1
Wednesday, February 29, 1984

    Sean Camden's crimson Ferrari braked at a red light.  Despite the chilly temperature of February, he had the top down.  What was the point of owning a convertible, especially a Ferrari, if you couldn't show off driving it?  The tactic succeeded when a couple of pretty teenage blondes crossing Sunset Boulevard not only smiled at him but swiveled their heads for a second glimpse.    
    "Want to give us a lift?" one of them asked.
    "Maybe some other time," he answered. 
    "My friend thinks you're really hot!" she blurted, pointing at her companion.  The other girl gasped and gave her friend a playful shove.  They barely made it to the curb and out of traffic before the light changed.
    Sean revved the motor and vroomed down the avenue, wind fanning his brown hair.  The girls' reaction, he knew, wasn't just about his sports car.  Any mirror told him he had looks women couldn't resist.  The Ferrari and the expensively tailored suit only added to the effect of his deep blue eyes and square-cut chin.
    Sean changed lanes and turned left, steering into the maze of twisting roads known as the Hollywood Hills.  Snaking through the labyrinth, looping through a series of turns, the Ferrari's engine purred.
    He rounded the curve on Thrasher and arrived at the corner of the street where he lived.  Here he paused, as was his habit, to read the sign: "Blue Jay Way."  Although it was a narrow, nondescript lane, one of many similar roads in the area, it had a distinction none other possessed.  After a short stay in one of the homes there, George Harrison had immortalized the avenue on the Beatles' Magical Mystery Tour album.  Giving out his address contained a certain pleasure; when Sean mentioned the street, he always added, "The one in the Beatles song."  Somehow living there garnered a certain respect, as though he were connected to rock 'n roll royalty.
    Today, however, he merely grimaced at the sign before yanking the steering wheel to the left and zooming up the hill.  Near the top of the cul-de-sac he downshifted as the nose of his car slid into the driveway.  He eased to a stop by the mailbox and reached inside.
    Sean shuffled through the usual junk and bills.  But his eyebrows rose at one envelope: an announcement about his upcoming high school reunion. 
    Had it really been ten years?  Sean snorted, envisioning arriving at the event in his Ferrari.  Maybe Suzie Perry would be there and get a good look at what she'd thrown away by breaking up with him.  And that guy from his auto shop class who'd always teased him—what was his name?  The one who had sworn he'd be a millionaire before he was thirty.  As if.  Heard the guy owned an auto body shop somewhere in the valley.  So which one of them had actually become a millionaire?
    Sean's fingers tightened on the envelope.  He'd be able to show off at his ten year reunion, all right.  But the same, he knew, could not be said about his twentieth.
    He zipped up a cement rise and into the garage.
    A cacophony of calliope music, pierced by the ping of an occasional ricocheting bullet, greeted him when he strolled into the living room.  There were his babies, all six of them.  Sean tossed the mail onto the coffee table and brushed his palm over each of his children in turn.  Almost every video arcade in the country owned multiple units of these games: Cheating Cheetahs, Tracker Cop, Ruby Treasure, Badland Pistols, Badger Bout, and Dragon Swoop.
    He stepped back, absorbing the music, surveying the kaleidoscopic video displays.  Cheetahs looped along an intricate maze.  A police cruiser, siren wailing, zoomed down city streets.  If a player could avoid the booby traps, he could unearth a cache of pirate treasure.  Or, with an attached plastic gun, he could blast one desperado after another.  Badgers, squealing, romped through a field, just waiting to be bonked on the head.  Fire whooshing from its mouth, a dragon swooped upon a medieval village.  
    His chest heaved and, with a cry, he leapt forward and yanked the surge protectors out of the wall.  Music died, screens darkened.
    Sean poured himself a drink from the wet bar but gulped only a swallow of it.  Getting plastered was not going to solve the problem. 
    His fist slammed on the counter.  Life was so unfair.  He'd built a company and a fortune and now it was all coming undone.
