“What does that have to do with Donald?”
“Donald could have helped them, gotten help for them, at least have been accessible to them, tried to know them, see them.”
Louise Habeck stared at the floor between them for a long moment. “Donald wandered away,” she said, “after God. I hated him for it.” Somewhere in the building a soft gong sounded. Her eyes rose to meet his. “The poetic irony would be,” she said, “if Donald were shot before he could escape his life of lies.”
“Did you shoot him?”
She smiled. “At least now I know where he is.”
People were hurrying out of the room.
“Come on,” she said. “I’ll show you out the side door. It’s much simpler than going through all that rigamarole at the front door. Your not signing in would confuse your signing out.”
“Thanks for doing my laundry,” he said, following her. “Although your delivery system leaves something to be desired.”
Walking down the corridor ahead of him, she said, “Washing your clothes, I came to love you.”
At the Emergency Egress Only, Fletch said, “Okay if I come by someday and take you for a cup of tea?”
Louise Habeck shook her head. “I doubt I’ll be thirsty.”
Fletch rang several times and waited several minutes but no one answered the door at 12339 Palmiera Drive. The sun was lowering. It was getting cooler. There were no cars in the driveway, no wreath on the front door. Louise Habeck was in a home for the mentally unwell. Robert Habeck was fretting in a monastery. Nancy Habeck was living in squalor with a husband who was a fraud. And Donald Habeck was dead, murdered.
And Jasmine?
Fletch backed up from the front door and looked up at the curtain that had moved as he was leaving that morning.
It moved again.
He smiled, waved at the curtain, turned, and walked to his car at the curb.
As he was getting into his car, the front door of 12339 Palmiera Drive opened. The silhouette in the door was as the gardener had drawn it in the dirt.
Fletch closed his car door and started back up the flagstone path.
She came down the steps to the walk. Behind her, the door closed.
“Oh, damn,” she said. “I just locked myself out.”
“Are you Jasmine?”
She nodded. She was older than she looked at a distance. Older, heavier, face more scarred by cosmetics, eyebrows more plucked, hair more dyed.
“My name is Fletcher. I work for the News-Tribune.”
“How am I going to get back into the house?”
“Cook’s not here?”
“I couldn’t pay her. She went.”
“Why did you come out?”
“I was curious.” Jasmine was wearing an unmournful, low-cut, yellow sweater blouse, lime-green slacks, spike-heeled shoes. “That bundle of clothes you dropped off this morning. They were Donald’s clothes.”
“Sorry I couldn’t have them cleaned before I dropped them off.”
“Are they part of the investigation?”
“No.”
“I mean, I know they weren’t the clothes he was, uh, dead in.”
“No. They were just his clothes. I was returning them.”
“Oh.” That seemed to satisfy her. She looked worriedly at the house.
“Jasmine, I’m puzzled.”
“Aren’t we all. I mean, really!”
“Did Donald discuss giving five million dollars to the museum with you?”
“No.”
“Not at all? He never mentioned it to you?”
“Not a peep. To the museum? I read in the paper he was planning to give money away to somebody.”
“Did he ever mention religious art to you? Show you any?”
“I don’t even know what it is. Religious art? I thought only people could be religious.”
“Did he ever talk about religion to you?”
“No. Lately he’s been reading big books instead of sleeping. Big novels.”
“Did he ever mention to you his visiting the monastery in Tomasito?”
“Where his son is? No. I’ve never been there.”
“Did he ever suggest to you that he might like to enter a monastery?”
Her eyes widened. “No!”
Fletch too looked at the house. “So. We’re all puzzled.”
“He lived like a monk,” she said. “Up all night, reading. War and Peace. The Brothers Karaminski.”
Fletch’s eyes narrowed. “Harm no more?” he said. “Something like that. Go away and do no more harm?”
“Yeah,” she said. “He said something like that. Two or three times.” She shrugged. “I never knew what he was talking about. When he talked.”
“He never mentioned going away with you?”
“No. Why should he?”
Fletch shook his head. “I get less puzzled for a second, and then more puzzled. You are Jasmine Habeck, aren’t you?”
“No. The newspaper was wrong about that.”
“Your name is Jasmine?”
“Only sort of. We never married. Donald never divorced his first wife. Louise. Have you met her?”
Fletch heard himself saying, “Yuss.”
“Sort of weird lady. Sort of nice, really. She’d sit and say nothing for the longest while, and then she’d ask, ‘Jasmine, what do you think of the word blue?’ and I’d say, ‘I don’t think about the word blue all that much,’ and then she’d say something really weird like, ‘Blue Donald blew away in a blue suit.’ Really! Very strange.”
“I’m becoming less puzzled.”
“That’s good.”
“You were just living here as his friend?”
“Well, sort of I had to, you see.” She shifted on her heels. “Maybe you can tell me what to do.”
“Try me.”
She took a step closer to him. “I’m in the Federal Witness Program, you see.”
“Oh.”
