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 bitch.”

“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 hello 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.…

“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.”

“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 bastard.”

Gillis said, “I’m not the bastard.”

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. Breakfast

Main 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 shirt open at the throat, and polished black loafers.

Next to his