The Phone Rings
Setting: "Crocodile"

I'm awake. I don't know why. I'm very warm and very comfortable, and I'm still thinking about that restaurant with the skillet behind our booth, grilling chicken sandwiches that were bigger than my head. I don't think I could've actually eaten one. But I could've tried. I think I want one.

Where was that?

Distantly, something is ringing. Then it stops. The sound doesn't mean anything to me. I settle deeper into my pillow, pull up my blanket. I'm still thinking about chicken sandwiches.

But then it starts up again.

I realize it's my phone.

Dammit…

I reach blindly for the nightstand as I sit up, finally open my eyes to check the clock. My vision is bleary and pasty. It takes a second to read it. With the help of the light from the clock I find my phone, and I pull it to me, rolling over.

5:16. The world better be ending.

"Morgan," I rasp, smashing my knuckles into my eye.

"Hey, Deb, I wake you up?"

The voice rings some distant bell. "Fuck do you want, Juan?" I ask.

"I'm more interested in what you'll want to do for me," he says, sounding downright, irritatingly chipper.

I keep rubbing. "I'm going to ram a fucking clock down your throat along with your balls. Do you know what time it is?"

"Fine, fine. I just figured you'd want to know ASAP."

"Know fucking what?" Why the fuck are you calling me?

"That ice truck you asked to look out for."

I let my hand slide down my face. "What?"

"I think I found it. Matches the description you gave. 'Miami Chills Ice,' right?"

What?

I sit back up, the fog lifting instantly. "Motherfucker," I whisper.

"Nice to hear your move up from beat duty hasn't improved your vocabulary."

"Blow me." I slide to the edge of the bed. I am now very awake. "What's your 20?"

"Ocean Drive and 7th Street, on Miami Beach."

"Did you check it out?" I rip open a drawer, grab undies and a bra.

"Yeah," he says. "It's locked, unoccupied. Weird thing is it's still running."

"It's running?" I toss my uniform onto the bed, find a sock on the floor and search for its mate.

"Yeah. I could hear the motor running. The back is cold."

I lift yesterday's shirt, find the sock. "Fucking christ on a cracker, that could be it." I hit speaker, set the phone on top of the TV. "How long have you been sitting on it?"

"Maybe two minutes? I called you right after I checked it out."

"Do me a favor and sit tight." I take off the overlarge shirt I slept in, throw it on the bed. "I will be there in a half hour."

"Ten fo."

I hit the red button, jog naked to my shower, barely wait for it to get warm before hopping in.

I can't believe it. It's been a day. Less than. Yesterday, after spending my morning following up on possible "leads" from chop shops on LaGuerta's goose hunt, as I was taking my lunch I put the word out with patrol to look for the truck on the streets. Was out until fucking 2AM myself just roaming around, hoping to get lucky, find it the same way Dexter did.

If this is actually it...

Jesus eff christ what if this is actually it?

I scrub myself off quickly, then hop out, towel down, head back into the bedroom. Toss the towel onto the bed along with everything else, grab my clothes and put them on. I'm not quite into my pants as I go back into the bathroom to quickly do my teeth, make-up, pull my hair into a bun. Fuck breakfast: I can pick something up later. I'm not even hungry, the dream of the chicken sandwich aside.

I head out into my living room. My utility belt is sitting on a chair, and I wrap it around my waist, clip it on. The weight feels good. It won't later. My badge and gun are sitting on the counter next to an empty take-out container which I need to throw out, and I quickly shove them both in the belt. I don't throw out the container.

Shoes. Keys. Phone. Bag. Out the door. I'm pretty sure I left the bedroom light on but I don't go back for it.

