Confess, Fletch

Fletch closed the front door, diminishing the sound of the descending elevator.

His watch said fifteen minutes to twelve. Tuesday.

He was almost perfectly a week late.

In the den, he picked up the phone and dialed a number he had looked up and memorized in the airport the previous Tuesday.

While he was waiting for the number to answer, he pushed the drape aside with his hand and looked down into the street.

Menti was just climbing down from the back of the truck.

He had been looking at the paintings!

“Hurry up, Menti,” Fletch said to the windowpane. “For Pete’s sake!”

“Hello? 555-2301

Menti was unlocking the driver’s side door of the truck.

“Hello?” the voice said.

“Hello,” said Fletch.

He craned his neck, He could see the top of Flynn’s head as he walked out of the apartment building.

Menti was in the truck.

“Yes, hello?” the voice said.

“I’m sorry,” said Fletch. “Is this the Tharp Family Foundation?”

Flynn was getting into the front passenger seat of a black Ford.

“Yes, sir.”

Exhaust was coming from the tailpipes of both the police car and the truck.

“May I speak with your director, please?”

“Who shall I say is calling, please?”

The double-parked police car began to move forward.

Without looking, Menti darted out of his parking space with the bounce and jerk people make when unaccustomed to driving a vehicle.

The police car braked hard, making the front end of its chassis bob toward the road surface.

“Sir? Who shall I say is calling?”

Apparently, the driver of the police car waved ahead he black Chevrolet caravan truck, last year’s model, license plate number R99420.

The two Vehicles proceeded up the street, the black police car behind the black, jerking truck.

Fletch released the window drape.

“I’m sorry. This is Peter Fletcher…”