Carl Hiaasen – Double Whammy

“And my alibi witness is the real killer’s sister.”

“Lanie wasted no time giving an affidavit,” Skink said. “A very helpful lady. She says you poked her, drove her back to New Orleans, and dropped her at a hotel. Says you told her you had to go see Dickie on some business.”

“I can pick ’em,” Decker said mordantly.

Skink fidgeted in the car; his expression had grown strained. The press of the traffic, the din of the streets, bothered him. “Almost forgot,” he said. “They got the blackmail photographs too.”

“What photographs?”

“Of Dickie pulling the fish cages,” Skink replied. “Beats me, too. You’re the expert, figure it out.”

Decker was astounded. “They got actual pictures?”

“That’s what the DA says. Very sharp black-and-whites of Dickie doing the deed.”

“But who took ’em?”

“The DA says you did. They traced an empty box of film to a wholesale shipment of Kodak that went to the photo lab at the newspaper. The newspaper says it was part of the batch you swiped on your way out the door.”

“I see.” Skink was right: it was almost a thing of beauty.

Skink said, “Are you missing any film?”

“I don’t know.”

“The junk we shot in Louisiana, where’s that?”

“Still in my camera bag,” Decker said, “I guess.”

“You guess.” Skink laughed harshly. “You better damn well find out, Miami. You’re not the only wizard with a darkroom.”

Decker felt tired; he wanted to close his eyes, cap the lens. Skink told him they should take U.S. 27 up to Alligator Alley and go west.

“We’d be safer in the city,” Decker said. He didn’t feel like driving the entire width of the state; the drumbeat pain on his brainstem was unbearable. The Alley would be crawling with state troopers, too; they had an eye for sporty rental cars. “Where exactly did you want to go?” he asked Skink.

“The Big Cypress is a good place to hide.” Skink gave him a sideways glance.

“Not the swamp-rat routine,” Decker said, “not tonight. Let’s stay in town.”

“You got somewhere that’s safe?”

“Maybe.”

“No hotels,” Skink hissed.

“No hotels.”

Decker parked at the curb and studied the house silently for several moments. It seemed impressively large, even for Miami Shores. There were two cars, a Firebird and a Jaguar sedan, parked in a half-circle gravel driveway. The sabal palms and seagrape trees were bathed by soft orange spotlights mounted discreetly around the Bermuda lawn. A Spanish archway framed the front door, which was made of a coffee-colored wood. There were no iron bars across the front window, but Decker could see a bold red sticker advertising the burglar alarm.

“You gonna sit here and moon all night?” Skink said.

They got out and walked up the driveway, the gravel crunching noisily under their feet. Skink had nothing to say about the big house; he’d seen plenty, and most were owned by wealthy and respectable thieves.

Indelicately Decker asked him to stand back a few steps from the door.

“So they don’t die of fright, is that it?” Skink said.

Catherine answered the bell. “Rage,” she said, looking more than a little surprised.

She wore tight cutoff jeans and a sleeveless lavender top, with no brassiere. Decker was ticked off that James the doctor had let her answer the door in the middle of the night—they could have been any variety of nocturnal Dade County creep: killers, kidnappers, witch doctors looking for a sacrificial goat. What kind of a lazy jerk would send his wife to the door alone, with no bra on, at eleven-thirty?

“I would’ve called,” R. J. Decker said, “but it’s kind of an emergency.”

Catherine glanced at Skink and seemed to grasp the seriousness of the situation.

“Come on in, guys,” she said in a friendly den-mother tone. Then she leaned close and whispered to Decker: “James is here.”

“I know.” The Jag was the giveaway.

A snow-white miniature poodle raced full speed into the foyer, its toenails clacking on the tile. The moment it saw Skink, the dog began to snarl and drool deliriously. It chomped the cuff of his orange rainsuit and began tearing at the plastic. Wordlessly Skink kicked the animal once, sharply, skidding it back down the hall.

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