"Because he knows I've got a personal interest. Or maybe he's just feeling guilty about Bobby and wants me to know he's not giving up on it."
Or maybe he wants you to try me out, Decker thought.
Lanie said, "I met Bobby Clinch at a bass tournament in Dallas two summers ago. I was doing outdoor layouts for the Neiman-Marcus catalogbeach togs, picnic wear, stuff like that. Dennis happened to be in town for this big tournament, so I drove out to the reservoir one afternoon, just to say hi. Must have been sixty boats, a hundred guys, and they all looked exactly the same. They dressed alike, walked alike, talked alike, chewed tobacco alike. All dragging fish to be weighed. Afterward they gathered around this tall chalkboard to see who was ahead in the points. Christ, I thought I'd died and gone to redneck hell."
"Then Bobby came along."
"Right," Lanie said. "He said hello, introduced himself. It sounds corny, but I could tell he was different from the others."
"Corny" was not the word for how it sounded. Decker listened politely anyway. He figured there was a love scene coming.
Lanie said, "That night, while the rest of the guys were playing poker and getting bombed, he took me out on the reservoir in his boat, just the two of us. I'll never forget, it was a crescent moon, not a cloud anywhere." She laughed gently and her eyes dropped. "We wound up making it out on the water. In the bow of Bobby's boat was this fancy pedestal seat that spun around ... and that's what we did. Lucky we didn't capsize."
This girl, Decker thought, has a wondrous imagination.
"Bobby wasn't one of these full-time tournament freaks," Lanie said. "He had a good job laying cable for the phone company. He fished four, maybe five pro events a year, so he wasn't a serious threat to anybody. He had no enemies, Decker. All the guys liked Bobby."
"So what made him different?" Decker asked.
"He enjoyed himself more," Lanie said. "He seemed so happy just to be out there ... and those were the best nights for us, after he'd spent a day on the lake. Even if he hadn't caught a thing, he'd be happy. Laughing, oh brother, he'd laugh at the whole damn ritual. Bobby loved fishing, that's for sure, but at least he saw how crazy it looked from the outside. And that's more than I can say for my brother."
R. J. Decker got up and switched off the TV. This was the part he'd been waiting for.
"Did Dennis tell you exactly why he hired me?"
"No," Lanie said, "but it can only be one thing. The cheating."
As if it were no secret.
"Dennis knows Dickie Lockhart's been rigging the tournaments," she said. "It's all he talks about. At first he actually tried to hire some killers. He said that's what Hemingway would have done."
"No, Hemingway would have done it himself."
"About six months ago Dennis flew down two mob guys from Queens. Offered them eighty-five grand to bump off Dickie and grind the body into puppy chow. My brother didn't know one of the creeps was working for the fedsSal something-or-other. He blabbed the whole crazy story. Luckily no one at the FBI believed it, but for a while Dennis was scared out of his pants. At least it cured him of the urge to kill Dickie Lockhart. Now he says he'll settle for an indictment."
"So your brother's next move," R. J. Decker said, "was to hire me."
Lanie shook her head. "Bobby."
Decker had been hoping she wouldn't say that.
"Dennis met Bobby on the pro circuit and they hit it off right away. They even fished together in a few of the buddy tournaments, and always finished in the loot. Dennis told Bobby his suspicions about Lockhart and offered him a ton of money to get the proof."
"What could Bobby do that your brother couldn't do himself?"
"Snoop," Lanie said, "inconspicuously. Everybody knows Dennis has a hard-on for Dickie Lockhart. Dickie knows it too, and he's damn careful with Dennis around. So my brother's plan was to pull out of the next few tournamentsclaim the family business as an excuseand hope that Dickie got careless."
"With Bobby Clinch watching every move."
"Exactly."
Decker asked, "How much money did Dennis offer him?"
"Plenty. Bobby wasn't greedy, but he wanted enough to be able to get out of his marriage. See, he wanted Clarisse to have the house, free and clear. He'd never just walk out on her and the kids."
