house, crying my eyes out, people throwing rocks—”
“Sy Koller knows all about this funny money movie business. I’ve talked to him. I wonder to what extent he was in on all this. He knew Peterman and Buckley were in some sort of a deal together.”
“Go get Sy Koller arrested. He can direct his own execution. That way it will never come off.”
There was a knock on the door.
Lopez was in the corridor. “Chief…”
“Nachman?”
“The police. On the phone. She says she must speak to you.”
“Okay. I’ll take the call downstairs.”
In the bedroom, Moxie had gotten up from her chair and clicked on the television set. Noon weather was being reported. The report was that it was a nice day.
Koller had just climbed the stairs. He was a little out of breath. His black T-shirt was more than usually strained.
In the corridor, Fletch said to him, “Sy, that story you told me the other night. Was it last night? About that fight you and Peterman had.”
Koller was looking with big eyes at Fletch from close-up. Fletch could smell the liquor on his breath.
“You said Peterman was putting up phony movies and pocketing the money he raised. But you knew he was actually concealing the movement of drug money around the world. Right?”
Koller raised his hand as if to grab something at eye level. “That’s how I had him by the short hairs.”
Koller lumbered down the corridor toward his room.
“Sy? You knew
At his door, Koller turned around. “Anything for a job, boy. Anything for a week’s pay.”
He closed the door behind him.
34
“And how’s the weather on Bonita Beach now?” Fletch said into the phone. “Still photogenic?”
“I’m not in Fort Myers,” Chief of Detectives Roz Nachman said. “I’m at the airport in Key West. And I’ve put my last coin into the phone box waiting for you to pick up the phone.”
“Sorry. Catching the noon weather report on television.”
“I’m waiting to be picked up by the local force.”
“They’ve had a busy morning. Up early, rousting the citizens—”
“I called you earlier, before I left the office but someone insisted you weren’t there.”
“I was helping the police on an underground matter. You have news?”
“Just keep everybody at the house until I arrive, please.”
“What’s your news?”
“If everybody isn’t there when I arrive, I’ll hold you responsible, Mister Fletcher.”
“Did Steve Peterman rent a car before he rented the car you examined?”
Nachman paused. “Yes. An identical blue Cadillac. From another company. The day of the accident, he turned one car in at the airport, leaving it in the parking lot, and rented another one.”
“And was the first car damaged?”
“Yes.”
“Had it been in a hit-and-run accident?” “Yes. Blood, bits of cloth beneath the front fender. The fender itself had been washed off.”
“The blood match?”
“We’re presuming it does. We’ll know soon. There’s a police car. I’d better go outside so they’ll see me. Don’t let anybody leave, Fletcher.”
“We’ll be glad to see you, Chief. At least I will.”
35
Upstairs, Fletch went back into the bedroom and closed the door. The television was still running, softly. On a women’s talk show, herpes was being discussed.
Fletch sat in the double width chair with Moxie. He took her hand.
“Nachman is on her way over from the airport,” Fletch said. “To arrest Geoffrey McKensie for the murder of Steven Peterman.”
The television was telling women not to feel badly about having herpes.
“Peterman killed McKensie’s wife,” Fletch said. “Ran her down with a rented blue Cadillac.”
Again tears were rolling down Moxie’s cheeks.
“You see,” Fletch said, “Koller was right: McKensie did know how to rig a set.”
Moxie freed her hand. She stood up. She walked to the bed and sat on its edge.
She sobbed.
Fletch grabbed a tissue from the bedside table and handed it to her. “I’d think you’d be relieved.”
“Poor Geoff.” She blew her nose. “Poor damn Geoff. Why did they have to find out?”
She began to choke. She went into the bathroom. She closed the door.
Fletch listened to her sobbing and blowing her nose and sobbing some more.
“I’ll be downstairs,” he said to the closed door.
36
Mrs Lopez opened the front door of The Blue House when the police arrived. Fletch was in the living room, within sight of the front door. He had walked around the house seeing where everyone was.
Chief of Detectives Roz Nachman entered. Sergeant Hennings was behind her.
Fletch shook hands with them. “McKensie is in the small library at the back of the house. Trying to arrange a flight to Sydney.”
Nachman said: “Good.”
“Having a busy day, Sergeant.”
“Busier than some.”
Moxie came down the stairs. She had put on the white linen trousers and the sandals Fletch had bought her. Obviously she had washed her face with cold water, but her eyes still showed she had been crying.
“Hello, Chief,” she said.
Chief Nachman said to her: “You have the right to remain silent—”
“What!” Fletch yelled.
“Will you please allow me to finish reciting this lady her rights?”
“You’re arresting Moxie?”
“If you’d stop making so much noise.”
“But you can’t!”
“I can. I should. I must. I am arresting Ms Moxie Mooney for the murder of Steven Peterman.”
Frederick Mooney stood in the living room door. His eyes were hollow, empty.
“Geoff McKensie killed Peterman!” Fletch exclaimed. He looked around. McKensie was standing down the corridor outside the billiard room door. “Peterman killed McKensie’s wife!”
“Sorry, Mister McKensie,” Nachman said. “You didn’t know that before, did you?”
In the shadow of the deep corridor, McKensie’s ruddy complexion paled.
“Of course he knew it!” insisted Fletch.
“He wasn’t even on location that day, Mister Fletcher. Not in the afternoon. He was in Miami, seeing lawyers.”
“I saw him at the police station.”
“He was at the police station, yes. He heard the news on the car radio and came directly to the police
