Fletch Won (3 page)

“Gun been found?” Biff asked.

“Not visible. Might have slipped under the seat,” said the plainclothesman. “Where’s forensics? I want my coffee.”

“Donald E. Habeck,” the older uniform read from his notebook. “Anyone know what he was doing here?”

“Yeah,” Biff answered. “He was here to see John Winters, the publisher. Ten-o’clock appointment. They were going to set up the announcement that Habeck and his wife are going to,
were
going to, give five million bucks to the art museum.”

“How do you know that, Biff?” the plainclothesman asked.

“How do I know everything, Gomez?” Again Biff spat on the sidewalk.

“I know you’re the greatest, Biff. I spent all last night tellin’ my wife that.”

Biff shrugged. “Car telephone, jerk. Hamm Starbuck said Donald Habeck was dead in the parking lot. I asked him, What’s he doin’ at the
News-Tribune?
Wouldn’t you say that’s a natural question?”

“That’s why I just asked it, Biff.” At least Gomez had taken off his coat and rolled up his sleeves.

There was no shade in the parking lot.

The younger uniformed policeman kept giving Fletch long, hard looks.

“Five million dollars. Jeez.” The older uniformed policeman rubbed his forehead with his sleeve. “Think of bein’ able to give away five million dollars.”

“You’ve never been able to do that?” Biff asked.

“Saturday I gave my niece and her new husband an old couch we had in the den. Slob didn’t even come for it. I had to truck it over myself.”

“Nice of you,” Biff said.

“Didn’t get no story about myself in the newspaper for it, though.”

“Maybe Biff will write you up a story,” Gomez said.

“Sure,” Biff said. “Friday night I gave my kid a welt under his left eye. I’m generous, too.”

“Here comes your competition, Biff.” Gomez nodded toward the security gate.

There were two cars there from the
Chronicle-Gazette.

“Sunday I realized how much I missed that couch. I had to sit up during the ball game. And my back was sore from movin’ the damned thing the day before.”

The younger uniformed cop. touched Biffs sleeve and then pointed to Fletch. He spoke quietly. “He with you?”

Biff considered Fletch from his throne as
News-Tribune
crime writer. “Naw.”

“Does he work for the
News-Tribune?”

“I dunno.” Biff was not keeping his voice low. “Maybe I’ve seen him around. Emptying wastebaskets.”

“Didn’t know the
News-Tribune
had any waste-baskets,” Gomez said. “Just delivery trucks.”

At the gate the security guard was delaying the arrival of the
Chronicle-Gazette’s
reporter and photographer at the scene of the crime.

“Haven’t you had any coffee yet this morning?” Biff asked Gomez.

“Only two cups,” Gomez said. “Anglo.”

“You act like you haven’t had any.”

“El mismo”
Gomez said.

“Because I’ve seen something about that guy,” the younger officer said. “Recently. A picture, or something.”

Biff fixed Fletch with his distant gaze again. “Maybe on the funnies page.”

Finally the two cars from the
Chronicle-Gazette
reached the scene of the crime. Neither had lights flashing nor radios crackling.

“Don’t you guys touch anything,” the younger uniformed officer shouted at them.

The reporter said, “Shut up.” He looked into the car.

The photographer was bending around taking pictures without the reporter in them.

“Who is he?” the reporter asked.

“Not confirmed,” Biff answered.

“Employee of the
News-Tribune?”

“Probably,” Biff answered. “Most of us have Caddy Sevilles. I let my kid take mine to school.”

“Security guard must know who he is,” the reporter said. “He must have given a name when he came in.”

“Go ask him,” Biff said.

“This is your story, uh, Biff?” the reporter asked.

“It happened in his backyard,” Gomez said.

“Yeah,” the reporter said. “Expect I can make something of that. Murder in the parking lot of a family newspaper. Tsk, tsk.”

“That’s Habeck,” said the photographer. “Donald Habeck, the attorney. Rich guy. Lives over in The Heights.”

“Yeah?” said the reporter. “What’s he doin’ here?”

“Natural question,” said Biff.

“Yet to be determined,” said Gomez.

“How long you been workin’ for the
News-Tribune
, Gomez?” the reporter asked.

“Nothing’s going to be said until the medical examiner and forensics team have come and gone,” Gomez answered.

“Not by you.” The reporter went to his car and began talking into his telephone.

“Here they come.” Gomez nodded at the station wagons coming through the security gate into the parking lot. “Want to get some coffee inside, Biff?”

Biff looked at the side of the
News-Tribune
building.

“Coffee’s no good in there, either.”

“I’ll get Maria to make some special.”

“Oh, yeah,” Biff said. “I forgot your sister-in-law works in the cafeteria.”

“You did like hell. You got her the job.”

Fletch began moving out of the area into which the forensics team was moving.

The younger uniformed policeman said to Fletch, “You work here?”

“Naw,” said Fletch. “Just makin’ a delivery. Just bringin’ Mr. Wilson his uppers.”

The young cop looked alert. “His uppers?”

“Yeah,” said Fletch. “He really messed ’em up last night with taffy apple. Took the dental lab an hour to get ’em clean this morning.”

“Oh.”

The older uniformed policeman was looking inside the car at Donald Edwin Habeck. “I’ll bet my giving away that old couch,” he said slowly, “meant more to me than this guy’s givin’ away five million bucks.”

“News-Tribune
resource desk. Code and name, please.”

“Seventeen ninety dash nine,” Fletch answered into the car phone. He was driving toward The Heights.