R. J. Decker wasn't exactly moved to tears. Lanie's story was murky, and Decker was ready to say goodnight.
"Did your brother know about you and Bobby?" he asked.
"Sure he did. Dennis never said a word, but I'm sure he knew." Lanie Gault put her hands under her chin. "I thought he might bring it up, after Bobby was killed. Just a note or a phone callsomething to let on that he knew I was hurting. Not Dennis. The sonofabitch has Freon in his veins, I'm warning you. My brother wants to nail Dickie Lockhart and if you happen to die in the chase he won't be sending a wreath to the funeral. Just another replacement. Like you."
The possibility of being murdered over a dead fish did not appeal to R. J. Decker's sense of adventure. He had photographed men who had died for less, and many who had died for more. Over the years he had adopted a carrion fly's unglamorous view of death: it didn't really matter how you got that way, it stunk just the same.
"You think Lockhart killed your boyfriend?" Decker asked Lanie.
"Who else would do it?"
"You're sure it was no accident?"
"Positive," Lanie said. "Bobby knew every log in that lake. He could've run it blindfolded."
Decker was inclined to believe her. "Who owns Dickie's TV show?" he asked.
"The Outdoor Christian Network. You heard of it?"
"TV Bible geysers," Decker said.
Lanie straightened, as if working out a crick in her spine. "More than old-time religion," she said. "OCN is quite the modern conglomerate. They're into health insurance, unit trusts, oil futures, real-estate development ... "
"I'll check into it," Decker promised. "I'm tired, Lanie. I've got a rotten drive tomorrow."
She nodded, got up, and slipped into her sandals. She stood in front of the mirror and brushed through her hair in brisk, sure strokes.
"One more thing," Decker said. "Out at the cemetery, how did you know which one was me? Sanibel was a long time ago."
Lanie laughed. "You kidding?"
"Don't tell me I stood out."
"Yeah, you did," she said, "but Dennis wired me a picture, in case I wasn't sure."
"A picture."
Lanie reached in her purse. "Courtesy of the booking desk at the Dade County Jail."
Decker recognized the old mug shots. Cute move, Dennis. Just a touch of the hot needle.
"I've seen friendlier smiles," Lanie said, studying the police photos. "You still taking pictures, Decker?"
"Once in a while."
"Maybe you could do me sometime. I'm thinking of going back into modeling." Lanie put the purse under her arm and opened the door. "It's been so long I've probably forgotten how to pose."
You're doing just fine, Decker thought. "Good night," he said.
Decker had to go back to Miami to soup some film for an insurance-fraud trial, set for the coming week. He figured he'd use the long drive to decide what to do about Dennis Gault and the fishing scam. His instincts about the cast of characters told him to drop the casebut what about the death of Bobby Clinch?
As he packed his suitcase Decker heard himself say: So what? He hated the way he sounded because he sounded like every lazy asshole cop or P.I. he'd ever met. Big cases, big problems. Go for the easy bucks, that would be the advice.
Yet Decker knew he couldn't drop it now. Bobby Clinch got killed because he went snooping for a secret fish; such a remarkable crime couldn't easily be ignored. The idea that somebody had become homicidal over a largemouth bass was perversely appealing to Decker, and it made him want very much to get a picture of the guys who did it.
First he needed to meet with Gault again, a distasteful prospect. He could do it this evening, back in Miami; it wouldn't take long. From the motel room Decker called and made reservations for the following night on a seven-P.M. United flight to New Orleans. The Cajun Invitational Bass Classic was this week's stop on the professional fishing tour, and a good place for Decker to get his first glimpse of Dickie Lockhart in action. He had seen the famous TV angler's face on a billboard across from a bait shop on Route 222: "Dickie Lockhart Loves Happy Gland Fish Scent! So Do Lunker Bass!" Decker had been so intrigued by the billboard that he'd asked a man at the bait shop if the Happy Gland company made a formula for humans. The man at the bait shop dutifully checked behind the counter and said no.