“Is Lieutenant Gomez in?”

The counter in the lobby of the police station was so high it made even a helpful citizen feel like a humble miscreant.

“Why do you want to know?” the desk sergeant asked.

“I want to talk to him,” Fletch said. “I want to give him something.”

“Leave it with me. I’ll see that he gets it.”

The sign on the desk said SERGEANT WILHELM ROHM.

“I’d like to talk to him. Is he in?”

“What’s in the big envelope?” Sergeant Rohm read the advertisement on Fletch’s clothes.

“What I want to give him.”

“Delivery service from a whorehouse; that’s pretty good. What’s in the envelope, handsome? A case of clap for the lieutenant? It won’t be his first.”

“A gun.”

“Used?”

“I think so.”

“I’ll give it to him.”

“He’s not in?” The sergeant took the envelope and felt the contents. “Don’t mess up the prints,” Fletch said.

“Ah, a junior G-man,” the sergeant said. “I can see you’re used to working under covers.”

“At least let me write the lieutenant a note.”

“Sure.” The sergeant slid a turned-over booking sheet and a ballpoint pen across the desk. “Write anything you want, stud. We just love full confessions. Sometimes even the lawyers find them an obstacle to getting their clients acquitted.”

“Why was Stuart Childers released?”

“What’s that got to do with you?”

“Curious.”

“Stuart Childers is always released. He comes in here once a day. Sometimes twice. He confesses to any murder he hears about on the radio. Also robbery, arson, and aggravated littering. He must have really gotten a kick out of his day in court. Wants to play defendant again.”

Fletch wrote:

Lieutenant Gomez:

Your search for the Habeck murder weapon couldn’t have been extensive. Guard checking cars at News-Tribune parking lot gate indicates murderer walked into and out of parking lot. I followed logical walking path from back of parking lot, where Habeck was murdered, to street, and found this gun in the bushes in front of News-Tribune building tonight. I lifted it with pencil through trigger ring, so prints should be complete. Also look forward to ballistics report Tell your pal. Biff Wilson, I’m always glad to be of assistance. Clearly he needs help writing obituaries.

I. M. Fletcher

“You writing your life’s story?” the desk sergeant was trying to ignore a weeping black lady at the other end of the counter. “I’d love to know what it is you male whores do that’s worth paying for. Nobody’s ever offered to pay me.”

Fletch handed him the folded note. “Put this in the envelope with the gun, will you?”

“Sure, stud. I’ll take care of it.” He put the note on top of the envelope.

“Please,” Fletch said. “It’s important.”

“Sure, stud, sure. Now why don’t you get out of here before I throw you in a cell where you’ll get to do whatever you do for free?”