R. J. Decker peeked around the corner of the doorway. “Remember me? We exchanged bodily fluids not long ago.”
Lanie looked stunned to see him. “Hi,” she said tentatively.
The two men walked in; Jim Tile courteously removing his Stetson, Decker closing the door behind them. “I can see you’re wondering how to play this scene,” he said to Lanie, “because you don’t know how much I know.”
“What do you mean?”
Decker opened the living-room curtains without remarking on the view. “Lovey-dovey is one way to go. You know the bit: Where you been? I missed you. Why haven’t you called? But that’s only good if I don’t know that you went to the New Orleans cops. And if I don’t know you helped your brother set me up.”
Lanie sat down and fiddled with her hair. Jim Tile went to the kitchen and fixed three glasses of orange juice.
“Another way to go,” Decker continued, “is the Terrified Witness routine. Murder suspect barges into your apartment, scares the shit out of you. Please don’t hurt me. I’ll do anything you want, just don’t hurt me. That’s if you’re trying to sell me the idea that you really believe I killed Dickie Lockhart. Which is horseshit.”
Lanie smiled weakly. “Any other choices?”
“Try the truth,” said Decker, “just as an experiment.”
“You got a tape player?” Jim Tile asked.
Lanie said, “On the balcony, with the beach stuff.” She shook her head no when Jim Tile offered a glass of juice.
The trooper went outside and got the portable stereo. He came back and set it up on the coffee table in the living room. There was already a cassette in the tape player.
Jim Tile punched the Record button. He said, “You don’t mind?”
“Hey, that’s my Neil Diamond you’re erasing,” Lanie complained.
“What a loss,” Decker said.
Jim Tile fiddled with the volume dial. “Nice box,” he said. “Graphic equalizers and everything.”
“Let’s start with Dennis,” Decker said.
“Forget it, R.J.”
Jim Tile said, “She’s right. Let’s don’t start with her brother. Let’s start with Robert Clinch.”
Lanie stared coldly at the big black man. “I could get you in a lot of trouble.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” said Jim Tile.
Decker was impressed at how unimpressed Jim Tile was. He said, “Okay, princess, guess who killed Bobby.”
“Dickie Lockhart did.”
“Wrong.”
“Then who?”
Jim Tile got up and opened the glass doors to the balcony. A cool breeze stirred the curtains. Lanie shivered.
Decker said, “Dennis didn’t think much of your affair with Bobby Clinch, did he? I mean, a sexy high-class girl like you can’t be sneaking off with a grotey redneck bass fisherman.”
“What?” Lanie looked aggravated, not cool at all.
Jim Tile said, “Your brother had Robert Clinch killed. He hired two men to do it. They waited for him at the Coon Bog that morning, jumped him, then rigged his boat for a bad wreck. Dennis wanted everyone to think Dickie was behind it.”
“No,” said Lanie, glassy-eyed.
She really doesn’t know, Decker thought. If she’s acting, it’s the performance of her life.
“Bobby wasn’t getting anywhere on the cheating,” she said numbly. “Dickie’s people were too slick. Dennis was impatient, he was riding Bobby pretty hard. Then… well.”
“He found out you and Bobby were involved.”
Lanie gave a shallow laugh. “The spottfucking, he didn’t mind. A different fella each night and he’d never say a word to me. Whenever things got serious is when he acted weird. Like when Bobby said he was going to leave his wife and go away with me, Dennis got furious. But still he would never do what you say. Never!”
Decker said, “Lanie, he needed you more than he needed Bobby.”
“For what, Decker? Needed me for what?”
Decker tapped his chest. “For me.”
By now Lanie was crying. Not the best job of crying Decker had ever seen, but still pretty convincing. “What are you saying?” she hacked between sobs. “You think I was whoring for my own brother! I cared for Bobby, you don’t believe me but it’s true.”
Jim Tile was not moved. In years of writing traffic tickets, he’d heard every imaginable tale of woe. With his usual remoteness he said, “When’s the last time you spoke to him?”