The detective chuckled. “Guess not. They tricked your ass, didn’t they?”
“Nicely,” Decker said. On the trip he had told Garcia about Dennis Gault, the photographs, Dickie Lockhart, and Lanie. The part about Lanie was not Decker’s favorite. “All I can figure,” he said, “is she remembered my name from that fashion shoot in Sanibel. Probably read about the Bennett case too—it made all the papers.” The Sun’s unsparing headline had read: “staff photog convicted in beating of prep football star.”
Garcia said, “Gault must’ve creamed when his sister suggested you for the mark. Big ex-con photographer with a bad temper, down on his luck.”
“Made to order,” Decker agreed glumly.
“What about the pictures of Lockhart cheating? New Orleans sent Xerox copies, but still they look pretty good.”
Decker said, “They’ve got to be tricked up.”
“Just so you know, I served a warrant on your trailer. Took every single roll from your camera bag—had our lab soup the film.”
“And?”
“Garbage. Surveillance stuff for that insurance case, that’s all. No fish pictures, R.J.”
There you had it. Lanie had probably swiped the good stuff out of his bag at the motel in Hammond. Her brother would’ve had no trouble finding a good lab man to doctor the prints. Decker said, “Jesus, Al, what the hell do I do now?”
“Well, in my official capacity as a sworn law-enforcement officer of the state of Florida, I’d advise you to turn yourself in, agree to the extradition, and trust your fate to the justice system. As a friend, I’d advise you to stay the fuck out of Louisiana until we get you some alibi witnesses.”
“We?” Decker was surprised. “Al, you’ll get in all kinds of trouble if they find out you’re helping me. You’re probably already in the jackpot for taking a duty car out of Dade County.”
Garcia smiled. “Didn’t I tell you? I went on sick leave two days ago. Indefinite—doctor says my damn shoulder’s out of whack again. The lieutenant wasn’t thrilled, but what’s he gonna do? Half the guys retire they get a lousy hangnail. Me, I get popped point-blank with a sawed-off and I only miss twenty-three days. They can’t bitch about a week here and there for therapy.”
“Sick leave,” Decker mused. ‘That explains your unusually charming disposition.”
“Don’t be a smartass. Right now I’m the only friend you got.”
“Not quite,” Decker said.
According to Ozzie Rundell, Thomas Curl’s Uncle Shawn lived just outside of Orlando. He ran a moldy roadside tourist trap called Sheeba’s African Jungle Safari, located about four miles west of the Disney World entrance on U.S. 92. Ozzie had offered to draw a map, but Jim Tile said no thanks, he didn’t need directions.
The broken-down zoo wasn’t hard to find. In the six years since Shawn Curl had purchased the place from Leroy and Sheeba Barnwell, the once-exotic menagerie had shrunk to its current cheerless census of one emaciated lion, two balding llamas, three goats, a blind boa constrictor, and seventeen uncontrollably nasty raccoons. A big red billboard on U.S. 92 promised a “delightful children’s petting zoo,” but in actuality there was nothing at Sheeba’s to pet; not safely, anyway. Shawn Curl’s insurance company had summarily canceled his policy after the ninth infectious raccoon bite, so Shawn Curl had put up a twelve-foot hurricane fence to keep the tourists away from the animals. The only consistent money-making enterprise at the African Jungle Safari was the booth with plastic palm trees where, for $3.75, tourists could be photographed draping the blind boa constrictor around their necks. Since snakes have no eyelids, the tourists didn’t know that the boa constrictor was blind. They were also unaware that, except for a tiny space where the feeding tube fit, the big snake’s mouth had been expertly stitched shut with a Singer sewing machine. In these litigious times, Shawn Curl wasn’t taking any more chances.
He didn’t know what to think when the musclebound black state trooper walked into the gift shop; Shawn Curl had never seen a black trooper in Orlando before. He noticed that the man walked with a slight limp, and thought probably he had been hired for just that reason—to fill some stupid minority handicap quota. Shawn Curl decided he’d better be civil, or else the big spade might snitch on him to the Fish and Game Department for the way the wild animals were being treated.