Five minutes later I'm turning onto 95. The freeway's mostly clear at this hour, the sky still a velvety blue. My thoughts are racing. All I can think about is the truck, about whether or not it's the truck, because Dexter was right yesterday: this is my golden ticket into Homicide. A theory in the briefing room, sure, LaGuerta can ignore it, and she has ignored it, but if I found the actual fucking truck? She can't ignore that, can't put it on someone else. She had the department chasing it in all the wrong places, but if my hunch pans out then she'll have to fucking see that I can bring something to this investigation. She'll have to.

I have to believe that.

I floor it. I feel like every turn of the wheels is bringing me that much closer to the transfer, and that much farther away from Vice.

Because if this really is the truck...

What if it is the truck?

I merge onto 195, alone, flying well above the speed limit. Despite my excitement, the world outside my windows feels very serene. When I reach the causeway I don't see any boats out on the dark water, no gulls, barely any other cars. It reminds me of graveyard on patrol. Five minutes later, I'm cruising by a golf course, and I've still hardly seen a soul.

Juan hasn't called, so nothing's changed, but I want to talk to him. I need something to occupy me. I feel around inside my purse until I find my phone, pull it out, hit redial. "Juan," I say when he answers. "I'm close."

"Great," his voice crackles back. The connection is shit. "It's near the Colony Hotel. You know where that is, right?"

"Yeah."

"I'm parked outside the Johnny Rockets near it. If you see me you'll see the truck."

"No movement?"

"No, nothing."

"I'll be there in a minute."

"Rodger dodger."

I snap the phone closed, then stuff it into a cup holder, the one that isn't filled with receipts. Once I pass the golf course I just guess the route to Ocean. The effort of navigating isn't really distracting me from the constant, recurring thought:

(what if what if what if what)

Finally I turn onto Ocean, roll by the long stream of green space to my left at a much slower pace. I pass a jogger, a lone dude on a bike. On the right about a thousand fucking hotels. SoBe, fucking kitschy, overpriced tourist shit plain. I was always a little thankful that Miami Beach has it's own department. Can't imagine how many pain in the ass—

I double-take, almost slamming the breaks as I spot the truck on the other side of the road. My vague thoughts of spring breakers and New York vacationers instantly evaporate.

Please god let it be the one...

"I see you," I murmur, spotting Juan Pierre's cruiser parked opposite the truck. I honk at him as I approach. My heart is beating very fast.

He flashes his sirens back, and I pull in behind him, kill the engine. Juan meets me at my door as I open it, a grin spread across his face. I can see all 93 of his fucking teeth.

"That the truck?" he asks.

"Jesus I hope so." My gaze is already stuck to it.

"Listen, Deb," he says, and I glance at him, "I'd love to stick around, but I've really gotta get back out there. You can take it from here?"

"Of course," I say. "Go. Thanks for sitting on this for me. I owe you big time."

"How big time is 'big time'?"

I grin. "Fuck off."

He smiles and pantomimes a 'call me' sign before turning back to his green and white.

I'm too distracted to watch him go. I'm crossing the street before he's even pulled away, my heart a hard, pulsing rock in my throat. Even though Juan told me the truck was locked, I check the doors anyway, find them locked as expected, then look down its body. I can indeed hear the motor running, and the steel is cool under my hand.

I walk around back, look up at the name. MIAMI CHILLS ICE REFRIGERATED DELIVERY in big, blue capital letters, just like Dexter said.

Fuck, this might actually be it.

I touch the truck again, suddenly wondering— why is it running? If this really is the truck, if the plan really was to hide it in plain sight, was he meaning for it to be found, or is he around here somewhere, watching? How long has it been sitting here? And if he meant for us to find it, did he leave it running because he left something inside?

I glance around, but the street is still dark, still quiet. No shadows moving against the hotel windows. All I can really hear is the truck, and the waves washing against the beach. I very quickly find myself looking at the truck again, as another thought occurs to me.

What if there's another dead woman in there?

I need to get inside this fucking thing. Right now.

I pull my phone from a pocket, hit speed dial, press it against my ear as I touch the cold steel again.

Dexter answers on the fifth ring.