“Fletcher.”

“I haven’t had a call from you before.”

“They don’t let me out much.”

“We have some messages for you.”

“I want the address for Mr. and Mrs. Donald Edwin Habeck. I believe that’s H-A-B-E-C-K, somewhere in The Heights.”

“That’s 12339 Palmiera Drive.”

“Mapping?”

“It’s a little road northwest of Washington Boulevard. There are lots of little roads in there. Winding roads. Your best bet would be to stop at intersection of Washington and
Twenty-third and get exact directions. You’ll be turning onto Twenty-third there.”

“Okay.”

“Messages are, call Barbara Ralton. She wants lunch with you. Says she has things to discuss.”

“Like how many babies we’re gonna have?”

“My, my. This old mother suggests you have lunch before you pick up on that heavy topic.”

“Thank you.”

“See how much it costs to feed just two mouths.”

“It doesn’t cost much to feed a kid. Just squirt orange juice into him a few times a day. Peanut butter.”

“Ha.”

“Beg pardon?”

“Ha.”

“How much does peanut butter cost?”

The bumper sticker on the car in front of Fletch read: N
ASTINESS
W
ILL
G
ET
Y
OU
E
VERYWHERE
.

“Should have taken my own advice and stayed in bed. One more message for you, Fletcher. From Ann McGarrahan, society-page editor. She said if you phoned in to tell you to report to her immediately. Your assignment has been changed.”

“Oh.”

“So it looks like you don’t need that address in The Heights after all.”

“One more question: Who is Pilar O’Brien?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“What kind of an answer is that?”

“A personal answer. Why do you want to know?”

“Just heard of her. Does she work for the
News-Tribune?”

A hesitation slightly longer than normal before the
News-Tribune
resource-desk person said, “You’re talking to her.”

“Ah! Then you’re the lady who found Habeck this morning.”

“Who?”

“The guy dead in the parking lot.”

“Is that his name? I thought you just asked for the address of—”

“Forget about that, will you?”

“How can I? How can a reporter I never heard of before be asking for the address of—”

“I said, please forget about that. I never asked.”

“Mrs. McGarrahan—”

“I’ll call her. Tell me about finding Habeck.”

“I’m not permitted to talk to any reporters until after the police question me. Then I may only report what I told the police.”

“Jeez, you know the rules.”

“That’s what Mr. Starbuck said.”

“When you found him, was the car door opened or closed?”

“I can’t answer you.”

“It’s important.”

“Maybe that’s why I can’t answer you.”

“Did you see a gun?”

“What’s-your-name… Fletcher. Shall I tell Mrs. McGarrahan you’re returning to the office?”

“Sure,” Fletch said. “Tell her that.”

“Would you please give me directions to Palmiera Drive?”

The eyes of the man behind the counter of the liquor store at the intersection of Washington Boulevard and Twenty-third Street shifted from Fletch through the store window to Fletch’s Datsun 300 ZX outside the front door, motor running, and back to Fletch. There was a hole in the car’s muffler. The engine was noisy.

“I’m looking for the twelve-thousand block of Palmiera Drive, if there is such a thing.”

Looking Fletch full in the face, the man behind the counter whistled the first few bars of “Colonel Bogey’s March.”

“Do I turn right on Twenty-third Street?”

The man raised a .45 automatic pistol from beneath the counter. He pointed it at Fletch’s heart.

“Jeez,” Fletch said. “I’m being held up by a liquor store!”

Fletch was grabbed from behind. Muscular brown arms, fingers clasped just under Fletch’s rib cage, pinned Fletch’s own arms to his side.

“Hey!” Fletch yelled. “I asked politely!”

The gun kept Fletch’s heart as its target.

The man holding the gun called toward the back of the store, “Rosa! Call the cops!”

“I’ll get the muffler fixed!” Fletch said. “I promise!”

“Report a robbery in progress!” the man behind the counter shouted.

“All I did was ask for directions! I didn’t even ask for change for a parking meter!”

“He ain’t got no gun,” the voice behind Fletch’s ear rumbled.

The man behind the counter looked at Fletch’s hands and then the pockets of his jeans.

“Let me point out to you,” Fletch said with great sincerity, “you can’t shoot me with that cannon without blowing away the guy behind me.”

The gun wavered. The steel bands clamping Fletch’s arms to his sides slackened just slightly.

“Workmen’s Compensation won’t cover!” Fletch yelled as he ran backward, pushing the guy holding him.

Within a meter, they crashed into a tall, wire bottle rack.

Instantly, as bottles smashed, there was the reek of bourbon.

The guy’s hands disappeared from in front of Fletch. “I’m gettin’ cut,” he yelled.

Sitting on the guy’s lap, Fletch bounced up and down once or twice, then he leaned back against his chest.

“Ow!” the guy yelled.

Bottles were raining down on them. One landed on Fletch’s left knee, causing more pain than Fletch thought possible.

The bottles that hit the floor smashed and splashed bourbon over both of them.

The guy with the gun was moving along the counter trying to get a bead on Fletch that did not include the guy Fletch was sitting on.

Fletch rolled through broken glass and bourbon puddles to the door. “Last time I’ll ask you guys for directions!”

As he stood up he grabbed the door open.

Halfway through the door the gun banged. The breakproof glass in the door shattered.

Opening his car door, Fletch shouted back at the store, “If you don’t know where Palmiera Drive is, why don’t you just say so?”

At a sedate pace, he turned right off Washington onto Twenty-third.

Sirens filled the air.