ears with his too-sharp shoulders. “Per’aps,” he said.

“So, unless it was some sort of final blowup, where the bureau said they would never ever use them under any circumstances, it’s not as likely.”

“Then we stick to the fired ones,” he said, and in just a few moments he had printed out a list with, as he had said, less than a dozen names and Last Known Addresses on it—nine, to be exact.

Deborah had been staring out the window, but when she heard the printer whirring into action she stalked over and leaned on the back of my chair. “What’ve you got?” she demanded.

I took the sheet of paper from the printer and held it up. “Maybe nothing,” I said. “Nine people who were fired.” She snatched the list from my hand and glared at it as if it was withholding evidence. “We’re going to cross-check it against their files,” I said. “To see if they made any threats.”

Deborah gritted her teeth, and I could tell she wanted to run out the door and down the avenue to the first address, but it would certainly save time to prioritize them and put any real zingers at the head of the list. “Fine,” she said at last. “But hurry it up, huh?”

We did hurry it up; I was able to eliminate two workers who had been “fired” when Immigration had forced them out of the country. But only one name moved right to the top of the list: Hernando Meza, who had become obstreperous—that’s the word the file used—and had to be removed from the premises forcibly.

And the beauty part? Hernando had designed displays at airports and cruise terminals.

Displays, like what we had seen at South Beach and Fairchild Gardens.

“Goddamn,” Deborah said when I told her. “We got a hot one, right off the bat.”

I agreed that it looked worthwhile to stop and have a chat with Meza, but a small and nagging voice was telling me that things are never this easy, that when you get a hot one right off the bat, you usually end up right back on the bat again—or dodging as the bat comes straight at your face.

And as we should all know by now, any time you predict failure you have an excellent chance of being right.