Title: Confess, Fletch
Author(s): Gregory Mcdonald
Publisher(s): Vintage Books
Pages: 192
Year: 2002
Format: MOBY
Language: English
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The random article:
Not taking time to figure a new route to 60 Newbury Street, he drove down Beacon Street, past his own apartment. The two plainclothesmen in the parked car across from 152 Beacon Street looked like bags of laundry. But they had their eyes firmly on the front door of the apartment house. Fletch scratched his left temple while passing them.
He turned left on Arlington Street and right on Newbury. Double parking outside a pharmacy, he ran in and ordered two sandwiches and some soft drinks to go. He also ordered two cups of coffee.
There was a place to park diagonally across the street from the Horan Gallery.
He turned off his lights and engine and settled down to wait.
It was then he realized he would need more than his suit jacket. He was cold.
Within twenty minutes the garage doors at 60 Newbury Street opened. Fletch saw the grille of a Rolls-Royce with its headlights on.
The sixty-year-old houseman, or gallery assistant or whatever he was, closed the doors after the Rolls pulled out.
There was only one way the Rolls could go on Newbury Street, it being a one-way west, and the car went west.
In the van Fletch followed Horan in the Rolls.
They went by several cross-streets. They went west to the end of Newbury Street.
After stopping at a red light, they crossed Massachusetts Avenue and dipped down a ramp on to the Massachusetts Turnpike Extension. And kept going west.
The Rolls proceeded at a stately fifty-five miles per hour. It went through a toll booth, making its proper genuflection to the exact change machine, and continued westward.
It curved right before the second toll booth, “WESTON”, Fletch read, “128 NORTH/SOUTH”.
At the end of the off-ramp, there was another toll booth.
In his own lane, Fletch caught up to Horan. He waited a moment before throwing change out of the window, as if he were having trouble finding the exact change.
The Rolls preceded him on to the Weston Road.
After stopping at a light, the two vehicles veered right. The road from there curved and climbed gently, past woods, a golf course, well-spaced antique farmhouses, and more contemporary estate houses.
Fletch dared not let the Rolls’ tail-lights get more than one hundred and fifty metres ahead of him.
Even that was almost too much, on that road.
After a curve the tail-lights were no longer ahead of him. Slowing imperceptibly, Fletch saw a car going through woods down a driveway to his left. The headlights were high and round, the shape of the car boxy, the tail-lights huge. It had to be the Rolls.
Fletch drove around the next curve and pulled over. He left his parking lights on.
He ran along the soft shoulder of the road back to the driveway he thought Horan had taken.