Carl Hiaasen – Double Whammy

“Somebody swiped my film and had some fun in the darkroom,” he said to Jim Tile. “I’ve seen better phonies.”

“Sure fooled New Orleans homicide.”

“It’s still bush,” Decker snapped. “I can find a half-dozen expert witnesses to say these are tricked.”

Al Garcia took the prints from Decker and studied them. “Nifty,” he said. “That’s how they do it, huh?”

“In cages, yeah.”

“And how long will those fish stay alive?”

Decker shrugged. “Couple days, I guess.”

Jim Tile said, “There’s some other things you ought to know.” He told them about his conversation with Ozzie Rundell, and Ozzie’s version of Ott Pickney’s murder.

“He also says Lockhart didn’t kill Robert Clinch.”

“You believe that?” Decker asked.

Jim Tile nodded.

Garcia said, “Had to be Gault.”

“That’s my guess too,” the trooper agreed, “but I’m not sure why he’d do it.”

R. J. Decker thought about it. Why would Dennis Gault order the murder of a man he had recruited to work for him? Lanie might know; she might even be part of the reason.

Jim Tile said, “There’s a guy named Thomas Curl, a real shitkicker. He and his brother killed your friend Ott. My bet is they did Bobby Clinch too.”

“The Louisiana boys,” Decker said.

Jim Tile said, “It just so happens that Lemus Curl is missing. Family says he fell into Lake Okeechobee.”

Garcia looked curiously at Decker, who tried not to react.

“But the other Curl,” Jim Tile went on, “Thomas Curl, is in Miami.”

“Fuck me,” said Al Garcia.

Decker said, “Let me guess: Curl is looking for me.”

“Most likely,” Jim Tile said. “By phone I tracked him to some ritzy hotel in the Grove, but then he took off.”

“What’s the connection to Gault?”

“He paid for Curl’s room,” Jim Tile said.

He took a piece of paper from his left breast pocket, unfolded it carefully and handed it to Decker. “Meanwhile,” Jim Tile said, “Mr. Gault is going fishing.”

It was a promotional flier for the Dickie Lockhart Memorial Bass Blasters Classic. In the firelight Garcia read it aloud over Decker’s shoulder: ‘The richest tournament in history. Entry fee is only three thousand dollars, but hurry—the field will be limited to fifty boats.”

Decker couldn’t believe it, the ballsiness of these guys. “Three thousand bucks,” he said.

“It is amazing,” Jim Tile remarked. Long ago he had given up trying to understand the cracker mentality. He wondered if the Cuban cop would have the same difficulty.

Garcia said, “Dennis Gault I can figure out. He’s a greedy little egomaniac who wants trophies for his penthouse. But what’s the rest of the shit with this tournament?”

Decker explained the Outdoor Christian Network and its vast stake in the Lunker Lakes development. ‘They’re going to use the TV fish hype to sell townhouses. Everybody does it these days. Mazda has golf, Lipton has tennis, OCN has bass. The demographics match up nicely.”

Al Garcia looked extremely amused. “You’re telling me,” he said, “that grown men will sit down for hours in front of a television set and watch other men go fishing.”

“Millions,” Decker said, “every weekend.”

“I don’t ever want to hear you talk about crazy Cubans,” Garcia said, “never again.”

A flicker of a smile crossed Jim Tile’s face, and then he grew serious. “Gault is the big problem,” he said. “He’s the one who can put Decker in prison.”

“He’d rather have him dead,” Garcia noted.

Decker knew the detective was right. By now Dennis Gault surely understood that a trial could be disastrous; the evidence against Decker was entirely circumstantial, and Gault couldn’t risk taking the witness stand himself. There were neater ways to close a murder case, and one was to make the prime suspect vanish. That, Decker thought, would be Thomas Curl’s department.

Garcia said to Decker, “We need to get to Gault before Curl gets to you.”

“That’s brilliant, Al.”

“Any ideas, smartass?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact. My idea is that you plant your lazy Cuban butt right here for a day or so, and keep an eye on our sick friend.” Decker turned to Jim Tile. “I need a favor from you.”

“Starting tonight,” the trooper said, “I’m on vacation.”

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