GREGORY MCDONALD
Fletch Reflected
Gregory Mcdonald is the author of twenty-six books, including eleven Fletch novels and four Flynn mysteries. He has twice won the Mystery Writers of America’s prestigious Edgar Allan Poe Award for Best Mystery Novel, and was the first author to win for both a novel and its sequel. He lives in Tennessee. His Web site is www.gregorymcdonald.com.
Books by Gregory Mcdonald
1
“Faoni.” In fact, he was answering the telephone at Andy Cyst’s desk in the huge Global Cable News building in Virginia. He had no desk, or telephone, of his own.
The switchboard knew he was working with Andy Cyst.
“Fletch?”
“Who is this?”
The young woman’s voice said, “Is this Fletch?”
“Yeah. Jack. Faoni. Fletch.”
“I know your name is Jack Faoni. The weekend we spent together you had me call you Fletch.”
“When was that?”
“Skiing. In Stowe, Vermont. A few years ago. We met there. At The Shed. You were with some other guys from a lumber camp. Playing your guitar. People were buying you beer to keep you playing. Well, I sort of kidnapped you. First, I kidnapped your guitar.” Her voice was low, and warm. “When you pursued me to the parking lot to get your guitar back, I grabbed you. It was snowing. You were very hot. I ripped your shirt. I pulled it down off your shoulders. Do you remember the snowflakes falling on your sweating shoulders while we kissed? You sizzled.”
“Good grief! Whoever you are, woman, you just elevated my temperature by more than a little. I’m hot now.” Sticking a finger inside his shirt collar, Jack scanned the huge, brightly lit, colorful, air-conditioned room filled with journalists’ workstations. “I wasn’t a minute ago.”
“You were very playful. Silly. You don’t remember me?”
“I do.” She had coal black hair, very wide-set coal-black eyes … And her name was? “I remember you weren’t there when I woke up.”
“I had to meet my father early for Belgian waffles. It really wasn’t a weekend we spent together. Just a few lovely hours.”
“I remember it was a cold morning and I had to run through the snow in a flannel shirt torn to shreds. Thanks for leaving me my guitar, anyway.”
“You use your hands beautifully.”
“Why didn’t you come back? Leave a note? Something?”
“I had to ski with my father. Then he drove me back to Poughkeepsie.”
“I waited.” He had not waited long. The snow was pure powder, the skiing too good to miss. “I wasn’t sure you weren’t a dream.”
“Anyway, I’ve been seeing your name on GCN the last few days. Those great stories about The Tribe.”
“Thanks. I guess.”
“You’re working for GCN now?”
“I guess so. I’m here. They’ve used everything I’ve brought them.”