“I testified in a trial in Miami against some bad guys, for the government. They really weren’t bad guys, I didn’t think so, they had lots of money, and didn’t care whether it was day or night. But they were in trouble, and the government said I should help them out, testify against them, or I could go to prison, too, and I hadn’t done anything bad, taken a few jewels from Pete” —she pointed to a turquoise ring on her finger— “my favorite fur, so I said, ‘Sure,’ hung around a long, long time, went to court and answered all sorts of dumb questions about seeing the naked women working in the coke-cutting factory, things like that, you know? So I was to be protected by the federal government. You think I should call someone in Washington?”
“What did all that have to do with Donald Habeck?”
“Nothing. I was in this lawyer’s office in Miami, and Donald came in to see a friend. At that time they were going to send me to St. Louis when I was done, and my girl friend, this Hispanic chanteuse, said that’s where the Bibles are printed and it’s awfully muggy there, and that didn’t sound like me. Donald invited me for a drink. Two days later I came back here with him. We was never married.” She concluded with, “My real name isn’t Jasmine, of course.”
“Of course.”
“No one’s is, I think.”
“I suspect not.”
“I mean, have you ever actually met anyone named Jasmine?”
“Never before. Not even now, I guess.”
“That’s why I chose it. If I had to go be anoniminous, at least I wanted an outstanding name. Wouldn’t you?”
“I suppose so.”
“So what should I do now Donald’s dead? Call someone in Washington, or what?”
“What federal officer did you deal with in Miami?”
“That’s the trouble. I can’t think of his name. It was either John or Tom.”
“What about Habeck’s partners? Do they know you are in the Federal Witness Program?”
“I don’t think so. I think they thought I was Mrs. Habeck Part Two. The few times we we
re together they never spoke to me. I mean, except for, ‘Get me a drink, will you, Jasmine?’ Pete and those guys were much nicer. At least they knew I was a woman, you know what I mean? They didn’t treat me as no equal, for God’s sake. I’m glad I came out here with Donald before I finished testifyin’ against them.”
“I see.” Fletch looked at a few of his toes through the tops of his sneakers. “So you’re sitting here without any money, any friends….”
“Yeah. I want a friend.”
“You’re not Donald Habeck’s widow, you’re not even Jasmine….”
“I’d be little Miss Nobody, ’cept I was married twice once.”
“Do you have any idea of Donald’s plans for you, if he went away, if he went into a monastery?”
“I had no idea he was going into a monastery. It must have come over him sudden like. I had a girl friend like that. Suddenly it overcame her to be a WAC.”
“I guess we’d better get you in touch with some federal officer here in town.”
“I thought of talking to the mailman about it. Well, I mean… really.”
“Someone will call you.”
“Plus, I’m locked out of the house.” She turned around and looked at the quiet brick house floating on rhododendrons. “My fur is in there.”
He started toward the house with her. “Is there a burglar alarm? I didn’t notice.”
“No. Isn’t that stupid? Think of a big criminal lawyer like that, and his house don’t even have a burglar alarm. He should have known some of the guys I knew!”
“I think he did, Jasmine. I think he knew all of them.”
“I see someone’s arse sticking up from the bushes!” Definitely, that was Frank Jaffe’s voice. No other voice was that gravelly. “And on that arse is written ‘Ben Franklyn Friend Service’!”
In the dark, in the bushes in front of the News-Tribune, momentarily Fletch wondered if he went all the way in his imitation of an ostrich and stuck his head into the ground he would disappear entirely from view.
Instead, he stood up and turned around. He had not realized he had moved so far into the building’s security lights.
“’Evening, Frank. Time you’d gone home.”
“Oh, it’s you!” Frank Jaffe exclaimed in mock surprise. “Don’t you think we’ve given that particular institution of physical excess enough free advertising this week?”
“Yes. I do.”
“Then why are you in front of the News-Tribune building waving a flag at passing traffic advertising their services?”
The manila envelope and the pencil Fletch had taken from his car were on the ground behind the bushes.
“That’s not really what I’m doing, Frank.”
“What else are you doing?”
“I’m looking for a gun, Frank.”
“You’re looking for your gum?”
“Okay.”
“How could you drop your gum way over there in the bushes?”
Fletch held up his index finger. “Don’t you feel that wind?”
“You were trying to throw up in the bushes,” Frank accused.
“No, I wasn’t.”
“You were trying to catch a buggerer?”
“Frank…”
“Besides advertising their services across your arse, have you penetrated any deeper into the whorehouse story?”
“I wanted to talk to you about that, Frank.”
“Clearly you’ve exposed yourself. Are we going to expose them?”
“Frank, I think the story is going to take a little longer than we originally thought.”
“Ah,” said Frank. “Really getting involved, are you, boy?”
“Something unpredictable has happened … a setback….”
“Discovered you really dig this assignment, that it?
Getting your bones ground at office expense, who wouldn’t? Ah, Fletch, I wish all the employees at the News-Tribune threw themselves into their work as enthusiastically as you do! I knew you’d like this assignment, once you got into it!”
“I threw myself into it, all right, Frank—”
“That’s my boy!”
“Trouble is, you see, this girl, Cindy—”
“Now, I’ll bet, even you’re asking yourself why you’re getting married Saturday!”
“Well, you see, Barbara—”
“Carry on, Fletcher, whatever you’re doing. But, please! The publisher and I would both appreciate it if, in keeping your chin up, you keep your arse down!”
