Decker was inclined to believe her. “Who owns Dickie’s TV show?” he asked.
“The Outdoor Christian Network. You heard of it?”
“TV Bible geysers,” Decker said.
Lanie straightened, as if working out a crick in her spine. “More than old-time religion,” she said. “OCN is quite the modern conglomerate. They’re into health insurance, unit trusts, oil futures, real-estate development… ”
“I’ll check into it,” Decker promised. “I’m tired, Lanie. I’ve got a rotten drive tomorrow.”
She nodded, got up, and slipped into her sandals. She stood in front of the mirror and brushed through her hair in brisk, sure strokes.
“One more thing,” Decker said. “Out at the cemetery, how did you know which one was me? Sanibel was a long time ago.”
Lanie laughed. “You kidding?”
“Don’t tell me I stood out.”
“Yeah, you did,” she said, “but Dennis wired me a picture, in case I wasn’t sure.”
“A picture.”
Lanie reached in her purse. “Courtesy of the booking desk at the Dade County Jail.”
Decker recognized the old mug shots. Cute move, Dennis. Just a touch of the hot needle.
“I’ve seen friendlier smiles,” Lanie said, studying the police photos. “You still taking pictures, Decker?”
“Once in a while.”
“Maybe you could do me sometime. I’m thinking of going back into modeling.” Lanie put the purse under her arm and opened the door. “It’s been so long I’ve probably forgotten how to pose.”
You’re doing just fine, Decker thought. “Good night,” he said.
Decker had to go back to Miami to soup some film for an insurance-fraud trial, set for the coming week. He figured he’d use the long drive to decide what to do about Dennis Gault and the fishing scam. His instincts about the cast of characters told him to drop the case—but what about the death of Bobby Clinch?
As he packed his suitcase Decker heard himself say: So what? He hated the way he sounded because he sounded like every lazy asshole cop or P.I. he’d ever met. Big cases, big problems. Go for the easy bucks, that would be the advice.
Yet Decker knew he couldn’t drop it now. Bobby Clinch got killed because he went snooping for a secret fish; such a remarkable crime couldn’t easily be ignored. The idea that somebody had become homicidal over a largemouth bass was perversely appealing to Decker, and it made him want very much to get a picture of the guys who did it.
First he needed to meet with Gault again, a distasteful prospect. He could do it this evening, back in Miami; it wouldn’t take long. From the motel room Decker called and made reservations for the following night on a seven-P.M. United flight to New Orleans. The Cajun Invitational Bass Classic was this week’s stop on the professional fishing tour, and a good place for Decker to get his first glimpse of Dickie Lockhart in action. He had seen the famous TV angler’s face on a billboard across from a bait shop on Route 222: “Dickie Lockhart Loves Happy Gland Fish Scent! So Do Lunker Bass!” Decker had been so intrigued by the billboard that he’d asked a man at the bait shop if the Happy Gland company made a formula for humans. The man at the bait shop dutifully checked behind the counter and said no.
Before leaving Harney, Decker tried to call Ott Pickney at the newspaper. Sandy Kilpatrick, the birdlike editor, said Ott had gone out early to do some interviews. The note of concern in Kilpatrick’s voice suggested that pre-lunchtime enterprise was uncharacteristic behavior for Ott. Decker left a message to have Ott call him that night in Miami.
At that moment Ott Pickney was slurping down black coffee at Culver Rundell’s bait shop on the southern shore of Lake Jesup. Culver Rundell was behind the counter and his brother Ozzie was out back dipping shiners. Ott was trying to strike up a conversation about Bobby Clinch. Ott had set his reporter’s notebook on the counter twenty minutes earlier, and the pages were still blank.
“Sorry I’m not much help,” Culver Rundell said. “Bobby was a nice guy, a pretty good basser. That’s about all I can tell you. Also, he favored spinnerbaits.”