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 feds—Sal 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 tournaments—claim the family business as an excuse—and 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 call—something 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.”