Lanie Gault had not chosen Crescent Beach for its dunes. She hadn't chosen it at all; a lover had bought the condo and given it to her for Valentine's Day in 1982. He was a wonderful and basically harmless man, had his own insurance company, and Lanie didn't mind that he was married. He wasn't the sort of guy you, wanted to have around allthe time anyway. Every other weekend was just fine. It lasted for about two years until his wife found out—somebody called her up with the juicy details. The insurance man couldn't figure out who would do such a thing, but Lanie knew. It was her brother. Dennis never admitted to making the phone call, but Lanie had no doubt he was the one. Dennis couldn't stand the insurance man (nothing new) and for months had been telling her to clear the deed and dump the guy, he's bad news. He isn'tbad news, Lanie had argued, thinking: He's just slightly boring. When the wife found out, Lanie was angry with her brother but also a little relieved. A few days later the insurance man came to the condo and told her he was moving back to St. Louis and kissed her good-bye. Lanie cried and said she understood and asked if he wanted her to give the condo back. The insurance man said heavens no, it's all yours, just don't tell anyone where you got it. A week later Lanie put in brand-new wine carpeting and decided maybe her heart wasn't truly broken after all.

Lanie's condominium was on the east wing of the ninth floor, and featured a scallop-shaped balcony with an ocean view. One of the things she liked about the building was the security—not only a gatehouse at the entrance, but an armed guard in the lobby and a closed-circuit TV bank. Nobody got upstairs without clearance, and the security people had strict instructions to phone ahead, no matter what. Given such procedures, Lanie was understandably alarmed to be awakened by someone knocking on the door. She squirmed across the king-size bed and snatched the phone off the nightstand and called the desk. The guard said, "It's the police, Miss Gault, we had to let them up."

When she opened the door, she saw the problem. Jim Tile was wearing his state trooper's uniform.

"Can I help you?" Lanie asked.

"Not me," Jim Tile said, "my friend."

R. J. Decker peeked around the corner of the doorway. "Remember me? We exchanged bodily fluids not long ago."

Lanie looked stunned to see him. "Hi," she said tentatively.

The two men walked in; Jim Tile courteously removing his Stetson, Decker closing the door behind them. "I can see you're wondering how to play this scene," he said to Lanie, "because you don't know how much I know."

"What do you mean?"

Decker opened the living-room curtains without remarking on the view. "Lovey-dovey is one way to go. You know the bit: Where you been? I missed you. Why haven't you called?But that's only good if I don't know that you went to the New Orleans cops. And if I don't know you helped your brother set me up."

Lanie sat down and fiddled with her hair. Jim Tile went to the kitchen and fixed three glasses of orange juice.

"Another way to go," Decker continued, "is the Terrified Witness routine. Murder suspect barges into your apartment, scares the shit out of you. Please don't hurt me. I'll do anything you want, just don't hurt me.That's if you're trying to sell me the idea that you really believe I killed Dickie Lockhart. Which is horseshit."

Lanie smiled weakly. "Any other choices?"

"Try the truth," said Decker, "just as an experiment."

"You got a tape player?" Jim Tile asked.

Lanie said, "On the balcony, with the beach stuff." She shook her head no when Jim Tile offered a glass of juice.

The trooper went outside and got the portable stereo. He came back and set it up on the coffee table in the living room. There was already a cassette in the tape player.

Jim Tile punched the Record button. He said, "You don't mind?"

"Hey, that's my Neil Diamond you're erasing," Lanie complained.

"What a loss," Decker said.

Jim Tile fiddled with the volume dial. "Nice box," he said. "Graphic equalizers and everything."

"Let's start with Dennis," Decker said.

"Forget it, R.J."

Jim Tile said, "She's right. Let's don't start with her brother. Let's start with Robert Clinch."

Lanie stared coldly at the big black man. "I could get you in a lot of trouble."

"Don't flatter yourself," said Jim Tile.

Decker was impressed at how unimpressed Jim Tile was. He said, "Okay, princess, guess who killed Bobby."

"Dickie Lockhart did."

"Wrong."

"Then who?"

Jim Tile got up and opened the glass doors to the balcony. A cool breeze stirred the curtains. Lanie shivered.

Decker said, "Dennis didn't think much of your affair with Bobby Clinch, did he? I mean, a sexy high-class girl like you can't be sneaking off with a grotey redneck bass fisherman."

"What?" Lanie looked aggravated, not cool at all.

Jim Tile said, "Your brother had Robert Clinch killed. He hired two men to do it. They waited for him at the Coon Bog that morning, jumped him, then rigged his boat for a bad wreck. Dennis wanted everyone to think Dickie was behind it."

"No," said Lanie, glassy-eyed.

She really doesn't know, Decker thought. If she's acting, it's the performance of her life.

"Bobby wasn't getting anywhere on the cheating," she said numbly. "Dickie's people were too slick. Dennis was impatient, he was riding Bobby pretty hard. Then ... well."

"He found out you and Bobby were involved."

Lanie gave a shallow laugh. "The spottfucking, he didn't mind. A different fella each night and he'd never say a word to me. Whenever things got serious is when he acted weird. Like when Bobby said he was going to leave his wife and go away with me, Dennis got furious. But still he would never do what you say. Never!"

Decker said, "Lanie, he needed you more than he needed Bobby."

"For what, Decker? Needed me for what?"

Decker tapped his chest. "For me."

By now Lanie was crying. Not the best job of crying Decker had ever seen, but still pretty convincing. "What are you saying?" she hacked between sobs. "You think I was whoring for my own brother! I cared for Bobby, you don't believe me but it's true."

Jim Tile was not moved. In years of writing traffic tickets, he'd heard every imaginable tale of woe. With his usual remoteness he said, "When's the last time you spoke to him?"

"Bobby? I saw him the night before he died. We had a drink at a shrimp place over in Wabasso."

"Did he tell you he was going to the lake?"

"Of course he did—he was so excited. He'd gotten a tip that Dickie was hiding his fish cages in the Coon Bog. Bobby was thrilled as anything. He couldn't wait to find the bass and call Dennis."

Decker said, "Where did the tip come from?"

"Some guy who called up Bobby, wouldn't give his name."

"It was a setup," Jim Tile said, "the phone call."

"Now, wait," Lanie said. She kept looking down at the tape player.

Time's up, Decker thought. He sat next to Lanie and said, "Call me nosy, but I'd like to know why you framed me."

Lanie didn't answer. Decker took one of her hands and held it very gently, as if it were a baby animal he was afraid of squeezing. Lanie looked frightened.

"It was your brother's idea, wasn't it?"

"At first he talked about blackmail," she said. "He asked if I knew any good photographers who could follow Dickie and get the pictures without him knowing. I thought of you, and Dennis said fine. He said to keep you interested and I said okay, anything to get back at Dickie for what he did."

"What you thoughthe did," Decker interjected.

"Dennis said it was Dickie who killed Bobby. I believed him, why shouldn't I? It made sense."

Jim Tile said, "So Dickie's murdered, then what?"