“It’s been nice doing business with you, Mr. Fletcher.”
Standing at the door, Gillett still held the check between his thumb and index finger. Fletch noticed that his clothes were weirdly cut—the man had no pockets. No pockets at all. How did he get around without pockets?
“By the way, Mr. Fletcher, I read your piece in the magazine regarding what you termed the unfairness of divorce settlements, alimony in particular.”
“Thank you.”
“I feel obliged to tell you what a stupid and wrong piece that was.”
“Wrong?”
“Dead wrong.”
“I understand your thinking so. You’re a divorce lawyer. Why don’t you take an advance in career and become a pimp?”
“I suspect that any divorce attorney, such as myself, could sue you for that piece and win.”
“I quoted divorce attorneys.”
“None I know.”
“I’m only allowed to quote legitimate sources.”
Before leaving, Gillett tried to look haughty, but only succeeded in looking as if he were in the early stages of a sneeze.
“Collins Aviation. Good morning.”
“Good morning. I wish to talk with Mr. Stanwyk’s secretary, please.”
“One moment, please.”
Beneath his desk, Fletch pried off his sneakers. The linoleum was cool on his bare feet.
“Mr. Stanwyk’s office.”
“Good morning. This is Bob Ohlson of the Chronicle-Gazette” Fletch said. “We’re doing a little women’s page feature over here, and wonder if you could help us out.”
“Yes, certainly.”
“This is just a silly little story, of no importance.”
“I understand.”
“What we’re doing is a piece on who the private doctors are of prominent people around town. We thought it would amuse people.”
“I see.”
“I wonder if you could tell us who Mr. Stanwyk’s private physician is?”
“Oh, I don’t think Mr. Stanwyk would like to give out that information.”
“Is he there?”
“Yes. He came in just a little while ago.”
“You might tell him what we want. If we print the name of his doctor, Mr. Stanwyk probably will never get another doctor’s bill. Remind Mr. Stanwyk that doctors themselves can’t advertise.”
“Yes, I see.” The secretary’s laugh indicated a finishing school with office skills. She had a finished laugh. “Hang on a moment, I’ll see.”
While he was waiting, Fletch took the envelope with ten one-hundred-dollar bills off his desk and threw it into a drawer.
“Mr. Ohlson? Mr. Stanwyk laughed and said it was all right to tell you that his private physician is Dr. Joseph Devlin of the Medical Center.”
“That’s great.”
The man arranges for his own murder on Thursday night, and on Friday morning laughs at someone’s wanting to know who his private physician is. At least Stanwyk had good blood pressure.
“When will the piece appear in the newspaper, Mr. Ohlson?”
“Well, we’ll have to get a photograph of Dr. Devlin …”
“Can’t you guess when? We’d love to see it.”
“Friday of next week,” Fletch said. “I think.”
“Oh, that’s fine. I’ll tell Mr. Stanwyk so he’ll be sure to buy the Chronicle-Gazette that day.”
“Right. Be sure to buy the Chronicle-Gazette. Friday of next week.”
Fletch hung up the phone of the News-Tribune.
Medical Center, Medical Center … Alan Stanwyk expects to be murdered next Thursday night. Failing that, he expects to pick up the Chronicle-Gazette Friday morning to read a reference to his private physician. Ah, life: neither was true … 553-9696.
“Medical Center. Good morning.”
“Dr. Joseph Devlin’s office, please.”
“One moment.”
“Dr. Devlin’s office. Good morning.”
“Good morning. Dr. Devlin, please.”
“Dr. Devlin is seeing a patient. May I be of any assistance?”
“I need to speak with Dr. Devlin himself, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, dear.”
“We are the carriers of the life and health policies of Mr. Alan Stanwyk …”
“Oh yes.”
“A little problem has come up regarding these insurance policies …”
“One moment, sir. I’ll see if Dr. Devlin is free.”
Fletch could hear the nurse-receptionist-secretary-whatever saying, “It’s Mr. Stanwyk’s insurance company. They have some question …”
Another phone was picked up instantly. “Yes?”
“Good morning, Dr. Devlin. As you know, we are the holders of policies on the life of Mr. Alan Stanwyk …”