With a plastic crunch Skink turned in his seat. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about Dickie Lockhart."
Skink cackled. "You think Ikilled him?"
"It crossed my mind, yeah."
Skink laughed some more, and punched the dashboard. He thought the whole thing was hilarious. He was hooting and howling and kicking his feet, and all Decker wanted to do was push him out of the car and get going.
"You really don't know what happened, do you?" Skink asked, after settling down.
Decker killed the headlights and shrank down in the driver's seat. He was a nervous wreck, couldn't take his eyes off the mirrors. "What don't I know?" he said to Skink.
"What the goddamn warrant says, you don't even know. Jim Tile got a copy, airmail. He read it to me first thing this morning and you should hear what it says, Miami. Says you murdered Dickie Lockhart."
"Me?"
"That's what it says."
Decker heard the first siren and went cold.
Skink said, "You got set up, buddy, set up so good it's almost a thing of beauty. The girl was bait."
"Go on," Decker said thickly. He was trying to remember Lanie's story, trying to remember some of the holes.
"Don't even think about turning yourself in," Skink said. "Garcia may be your pal but he's no magician. Now please let's get the hell out of here while we still can. I'll tell you the rest as we go."
They ditched the Plymouth back at the trailer park and took a bus to the airport, where Decker rented a white Thunderbird from Avis. Skink did not approve; he said they needed a four-by-four truck, something on the order of a Bronco, but the Avis people only had cars.
Sticking in the heavy traffic, they drove around Little Havana for two hours while Decker quizzed Skink about what had happened at Lake Maurepas.
"Who whacked Lockhart?" he asked.
"I don't know that," Skink said. "This is what I do know, mostly from Jim Tile and a few phone calls. While you were banging Gault's sister, somebody clubbed Dickie to death. First thing the next morning, Gault himself flies to New Orleans to offer the cops a sworn statement. He tells them an ex-con photographer named Decker was trying to blackmail Dickie over the bass cheating. Says you approached him with some photographs and wanted a hundred K—he even had a note in your handwriting to that effect."
"Jesus," Decker groaned. It was the note he had written the night Gault had fought with him—the note raising his fee to one hundred thousand dollars.
Skink went on: "Gault tells the cops that he told you to fuck off, so then you went to Lockhart. At first Dickie paid you—thirty grand in all, Gault says—"
"Cute," Decker muttered. Thirty had been his advance on the case.
"—but then Dickie gets tired of paying and says no more. You go to New Orleans to confront him, threaten to expose him at the big tournament. There's an argument, a fight ... you can script the rest. The cops already have."
"And my alibi witness is the real killer's sister."
"Lanie wasted no time giving an affidavit," Skink said. "A very helpful lady. She says you poked her, drove her back to New Orleans, and dropped her at a hotel. Says you told her you had to go see Dickie on some business."
"I can pick 'em," Decker said mordantly.
Skink fidgeted in the car; his expression had grown strained. The press of the traffic, the din of the streets, bothered him. "Almost forgot," he said. "They got the blackmail photographs too."
"What photographs?"
"Of Dickie pulling the fish cages," Skink replied. "Beats me, too. You're the expert, figure it out."
Decker was astounded. "They got actual pictures?"
"That's what the DA says. Very sharp black-and-whites of Dickie doing the deed."
"But who took 'em?"
"The DA says you did. They traced an empty box of film to a wholesale shipment of Kodak that went to the photo lab at the newspaper. The newspaper says it was part of the batch you swiped on your way out the door."
"I see." Skink was right: it was almost a thing of beauty.
Skink said, "Are you missing any film?"
"I don't know."
"The junk we shot in Louisiana, where's that?"
"Still in my camera bag," Decker said, "I guess."
"You guess." Skink laughed harshly. "You better damn well find out, Miami. You're not the only wizard with a darkroom."
Decker felt tired; he wanted to close his eyes, cap the lens. Skink told him they should take U.S. 27 up to Alligator Alley and go west.
"We'd be safer in the city," Decker said. He didn't feel like driving the entire width of the state; the drumbeat pain on his brainstem was unbearable. The Alley would be crawling with state troopers, too; they had an eye for sporty rental cars. "Where exactly did you want to go?" he asked Skink.
"The Big Cypress is a good place to hide." Skink gave him a sideways glance.
"Not the swamp-rat routine," Decker said, "not tonight. Let's stay in town."
"You got somewhere that's safe?"
"Maybe."
"No hotels," Skink hissed.
"No hotels."
Decker parked at the curb and studied the house silently for several moments. It seemed impressively large, even for Miami Shores. There were two cars, a Firebird and a Jaguar sedan, parked in a half-circle gravel driveway. The sabal palms and seagrape trees were bathed by soft orange spotlights mounted discreetly around the Bermuda lawn. A Spanish archway framed the front door, which was made of a coffee-colored wood. There were no iron bars across the front window, but Decker could see a bold red sticker advertising the burglar alarm.
"You gonna sit here and moon all night?" Skink said.
They got out and walked up the driveway, the gravel crunching noisily under their feet. Skink had nothing to say about the big house; he'd seen plenty, and most were owned by wealthy and respectable thieves.
Indelicately Decker asked him to stand back a few steps from the door.
"So they don't die of fright, is that it?" Skink said.
Catherine answered the bell. "Rage," she said, looking more than a little surprised.
She wore tight cutoff jeans and a sleeveless lavender top, with no brassiere. Decker was ticked off that James the doctor had let her answer the door in the middle of the night—they could have been any variety of nocturnal Dade County creep: killers, kidnappers, witch doctors looking for a sacrificial goat. What kind of a lazy jerk would send his wife to the door alone, with no bra on, at eleven-thirty?
"I would've called," R. J. Decker said, "but it's kind of an emergency."
Catherine glanced at Skink and seemed to grasp the seriousness of the situation.
"Come on in, guys," she said in a friendly den-mother tone. Then she leaned close and whispered to Decker: "James is here."
"I know." The Jag was the giveaway.
A snow-white miniature poodle raced full speed into the foyer, its toenails clacking on the tile. The moment it saw Skink, the dog began to snarl and drool deliriously. It chomped the cuff of his orange rainsuit and began tearing at the plastic. Wordlessly Skink kicked the animal once, sharply, skidding it back down the hall.
"Sorry," Decker said wanly.
"It's okay," Catherine said, leading them into the kitchen. "I hate the little bastard—he pees in my shoes, did I tell you that?"
Out of nowhere Skink said: "We need a place for the night."
Catherine nodded. "There's plenty of room." An emergency is right, she thought; that would be the only thing to get Decker to stay under the same roof.
Skink said: "Decker's hurt, too."
"I'm all right."
"What is it?" Catherine asked.
"I almost broke his neck," Skink said, "accidentally."
"It's just a sprain," Decker said.
Then James the doctor—Catherine's husband—walked into the kitchen. He wore a navy Ralph Lauren bathrobe that stopped at his pale hairless knees; he also wore matching blue slippers. Decker was seized by an urge to repeatedly slap the man in the face; instead he just froze.