Sergeant Hennings had appeared as soon as Fletch asked the desk man if he could see him.
Apparently the sergeant did not rate an office, maybe not even a desk.
They were sitting on a bench at the side of the police station lobby.
“What evidence?” Sergeant Hennings asked.
“He doesn’t have it yet,” Fletch answered. “Be-cause I haven’t given it to him yet.”
“Evidence about what?”
“Look, Sergeant, you didn’t raid The Blue House this morning just to bust a beloved movie actor for a few qualudes.”
“That’s right,” the sergeant said. “I didn’t.” He stood up. “You want some coffee?”
“No thanks.”
The sergeant wandered behind the counter and into the backroom. When he returned he had a half-empty Styrofoam cup of coffee in his hand.
“You’re saying you think you know something you can use to get Meade off the hook?”
“No,” Fletch said. “Sorry. I don’t know it. I have an idea.”
“Why didn’t you tell me before? When I was at the house this morning?”
“Because I didn’t have the idea this morning. I hadn’t noticed something. And I hadn’t noticed it because I wasn’t suspicious before you showed up.”
“You’re being mighty foxy.”
“No. I’m offering you cooperation.”
“For a price.”
“John Meade doesn’t belong in your jail, and you know it. Everytime you cops bust an admired person for drugs, you’re making drug taking seem more admirable, more acceptable, and you know it. You’re doing the same thing an advertising agency would be doing hiring John Meade to advertise soft drinks or chewing tobacco.”
“So people who are famous shouldn’t be arrested?”
“That’s not what I’m saying. There are no special rules. I guess. Maybe there are. I don’t know. If you’ve got a real case, you have to do something about it. Otherwise, you’ve got to look at the end result of what you’re doing. Just like everybody else. It’s called prudence.”
“Busting John Meade is imprudent?”
“It’s stupid. It sells drugs. Is it the object of the police to sell drugs?”
“Never heard this argument before.”
“Maybe I’ve been a movie star hanger-on too long. All of three days.”
Sergeant Hennings sat down. “What do you want to say?”
“I want to see John Meade.”
“Let me see if I’ve got this right: you want to tell John Meade something he can use to turn state’s evidence, as you call it, to get himself off?”
“Right.”
“Technically, not correct.”
“Sorry.”
“In other words, you’re saying if we let John Meade go, you’ll tell us something that might be useful?”
“Let him go and destroy all papers relating to his ever having been in this police station.” “Why don’t you just tell me directly?”
“Why don’t you make the damn deal?”
“Oh!” Sergeant Hennings smiled. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay. I swear to it on my grandmother’s grave.”
“Was your grandmother a nice lady?”
“The best.”
“The owner of The Blue House is Ted Sills.”
“I know that.”
“Ted distinctly did not want to rent The Blue House to me. I forced him. I needed to get Moxie somewhere, not too far away from Fort Myers, where she could recuperate…”
“From Peterman’s murder.”
“Yeah. Peace and quiet.”
“You’ve had a lot of that.”
“Not much. Finally Sills suggested an exorbitant rent. I surprised him by agreeing to it.”
“How much?”
“You wouldn’t believe. Anyway, as soon as he sees on the television that Frederick and Moxie Mooney are staying in The Blue House and crowds and news cameras are collecting outside, he calls up and starts screaming. He sounds like a puppy with a bone suddenly surrounded by the neighborhood mongrels.”
“Can’t blame him.”
“Sergeant, he doesn’t want attention attracted to that house—any kind of attention. He calls time and again, each time getting more shrill, more threatening. Last time he called, he said he was coming after me with a shotgun.”
“And yet you stayed.”
“I had a choice? How do you move someone like Edith Howell? Getting old Mooney out of a bar requires the tact and logistical brains of an Eisenhower.”
“Chuck told me. Threatened him with Jessie James.”
“This morning you raided The Blue House.”
“And found nothing.”
“Glad to hear you say that. After you left, I called Ted Sills. To report to him his house had been raided. Well, sir, he left the country suddenly last night. When he was supposed to be at a horse race today.”
“Yeah, Fletcher, you’ve got the point: we think Sills is a big-volume drug runner. So when are you going to get to the news?”
“It hits me that Ted Sills doesn’t want attention drawn to The Blue House because there are drugs in it. This morning you guys searched the place. No drugs.”
“No drugs at all.”
“Glad to hear you say that.” Fletch focused his eyes across the room and blinked. “John Meade going to be released?”
“On my grandmother’s grave.”
“All reports regarding him destroyed?”
“I’ll eat them for lunch. With mayonnaise. Where’s the heroin?”
Fletch looked at the sergeant. “I don’t really know.”
“Great. Why am I sitting here talking to a…”
“A what?”
“I don’t know what!”
“During breakfast, I noticed that on the surface of the cistern in the backyard of The Blue House is what looks to me like a trap door. Because of the salt in the air, whatnot, I can’t tell if the trap door is newer than the cistern, you know? The lift-rings are rusted. I also don’t know how cisterns work.”
“They have to be cleaned.”
“I do know the Lopezes tell me The Blue House hasn’t used cistern water since the water treatment plant was built over on Stock Island.”
“Did you lift the hatch and look in the cistern?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not a cop. Besides,” Fletch said, “if I found there weren’t any drugs in the cistern, I wouldn’t have anything to talk with you about.”
“Jeez. No wonder you get along with those flakey movie stars.”
“I don’t, really. Edith Howell says she’ll never visit me again. I’m all broken up about it.”
“I bet. She threw an aspirin bottle at Officer Owen King. Raised a welt on his cheek. Would have brought her in for assaulting an officer, but the lady happened to be in bed when she threw the bottle. Actual fact, the incident might have caused titterin’ in the courtroom.”
“Must maintain the dignity of the fuzz.”
“You said it.”
“Do I have a good idea?”
“Worth checking out.” Sergeant Henning stood up and started to amble toward the back room again.
“Are you bringing Mister Meade out?”
“Sure,” Sergeant Henning said, “soon as he finishes autographin’ everybody’s gunbelts.”
33
Fletch stood on the second floor back balcony of The Blue House, his hands on the railing. He was watching the policemen in the backyard. Sergeant Hennings was directing the removal of furniture from the top of the cistern.
Downstairs, in the living room, a morning cocktail party was in progress. Edith Howell, Sy Koller and Frederick Mooney stood in a close triangle, drinks in their hands, drinks in their heads, out-shouting reminiscences at each other. It wasn’t Olivier who said that. I was there at the time… Geoffrey McKensie sat alone at the side of the room, sipping from a glass of dark whiskey. John Meade had gone to the kitchen for a late breakfast or an early lunch. Mrs Lopez said Gerry Littleford had gone to the hospital to collect Stella. Lopez had gone to the hardware store to buy window glass. Moxie was sitting in the bedroom staring at a game show on television.