Carl Hiaasen – Double Whammy

“Bobby? I saw him the night before he died. We had a drink at a shrimp place over in Wabasso.”

“Did he tell you he was going to the lake?”

“Of course he did—he was so excited. He’d gotten a tip that Dickie was hiding his fish cages in the Coon Bog. Bobby was thrilled as anything. He couldn’t wait to find the bass and call Dennis.”

Decker said, “Where did the tip come from?”

“Some guy who called up Bobby, wouldn’t give his name.”

“It was a setup,” Jim Tile said, “the phone call.”

“Now, wait,” Lanie said. She kept looking down at the tape player.

Time’s up, Decker thought. He sat next to Lanie and said, “Call me nosy, but I’d like to know why you framed me.”

Lanie didn’t answer. Decker took one of her hands and held it very gently, as if it were a baby animal he was afraid of squeezing. Lanie looked frightened.

“It was your brother’s idea, wasn’t it?”

“At first he talked about blackmail,” she said. “He asked if I knew any good photographers who could follow Dickie and get the pictures without him knowing. I thought of you, and Dennis said fine. He said to keep you interested and I said okay, anything to get back at Dickie for what he did.”

“What you thought he did,” Decker interjected.

“Dennis said it was Dickie who killed Bobby. I believed him, why shouldn’t I? It made sense.”

Jim Tile said, “So Dickie’s murdered, then what?”

“Dennis calls me in New Orleans.”

Decker said, “Just what the hell were you doing there anyway?”

“He sent me,” Lanie said. “To make sure you weren’t goofing off, he said. He was pissed off because you weren’t telling him much on the phone.”

“So you drag me into bed, then steal my film?”

“Who dragged who?” Lanie said sharply. “About the film, I’m sorry. It was a shitty thing to do. Dennis said he was dying to see what you’d got. Said the stuff belonged to him anyway.”

Decker held her hand just a little tighter. “And you actually believed all this?” he asked agitatedly. “These errands didn’t strike you as a little odd? No light bulb flashed on in your beautiful size-four brain?”

“No,” Lanie snapped, “no light bulbs.”

Jim Tile said, “Getting back to Dickie’s murder… ”

“Yeah,” Lanie said, shifting her eyes to the trooper. “That morning Dennis called me in New Orleans, all upset. He said Decker had gone and killed Lockhart. Dennis was afraid.”

Jim Tile said, “He told you he might be a suspect.”

“Right. He said Decker was trying to frame him, and he asked me to go to the police.”

“And lie?”

“He’s my brother, for God’s sake. I didn’t want him to go to jail over a crazy goddamn fish murder. Bobby’s death was bad enough, I didn’t want to lose Dennis too. So I went down and gave a very brief statement.” She looked at Decker again. “I said you dropped me off on your way to see Dickie Lockhart. That’s all.”

“It was plenty,” Decker said. “Thanks a heap.”

“Dennis sounded desperate.”

“And with good reason.”

“I still don’t believe you,” Lanie said.

“Yes, you do,” said Jim Tile.

It was all Decker could do to hold his temper. “Any other little Dennis favors we should know about?”

Lanie said, “Can you turn that thing off?”

Jim Tile stopped the tape machine.

Lanie got up and led them through the apartment to the second bedroom. She opened the door as quietly as she could. The room was totally dark; the shades were not only drawn, but the cracks were sealed with hurricane tape. Lanie turned on the ceiling light.

A young long-haired woman lay in bed, a pink cotton blanket pulled up to her chin. Her bluish eyelids were half-closed and she breathed heavily, with her mouth open. Some pills and a half-empty bottle of Dewar’s sat on the nightstand.

Jim Tile looked at R. J. Decker, who said, “I’ve seen her before. At the tournament in New Orleans.”

“Name’s Ellen O’Leary,” Lanie said in a dull voice. “She’s not feeling well.”

In a fury Decker pushed Lanie Gault to the wall, pinned her arms.