Fletch's Fortune Part 30

He had accosted Mrs. Leary in the parking lot Sunday morning, and Walter March had been murdered Monday morning.

Clearly, Joseph Molinaro was a close relative of Walter March.

Fletch said, "What good was Walter March to you alive?"

"I wrote three or four polite letters when I was fifteen, asking to see him. No answers." Molinaro's fingers were touching his jaw, gently. "When I was nineteen, I took a year's savings, working in a laundry, for Christ's sake, went to New York, lived in a fleabag for as long as I could hold out, just to bug his secretary, asking for an appointment. First I gave my name, then I gave any name I could think of. He was always out of the country, out of the city, in conference." He winced. "I had even bought a suit and tie so I'd have something to dress in, if he'd see me."

"He was your father?" Gillis asked.

"So I've always heard."

"Who told you? Who said so?" Gillis asked.

"My grandparents. They brought me up. In Florida." Molinaro was looking at Gillis with more interest. "I never even saw your fist," he said.

"You never do," said Gillis. "You never see the knockout punch."

"You used to box? I mean, professionally?"

Gillis said, "I used to play piano."

Molinaro shook his head, as much as his head permitted him. "Fat old fart."

"You want to not see my fist again?"

Molinaro stared at him.

"You're Frank Gillis, the television guy."

"I know that," Frank Gillis said.

"I've seen you on television."

"How come you roll your own?" Gillis asked.

"What's it to you?"

"Just unusual. Ever work in the Southwest?"

"Yeah," Molinaro said. "On a dude ranch, in Colorado. And one day I read Walter March owned a Denver newspaper. So I gave up my job and went to Denver and spent every day, all day, outside that newspaper building. Finally, one night, seven o'clock, he came out. Three men with him. I ran up to him. Two of the men blocked me off, big bruisers, the third opened the car door. And off went Walter March."

"Did he see you?" Fletch asked "Did he see your face?"

"He looked at me before he got into the car. And he looked at me again through the car window as he was being driven off. Three, four years ago. Son of a b.i.t.c.h."

"You know, Joe," Gillis said. "You're not too good at taking a hint."

"What's so wrong with having an illegitimate son?" Molinaro's voice rose. "Jesus! What was ever wrong with it? Even in the Dark Ages, you could say h.e.l.lo to your illegitimate son!"

Standing in the sunlight on a timber road a few kilometers behind Hendricks Plantation, Fletch found himself thinking of Crystal Faoni. I didn't act contrite enough.... He fired a great many people on moral grounds... I'd be pleased to be accused.... I didn't act contrite enough.... He fired a great many people on moral grounds... I'd be pleased to be accused....

"Your father was sort of screwed up," Fletch said.

Molinaro squinted up at him. "You knew him?"

"I worked for him once. Maybe I spent five minutes in total with him." Fletch said, "Your five minutes, I guess."

Molinaro continued to look at Fletch.

Gillis asked, "You came to Virginia in hopes of seeing him?"

"Yeah."

"How did you know he was here?"

"President of the American Journalism Alliance. The convention. Read about it in the papers. The Miami Herald." Miami Herald."

"What made you think he'd be any gladder to see you this time than he was last time?"

"Older," Molinaro said. "Mellower. There was always hope."

"Why didn't you register at the hotel?" Gillis asked. "Why hide up here in the woods?"

"You kidding? You recognized me. I planned to stay pretty clear of the hotel. Until I absolutely knew I could get through to him."

"Did you contact him at all?" Fletch asked.

"On the radio, Monday night, I heard he'd been murdered. First I knew he'd actually arrived here. I'd been noseying around. Hadn't been able to find out anything."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Gillis said. "So why are you still here?"

There was hatred for Gillis on Molinaro's face. "There's a memorial service. This morning. You b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

Gillis said, "I'm not the b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

He got on his horse and settled her down.

"Hey, Joe," Gillis said. "I'm sorry I said that." The hatred in Molinaro's face did not diminish. "I mean, I'm really sorry."

Fletch said, "Joe. Who was your mother?"

Molinaro gave Fletch the hatred full-face.

And didn't answer.

Fletch stared into the younger, unlined face of Walter March.

He stared into the unmasked hatred.

Having known, slightly, the smooth, controlled, diplomatic mask of Walter March, Fletch was seeing the face now as it probably really was.

Probably as the murderer of Walter March had seen him.

"Joe." Fletch mounted his horse. "Your father was really screwed up. Morally. He made his own laws, and most of 'em stank. Whatever you wanted from your father, I suspect you're better off without."

Sullenly, bitterly, still sitting on the doorsill of the camper, Joseph Molinaro said, "Is that your eulogy?"

"Yeah," Fletch said. "I guess it is."

Thirty.

8:00-9:30 A.M A.M. BreakfastMain Dining Room

The pool was empty, and no one was around it except one man-a very thin man-sitting in a long chair, dressed in baggy, knee-length shorts, a vertically striped s.h.i.+rt open at the throat, and polished black loafers.

Next to his chair was a black attache case.

Fletch had approached the hotel from the rear, still s.h.i.+rtless and sweaty.

While he was fitting his key into the lock of the sliding gla.s.s door, the man came and stood beside him.

He seemed peculiarly interested in seeing the key go into the lock.

"Good morning," Fletch said.

"I.R.S.," the man said.

Fletch slid the door open. "How do you spell that?"

"Internal Revenue Service."

Fletch entered the cool, dark room, leaving the door open.

"Let's see, now, you have something to do with taxes?"

"Something."

He sat on a light chair, the attache case on his knees.

Fletch threw his T-s.h.i.+rt on the bed, his room key on the bureau.

The man opened the attache case and appeared ready to proceed.

Fletch said, "You haven't asked me to identify myself."

"Don't need to," the man said. "It appeared in a Was.h.i.+ngton newspaper you were here. I was sent down. The room clerk said you were in Room 79. You just let yourself in with the key to Room 79."

Fletch said, "Oh. Well, you haven't identified yourself."

The man shook his head. "I.R.S.," he said. "I.R.S."

"But what do I call you?" Fletch asked. "I? I.R.? Mister S.?"

"You don't need to call me anything," I.R.S. said. "Just respond."

"Ir."

Fletch went to the phone and dialed Room 102.

"Calling your lawyer?" I.R.S. asked.

"Crystal?" Fletch said into the phone. "I need a couple of things."

She said, "Have you had breakfast?"

Fletch said, "I forget."

"You forget whether you've had breakfast?"

"I'm not talking about breakfast."

"Was it that bad? I had the pancakes and sausages, myself. Maple syrup. I know I shouldn't have had the blueberry m.u.f.fins, but I did. It was a long night."

"I know. And you may be eating for two now, right?"

"Fletch, will you ever forgive me?"

"We'll see."

"Good. Then let's do it again."

"I had some difficulty explaining to hotel management how the bar for the shower curtain got ripped out."

"What did you tell them?"

"I told them I tried to do a chin-up."

"They believed that?"