“What are his friends like?”
Brother and sister Gabais screaming at him from the street and the window, Biff hustled into his car.
“Losers. You know what I mean? People who think that if they ever get their lies properly organized they’ll make it big and be as good as other people.”
“Do you think Jay Demarest is a real owner?”
Biff seemed to be having trouble getting his car started.
All the lights on the
“I think he keeps the books, and orders the ground elk’s horn. The fall guy.”
“Being given a few good years and meant to take the fall for the real owners.”
Now Felix was beating up the car. He kicked the rear left fender hard enough to rock the car and leave a good-sized dent. Arms joined at the fists, he landed his considerable weight on the car’s trunk. That made an impression.
“Yeah. He and Marta better look out below. I think they’re both just employees.”
Biff’s car engine roared.
“When can you have the rest of the stuff for me?”
Twice dented, lights whirring and flashing, rear end skittering, Biff’s
A stone Felix had ready in hand caught up to it and broke its rear window.
Skittering around the far corner, Biff almost hit a bus.
“Ah,” Fletcher said. “The reportorial life does have its ups and downs, its ins and outs.”
“What?”
Retreating slowly, unwillingly, back into their depression, Felix and Therese Gabais intermittently shouted and shook their fists at the corner around which Biff had disappeared.
“When can you have the other stuff?”
“Anytime you want to meet me, I’ll be ready. I’m preparing a list of the services and charges. I’ve got the names and addresses of some of the clients. I’ve even pinched some of the still photographs and videotapes for you.”
“Great! Any of Marta?”
“Sure. She’s not beyond takin’ a trick now and again. She has her vanity.”
“Jay Demarest?”
“You bet. Marta probably took those, to keep Jay in line, should the need ever arise. Nice lady, uh? All in the same cesspool together.”
“I don’t want you to risk yourself, Cindy.”
“Not to worry. You can’t make pie without crust.”
“What? Right! Sure. I suppose so. Will you be at this number later?”
The window and the door to 45447 Twig Street were now closed. Therese and Felix Gabais were now back inside their own morosity.
“If not, I’ll be back. Don’t call me at Ben Franklyn.”
“Course not. Marta would ask me when I’m coming to work.”
In the street in front of Fletch, a police car cruised by slowly.
Alston Chambers said, “Glad you called. I’ve been trying to get you. Your apartment doesn’t answer, the beach house doesn’t answer, your car phone hasn’t answered. No one at the newspaper seems to know where you are. I’ve got some news for you. By the way, where are you?”
“At the moment, I’m hiding out in a used-car lot disguised as a satisfied mannequin in a Datsun 300 ZX.”
“Why didn’t I guess that?”
“I need a couple of favors, old buddy.”
“Why should I do you favors? Aren’t I already marrying you off, Saturday, or something?”
“Cause I’m trying to find out who murdered your boss, or buddy.”
“Not even a topic of discussion around here. Bunch of cold-blooded bastards. It won’t interest anyone at Habeck, Harrison and Haller who murdered Donald Habeck unless and until they get to defend the accused, always presuming he or she is rich, or, good for publicity. By the way, who did murder Donald Habeck?”
“You’re always good for the obvious question.”
“That’s my legal training.”
“I don’t know who killed Donald Habeck. So far, I have spent time with each member of the Habeck family, and I believe any one of them could have and would have done it, if, and that’s a big if, any of them knew Habeck was disinheriting them in behalf of a museum and a monastery.”
“Monastery! What in hell are you talking about?”
“I forgot. You and I haven’t talked lately. Believe it or not, ol’ chum, I believe a liar for once told the truth.”
“And no one believed him?”
“Of course not. I believe Donald Habeck really wanted to give five million dollars to the museum and, knowing how to use the press, by making the announcement through the press, embarrass the museum into accepting the gift and promising to use it to develop a collection of contemporary religious art. Of that Habeck crafty scheme, I and the
“Telling the truth once in your life doesn’t make you a monk. Does it?”
“I believe Donald Habeck wanted to enter a monastery. If you can believe any of my insane and otherwise unreliable sources, you can believe it. Over the years, he had taken religious instruction. He had not divorced the only wife he ever had. She had been permanently endowed in an institution years before. Maybe Donald was trying to relate thusly to his son, a monk. Maybe they each had the same instinct. Maybe, as sometimes happens, the son, thinking he was rebelling from his father, instinctively and inadvertently perceived and fulfilled his father’s inner- most ambitions. Also, of course, Habeck was not lying when he said no one cared ‘a tin whistle’ for him. No one did. Plus, lately Habeck had been reading Russian novels, in which icons abound and the theme of personal withdrawal is very strong, especially as written by Dostoevsky.”
There was a long pause before Alston next spoke. “Er, Fletch?”
“Yes, Alston?”
“Do you also believe you are following approved, police methods of investigation here?”
“Of course I am. Why not?”
Alston’s voice sounded distant from the phone. “I’ve never known the police to consider the victim’s recent reading list as evidence of anything.”
“Why not? What better way is there of knowing what a person is thinking?”
“Back to hard facts.” Alston’s voice became stronger. “You know Habeck and Jasmine never married?”
“Donald and Louise never divorced. I know Jasmine is not Mrs. Habeck. I know she isn’t even Jasmine. Which brings up one of the favors I ask, ol’ buddy.”
“Jasmine isn’t what?”
“She thinks she’s in the Federal Witness Protection Program. In fact, while she was giving evidence in a trial in Miami, Donald Habeck absconded with her.”
“In the middle of her giving testimony?”
“I believe so. Donald apparently gave her the impression she was through testifying, free to go, and that he was some sort of an official. Jasmine has a one-cell brain. She believed him because he was a lawyer, was kind to her, in his fashion, and, I suppose, wore a nice suit.”
“He did have nice suits,” Alston mused.
“Not from the internal view. Would you please ask a federal officer to call upon her at Palmiera Drive and attempt to straighten out her life for her? She might still have evidence which would interest courts in Miami, as well as points north and west.”
“That’s a favor? Sure. Always glad to get in good with the feds. My news is that Donald Habeck did indeed have a will, drawn up five years ago, and not altered since.”
“And this will stands?”
“Yes. Under its terms, everything goes straight to the children of Nancy Habeck and Thomas Farliegh, as they