“All right, Frank.”
“Good night, Fletch.”
“Good night, Frank.”
“Is Lieutenant Gomez in?”
The counter in the lobby of the police station was so high it made even a helpful citizen feel like a humble miscreant.
“Why do you want to know?” the desk sergeant asked.
“I want to talk to him,” Fletch said. “I want to give him something.”
“Leave it with me. I’ll see that he gets it.”
The sign on the desk said SERGEANT WILHELM ROHM.
“I’d like to talk to him. Is he in?”
“What’s in the big envelope?” Sergeant Rohm read the advertisement on Fletch’s clothes.
“What I want to give him.”
“Delivery service from a whorehouse; that’s pretty good. What’s in the envelope, handsome? A case of clap for the lieutenant? It won’t be his first.”
“A gun.”
“Used?”
“I think so.”
“I’ll give it to him.”
“He’s not in?” The sergeant took the envelope and felt the contents. “Don’t mess up the prints,” Fletch said.
“Ah, a junior G-man,” the sergeant said. “I can see you’re used to working under covers.”
“At least let me write the lieutenant a note.”
“Sure.” The sergeant slid a turned-over booking sheet and a ballpoint pen across the desk. “Write anything you want, stud. We just love full confessions. Sometimes even the lawyers find them an obstacle to getting their clients acquitted.”
“Why was Stuart Childers released?”
“What’s that got to do with you?”
“Curious.”
“Stuart Childers is always released. He comes in here once a day. Sometimes twice. He confesses to any murder he hears about on the radio. Also robbery, arson, and aggravated littering. He must have really gotten a kick out of his day in court. Wants to play defendant again.”
Fletch wrote:
Lieutenant Gomez:
Your search for the Habeck murder weapon couldn’t have been extensive. Guard checking cars at News-Tribune parking lot gate indicates murderer walked into and out of parking lot. I followed logical walking path from back of parking lot, where Habeck was murdered, to street, and found this gun in the bushes in front of News-Tribune building tonight. I lifted it with pencil through trigger ring, so prints should be complete. Also look forward to ballistics report Tell your pal. Biff Wilson, I’m always glad to be of assistance. Clearly he needs help writing obituaries.
I. M. Fletcher
“You writing your life’s story?” the desk sergeant was trying to ignore a weeping black lady at the other end of the counter. “I’d love to know what it is you male whores do that’s worth paying for. Nobody’s ever offered to pay me.”
Fletch handed him the folded note. “Put this in the envelope with the gun, will you?”
“Sure, stud. I’ll take care of it.” He put the note on top of the envelope.
“Please,” Fletch said. “It’s important.”
“Sure, stud, sure. Now why don’t you get out of here before I throw you in a cell where you’ll get to do whatever you do for free?”
“What are you two doing, playing Uncle Wiggly in Connecticut?”
“Yeah.” Cindy quoted: “ ‘I was a nice girl, wasn’t I?’ ”
Barbara and Cindy were in lounge chairs on the deck of the beach house. The small, round table between t
hem held their glasses, a half-empty bottle of Scotch, and an ice bucket.
“A banana split for lunch and Scotch at night,” Fletch said. “Better be careful you don’t go to hell, Cindy.”
She stretched her arms. “That’s okay. I’m retiring real soon.”
“Yeah,” Fletch said. “You’re going to the dogs.”
There was a quarter moon over the ocean. Far out to sea a good-sized freighter was moving south.
“Have a drink,” Barbara said. “Join us.”
“Yeah,” Cindy said, “you’ve had a long day, I think, getting a job this morning, when you already had one, then a business lunch…”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
“A discouraging day, too, I think,” Barbara said.
“Yeah, yeah,” Cindy said. “Discouraging, presenting yourself so well at the job interview, then being discovered a liar, an impostor, so quickly at lunch.”
The women laughed.
In the kitchen Fletch half-filled a glass with tap water.
“Poor Fletch,” Barbara said. On the deck he added Scotch and ice to the water in his glass. “He was so discouraged he drove himself all the way to Tomasito, just for a drink.”
“A warm beer,” he muttered. “What’s to eat?”
“Nothing,” Barbara said. “Remember, you canceled dinner with my mother.”
“We haven’t eaten,” said Cindy.
“It’s ten o’clock,” Fletch said.
“We’ve been talking,” said Cindy. “Story of my life.”
“Maybe you’ll go for pizza,” said Barbara.
Fletch sat in the chair near the railing. “So, Cindy… Did you ruin my prospects for employment? Did you tell Marta I’m an impostor? That I’m not really a male whore but rather an honest journalist out to screw the Ben Franklyn Friend Service?”
“I thought about it,” Cindy said. “I thought a lot about what to do. This afternoon my clients didn’t get my undivided attention. Seeing I wasn’t controlling the situation as well as I should have been, one guy came on real strong. I had to make an accident to cool him off. One of the lift bars swung against his nose accidentally-on-purpose.” She was dressed as she had been at lunch, in a short kilt and loafers. “It’s okay. No blood got on the rug.”
Fletch Won Page 16