“I could take some comp time and come with you,” Jim Tile volunteered.
Skink was riding in the back of the patrol car in order to draw less attention. He looked like a prisoner anyway.
“Thanks for the offer,” he said, “but we’re going to a tournament in Louisiana.”
Jim Tile nodded in understanding. “Gotcha.” Bopping down Bourbon Street he’d be fine. Fishing the bayous was another matter.
“Keep your ears open while I’m gone,” Skink said. “I’d steer clear of the Morgan Slough, too.”
“Don’t worry.”
Skink could tell Jim Tile was worried. He could see distraction in the way the trooper sat at the wheel; driving was the last thing on his mind. He was barely doing sixty.
“Is it me or yourself you’re thinking about?” Skink asked.
“I was thinking about something that happened yesterday morning,” Jim Tile said. “About twenty minutes after I dropped you guys off on the highway, I pulled over a pickup truck that nearly broke my radar.”
“Mrnrnm,” Skink said, acting like he couldn’t have cared less.
“I wrote him up a speeding ticket for doing ninety-two. The man said he was late for work. I said where do you work, and he said Miller Lumber. I said you must be new, and he said yeah, that’s right. I said it must be your first day because you’re driving the wrong damn direction, and then he didn’t say anything.”
“You ever seen this boy before?”
“No,” Jim Tile said.
“Or the truck?”
“No. Had Louisiana plates. Jefferson Parish.”
“Mmmm,” Skink said.
“But you know what was funny,” Jim Tile said. ‘There was a rifle clip on the front seat. No rifle, just a fresh clip. Thirty rounds. Would have fit a Ruger, I expect. The man said the gun was stolen out of his truck down in West Palm. Said some nigger kids stole it.”
Skink frowned. “He said that to your face? Nigger kids? What the hell did you do when he said that, Jim? Split open his cracker skull, I hope.”
“Naw,” Jim Tile said. “Know what else was strange? I saw two jugs of coffee on the front seat. Not one, but two.”
“Maybe he was extra thirsty,” Skink said.
“Or maybe the second jug didn’t belong to him. Maybe it belonged to a buddy.” The trooper straightened in the driver’s seat, yawned, and stretched his arms. “Maybe the man’s buddy was the one with the rifle. Maybe there was some trouble back on the road and something happened to him.”
“You got one hell of an imagination,” Skink said. “You ought to write for the movies.” There was no point in telling his friend about the killing. Someday it might be necessary, but not now; the trooper had enough to worry about.
“So you got the fellow’s name, the driver,” Skink said.
Jim Tile nodded. “Thomas Curl.”
“I don’t believe he works at Miller’s,” Skink remarked.
“Me neither.”
“Suppose I ask around New Orleans.”
“Would you mind?” Jim Tile said. “I’m just curious.”
“Don’t blame you. Man’s got to have a reason for lying to a cop. I’ll see what I can dig up.”
They rode the last ten miles in silence; Jim Tile, wishing that Skink would just come out and tell him about it, but knowing there were good reasons not to. The second man was dead, the trooper was sure. Maybe the details weren’t all that important.
As he pulled up to the terminal, Jim Tile said, “This Decker, you must think he’s all right.”
“Seems solid enough.”
“Just remember he’s got other priorities. He’s not working for you.”
“Maybe he is,” Skink said, “and he just doesn’t know it.”
“Yet,” said Jim Tile.
R. J. Decker was pacing in front of the Eastern Airlines counter when Skink lumbered in, looking like a biker who’d misplaced all his amphetamines. Still, Decker had to admit, the overall appearance was a slight improvement.
“I took a bath,” Skink said, “aren’t you proud?”
“Thank you.”
“I hate airplanes.”
“Come on, they’re boarding our flight.”
At the gate Skink got into an argument with a flight attendant who wouldn’t let him carry on his scuba gear.
“It won’t fit under the seat,” she explained.