Fletch Won by Gregory McDonald Page B

wrote that poem you read me last night. Isn’t that enough reason to imprison him? A man who writes a so-called poem like that shouldn’t be left loose to walk around in the streets.”
    “It was not a gangland slaying.”
    “Am I’m supposed to ask you why you keep saying that?”
    “Are you asking?”
    “I suppose so.”
    “In order to drive into the parking lot of the
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you have to stop and identify yourself and state your purpose to the guard at the gate. But anyone can walk in and out. Habeck’s car was parked more toward the back of the lot than the front. I just can’t see professional gangsters stopping and saying anything to the guard at the gate, driving in, doing their dirty deed, then driving out again. I also can’t see a professional gangster parking his car outside the gate, walking in, popping Habeck in the head, and then walking out. Can you? A professional gangster would have hit Habeck somewhere else.”
    “Strange no one heard the shot.”
    “A small-caliber handgun makes a pop so slight, especially in a big, open-air parking lot, you could mistake the sound for a belch after eating Greek salad.”
    Barbara stretched out beside him on the bed.
    “Guess I should start the long drive back to the city,” Fletch said.
    “You don’t have to go yet.”
    “How do you know? There are many, many things I want to do today. And some I don’t.”
    “Don’t forget you’re having dinner with Mother and me tonight. To discuss the wedding.”
    Fletch glanced at his watch. “We really did wake up awfully early. I guess we have time.”
    “I know.” Barbara cupped her hands behind his neck. “That’s because I took down all the window curtains in here last night, before you arrived.”

“Good morning,” Fletch said cheerily to the middle-aged woman in an apron who opened the door to him at 12339 Palmiera Drive, The Heights. Her eyes narrowed as she recognized him as the man who had run through her kitchen the day before wearing nothing but a denim shirt hanging from his waist. He gave her a big smile. “I’m really not all the trouble I’m worth.”
    “Yes?” she asked.
    “I just want to deliver this package.” He handed the grocery bag filled with Donald Habeck’s clothes through the doorway to her. “I’d also like to see Mrs. Habeck, if possible.”
    The woman kept the door braced with her feet when she took the package with both hands. The string had loosened. “In seclusion,” she said. “Under sedation.”
    One of Donald Habeck’s black shoes dropped out of the bag.
    “Oh, my,” Fletch said. He picked up the shoe and put it on top of the bundle in her arms.
    The woman drew her head back from the shoe.
    “One other question,” Fletch went on. “There was an older woman here yesterday, sitting by the pool. Bluish hair, red purse, green sneakers. Do you know who she was?”
    The woman looked at Fletch through narrow slits over Donald Habeck’s shoe.
    “She said she was Mrs. Habeck. She acted strangely.”
    “I do not speak English,” the woman said. “Not a single goddamned word.”
    “I see.”
    She closed the door.
    “I’ll be back to see Mrs. Habeck when she’s feeling better!” Fletch shouted through the door.
    Getting into his car in the driveway, Fletch looked up at the house.
    A window curtain in the second story fell back into place.

“Thank you for seeing me,” Fletch said slowly, “so promptly.”
    He was surprised the curator of contemporary art at the museum was seeing him at all, let alone at nine-thirty in the morning without an appointment. He expected museum curators to keep relaxed hours. He also expected any museum curator to be standoffish with someone presenting himself in blue jeans and T-shirt, however fresh and clean, sneakers however new and glistening white, who said he was from a newspaper.
    He also did not expect any museum curator, however contemporary, to be sitting behind a desk in a Detroit Tigers baseball cap. On the