“You look like hell,” Lanie said.
“Been a long day.”
“Hot on the trail?”
“Oh, right.”
“Anything new about Bobby’s death?”
“I thought you didn’t feel like talking,” Decker said.
“I’m curious, that’s all. More than curious. I loved him, remember?”
“You keep saying that,” Decker said, “like you’ve got to keep reminding yourself.”
“Why don’t you believe me?”
Lee Strasberg material. Lanie the wounded lover. Her tone of voice was exquisite—hurt but not defensive. And not a flicker of doubt in those beautiful eyes; in fact, she looked about ready to cry. It was such a splendid performance that Decker reconsidered the question: Why didn’t he believe her?
“Because Bobby Clinch wasn’t your type,” he said.
“How do you know?”
“That Corvette parked outside. That’s you, Lanie. Bobby was pure pickup truck. You might’ve liked him, laid him, maybe even given him that blowjob you’re so proud of, but you didn’t love him.”
“You can tell all this from looking at a damn car!”
“I’m an expert,” Decker said, “it’s what I do.” It was true about cars: there was no better clue to the total personality. Any good cop would tell you so. Decker hadn’t thought much about the psychology of automobiles until he became a private investigator and had to spend half his time tracing, following, and photographing all kinds. On long surveillances in busy parking lots he made a game of matching shoppers to their cars, and had gotten good at it. The make, model, color, everything down to the shine on the hubcaps was a clue to the puzzle. Decker’s own car was a plain gray 1979 Plymouth Volare, stylistically the most forgettable automobile Detroit ever produced. Decker knew it fit him perfectly. It fit his need to be invisible.
“So you think I belong back in Miami,” Lanie was saying sarcastically. “Who can you picture me with, Decker? I know—a young Colombian stud! Rolex, gold necklace, and black Ferrari. Or maybe you figure I’m too old for a coke whore. Maybe you see me on the arm of some silver-haired geezer playing the ponies out at Hialeah.”
“Anybody but Bobby Clinch,” Decker said. “Steve and Eydie you weren’t.”
Of course then the tears came, and the next thing Decker knew he had moved to the bed and put his arms around Lanie and told her to knock off the crying. Please. In his mind’s eye he could see himself in this cheesy scene out of a cheap detective movie; acting like the gruff cad, awkwardly consoling the weepy long-legged knockout, knowing deep down he ought to play it as the tough guy but feeling compelled to show this warm sensitive side. Decker knew he was a fool but he certainly didn’t feel like letting go of Lanie Gault. There was something magnetic and comforting and entirely natural about holding a sweet-smelling woman in a silken nightie on a strange bed in a strange motel room in a strange town where neither one of you belonged.
A Bell Jet-Ranger helicopter awaited the Reverend Charles Weeb at the Fort Lauderdale Executive Airport. Weeb wore a navy pinstriped suit, designer sunglasses, and lizard boots. He was traveling with a vice-president of the Outdoor Christian Network and a young brunette woman who claimed to be a secretary, and who managed to slip her phone number to the chopper pilot during the brief flight.
The helicopter carried the Reverend Charles Weeb to a narrow dike on the edge of the Florida Everglades. Looking east from the levee, Weeb and his associates had a clear view of a massive highway construction site. The land had been bulldozed, the roadbed had been poured, the pilings had been driven for the overpasses. Dump trucks hauled loose fill back and forth, while graders crawled in dusty clouds along the medians.
“Show me again,” Weeb said to the vice-president.
“Our property starts right about there,” the vice-president said, pointing, “and abuts the expressway for five miles to the south. The state highway board has generously given us three interchanges.”
Generously my ass, thought Weeb. Twenty thousand in bonds to each of the greedy fuckers.
“Give me the binoculars,” Weeb said.
“I’m sorry, sir, but I left them at the airport.”