“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 on the screen: 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 disk 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.

The?” 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. 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 blow-up, where the Bureau said they would never ever use them under any circumstances, it's not as likely”