Fletch and the Man Who

to get himself to the White House.”

“Of course not,” said the governor. “But given the axiom that someone is doing this, the first question is why?”

“Someone’s a nut,” Lee Allen Parke said simply.

“Any suspects, Fletch?” Barry asked.

“Too many of them.”

“Solov,” nodded Barry Hines. “You should see his phone bill.”

“Why?” asked Fletch.

“He almost doesn’t have one. He hardly ever calls anywhere. He must file with Pravda by carrier pigeon.”

“Actually, that is significant,” Nolting said.

“Floats his reports across the North Atlantic in vodka bottles,” Parke said.

“What’s your point, Fletch?” Walsh asked.

Fletch waited until all eyes were on him. “I think it would be helpful if every member of the staff sat down with me—soon—and established a perfect alibi for at least one of each of these murders.”

“Hell,” said Walsh.

“I won’t do it,” said Dobson.

“It would give me some quiet ammunition,” Fletch said.

The governor stood up. “I’ve got to get ready. It’s seven-twenty. Is my watch right?”

“Yeah,” said Walsh.

Phil Nolting said, “Fletch, in trying to develop defensive evidence for us, you’re going to give the impression we have some reason to defend ourselves.”

“I think we do,” Fletch said.

Everyone else was standing up.

“Looks like you lost your audience, Fletch,” Walsh said.

Then Fletch stood up. “What the hell else do you expect me to do?” he asked. “This is a time bomb, ticking away—”

“So throw yourself on it,” Dobson said, leaving the room.

“Wait a minute,” Fletch said.

“Fletcher,” the governor said, “why don’t you stop playing boy detective?”

“Come with me, Fletch.” Walsh stood at the door. “On the way to my room, I’ll buy you a copy of True Crime Tales.”

“Guess I’d better drop that topic,” Fletch said.

“Guess so.” In his own room, Walsh took off his shirt and grabbed a fresh one from his suitcase.

“This is like trying to put out a fire at a three-ring circus.”

“No,” said Walsh, “it’s more like trying to unclog a pipe in one of the bathrooms at a three-ring circus.”

“Local police everywhere are too in awe of the candidate, too busy trying to protect him, to run any kind of an investigation as to what’s going on. The national political writers are too sophisticated to count the number of murders on their fingers, and say, ‘Hey, maybe there’s a story here.’”

“It’s perfectly irrelevant.” Walsh took a suit from the suitcase, frowned at it, slapped it with the flat of his hand, and proceeded to change into it. “The clippings you should go through are over there.” He nodded at the table where his briefcases were.

“So you’re changing from a reasonably pressed suit into a wrinkled suit?”

“Only have one tie that goes with that suit. Must have left it in a car. There are a couple of articles in that stack by Fenella Baker you’re not going to like. One hits us on defense spending; the other on our lack of clarity regarding Social Security. She’s right, of course.”

Standing by the table, Fletch was scanning an article by Andrew Esty: Governor Caxton Wheeler terms abortion “essentially a moral issue.” Does he imply politics is amoral?

“By the way,” Walsh said, knotting his tie. “Lansing Sayer. Don’t trust Lansing Sayer. Brightest, most sophisticated member of the press we have traveling with us. And I’m glad he’s with us. But as far as I’m concerned, he’s a straight pipeline to Senator Simon Upton. Capable of anything.”

“He just knows how to play both sides of the street,” Fletch said.

“Got to get going.” Walsh pulled on his dark suit coat. “Barry and I are going to check out the sound system at Public Auditorium ourselves. Don’t want a repeat of what happened this afternoon at the shopping plaza.”

“That was a disaster,” Fletch said.

“No need for you to come now.” Walsh opened the door. “Get some supper. Dad won’t be speaking until at least nine-thirty, quarter to ten.”

33

“I. M.? This is James.”

Arriving back at his room, Fletch found a vase with twelve red carnations in it. The note accompanying the flowers read: Fletcher— Glad to have you with us— Doris Wheeler.

Waiting for his sandwich from room service, he had returned phone calls, except those from Rondoll James.

After his supper arrived, he took a shower and then sat naked on his bed, cross-legged, munching and going through the stack of newspaper articles Walsh had given him.

He tried ignoring the phone while he ate, but it rang incessantly.

“Sorry,” Fletch said. “My mouth is full.”

“You’ve got to do something. Fast.”

“I’ve got to fast?”

“A reporter traveling with you called me this afternoon. Told me about the murders. Why didn’t you tell me about them? The three women who were murdered.”

“Who called you?”

“A woman named Arbuthnot.”

“Figures. Are you still in Iowa?”

“Yes.”

“What did you say to her?”

“Told her it was all news to me.”

“Is it?”

“I. M., I know who the murderer is. So, incidentally, does Caxton.”

Fletch pushed his sandwich plate aside with his shin.

“Have you talked with Caxton about this at all?” James asked.

“Extensively.”

“What has he said?”

“Suppose you tell me what you know, James.”

“I can’t understand the guy. Why hasn’t he done something?”

“James—”

“Edward Grasselli.”

“ol’ Flash?”

“No question about it.”

“Why Flash?”

“You don’t know who he is? Everybody forgets.”

In Flash’s personnel folder had been just a photo and identification sheet. “So who’s Flash Grasselli?”

“He’s a murderer. A convicted murderer, for God’s sake. He beat a guy to death. With his fists. A professional boxer. His hands are lethal weapons. He served time for it—almost fifteen years.”

“What are you talking about?”