“Please identify yourself. Who is this calling?”
Fletch said, “Please find Bobbi.”
At seven forty-five Thursday morning, the city messenger appeared in Fletch’s office. He was about twenty-five years old, wearing a black leather jacket and carrying a motorcycle helmet.
Without saying anything, Fletch handed him the envelope containing the original affidavits and the original of Cummings’s handwritten note.
The messenger read the address and, without saying anything, left.
At seven-fifty, Fletch dialed a suburban number.
“Hello?”
“Good morning, Audrey. You sound as fresh as a morning glory.”
“Fletcher? Is that you?”
“Sharp as a tack, too.”
“Why are you calling at this hour? I’m trying to get the kids off to school.”
“I just wanted to make sure you’re awake and have the coffee on for Alston.”
“He’s had his coffee. He’s just leaving for the office.”
“Call him back, will you, Audrey? I need to speak to him.”
“He’s right here. Trying to kiss me good-bye.”
“How could he, ever?”
“Fletcher, you’re sweet. Here’s Alston.”
“Is this Alston Chambers, our distinguished district attorney?”
“Hiya, buddy. I’m not district attorney. I’m what is known as the district attorney’s office. That means I just do all the work.”
“I know. Audrey sounds pretty fresh for eight o’clock in the morning.”
“She makes up for the coffee with morning sprightliness. I can’t stand either. That’s why I leave for the office so early. What’s up, buddy?”
“Alston, I’m sending over to your office by messenger a couple of depositions or affidavits or whatever you legal types call them, and a signed, handwritten note. They should be in your office by the time you get there.”
“Okay. What do they say?”
“They should be self-explanatory. Briefly what they say is that Graham Cummings, the chief of police at The Beach, is and has been for at least four years the source of illegal drugs in The Beach area.”
“Wow. Graham Cummings? He’s as clean as a hound dog’s tooth.”
“We thought he was as clean as a hound dog’s tooth.”
“I’m sorry to hear this.”
“Actually, so am I.”
“Has anybody arrested him yet?”
“No. That’s a bit of a problem, as you can see. You’ll have to arrange that.”
“Right, Irwin. It will take time.”
“Time?”
“A few hours. First, I have to get your depositions and copy them. Then I’ll have to get in touch with federal narcotics agents, show them the depositions, and so forth. Then they’ll have to send someone down there, after having gotten an arrest warrant.”
“Don’t be too long about it. If you miss him, he’ll probably head for the Mexican border in his own car, which looks like a police car, bubble machine and all. He has a police radio in the car and a high-powered rifle. Apparently he’s used it to fool Customs a lot. Anyway, it’s a dark blue Chevrolet sedan, license number 706-552.”
“Give me the number again.”
“706-552.”
“Okay. Sure you’re right about this?”
“Yup.”
“Boy. Graham Cummings. I can’t believe it.”
“Look, Alston, even before you pick up Cummings, there’s something else I want you to do for me.”
“You’ve already given me a morning’s work.”
“I know, but I want the two people who signed these affidavits to be picked up and put in protective custody.”
“Right. Where are they?”
“At eleven o’clock this morning, they’ll be waiting to be picked up at the beer stand at the main section of The Beach. You know, the beer stand that you can see from Shoreside Boulevard.”
“I know the place.”
“They’ll be there waiting.”
“What are their names?”
“Witherspoon and Montgomery. A couple of terrible-lookin’ fellas. Witherspoon’s thirty-eight; Montgomery’s seventeen. Their names will be on the depositions.”
“Of course.”
“And Alston, be quick about this, will you? I’ve already got the story splashed all over the afternoon paper, and you know that comes off the presses at eleven-twenty-two.”
“Ah, yes: Fletcher, the terrific journalist.”
“And there is a death involved here—”
“Murder?”
“No. A fifteen-year-old girl found overdosed this morning at The Beach. Cummings could turn into a dangerous man very easily.”