    Already the writing was on the wall.  The problem with electronics was they not only got more sophisticated, they got cheaper.  It had already happened with computers; now it was happening with video games.  Why go to an arcade and feed quarters into a machine when you can play the same thing at home for free?  He had tried to compete with Atari and Nintendo, but his latest prototype for home use had taken so long to develop that it was an obsolete dinosaur before production could even begin.  And now some guy named Bill Gates had announced a new kind of computing called Windows.  Would you even need a home unit anymore?  Not if all you needed was the computer software. 
    The moment he had read today's report from his accountant, he knew it was the death knell for Camden Electronics.  He didn't know how long it would take, but it was coming.  Video arcades would be bolting their doors everywhere.  And then it would all be gone: the company, the house, the chicks, the lifestyle.  Sean shook his head.  Never should have poured his own fortune into the prototype.
    Where on earth was the money going to come from?
    Carrying his drink, he paced the room and racked his brains, searching for a solution.
    No way in hell was he going to crawl back on his knees to Midas Electronics, where he had gotten his start.  That road was closed.
    Maybe he could pull another insurance scam.  The one he had created before had provided him just enough cash influx to get through the mini-recession of the early 1980s.  It had been so simple.  Telling them he was having his carpets cleaned, he'd had some employees stash his babies in the company storeroom.  Then he'd staged a break-in at his house and claimed that all his video games, along with several other items like his gun, had been stolen.  The insurance company had paid up without batting an eye.  Afterward he merely had everything moved back in. 
    Sean set his drink on the counter.  Sighing, he realized couldn't get away with the same thing twice.  Besides, it wouldn't engender the kind of capital he really needed, enough to accommodate him for the rest of his life.  For that he needed millions, and what kind of insurance was going to pay that?
    A piece of mail slid from the coffee table.  Frowning, he crossed the room and scooped it off the floor.  It was the invitation to his high school reunion. 
    For long moments he gazed at the envelope before realizing this was what contained the answer.
*    *    *
    Sean's high school annual and the phone book were flung onto his bed, landing with a thump.  A hunt through his closet provided him with a pair of binoculars.  The gun was removed from its lockbox, and Sean mentally patted himself on the back for having already reported it stolen years ago.
    Now the credit cards.  He yanked all five from his wallet and, grabbing a pair of scissors, snipped each in two.  Operating on cash alone wouldn't be easy, but it was essential for the plan, at least if he wanted the police to think he was innocent.
    Skimming through the Yellow Pages, he scribbled a list of businesses.  Bookstore, check.  Florist, check.  Auto body shop, check.  Motel, check.  The white pages provided the one other address he needed, and a scan of the Thomas Guide Map showed its location.  Tapping his pencil, he realized he would need a bus schedule for that area, although getting one wasn't a priority now.  He wouldn't be visiting there for months.
    Yearbook in hand, Sean wandered downstairs.  He paused for a moment to slip the volume back onto the shelf.  After freshening his drink, he paced the living room.  Eyes squinted, he mulled over the scheme again, his index finger tracing across the spines of hundreds of mystery paperbacks.  From all that reading he knew exactly what the cops would be looking for, and this plan was flawless. 
    One wall of the living room was a window that branched from the ceiling to the floor.  Ice tinkling in his scotch, Sean gazed through it at an incredible panorama of Los Angeles laid at his feet.   
    Somewhere out there a young lady was going to have to die.
 
2
Sunday, August 12, 2:18 p.m.

    "How'd you like to make a million dollars?"
    Bob Cutler choked on his beer and stared at the man who had asked the question.  It was the second huge surprise of the past ten minutes.  The first had been finding Sean Camden on his doorstep, if you could call the little cement rise that led to his trailer a doorstep.
    He had almost not recognized Sean and not just because of the sunglasses.  It had been ten years since high school.  His former classmate wore ragged jeans, dirty sneakers, an old white T-shirt, and was carrying a backpack.  Not what Bob expected the rich dude who owned Camden Electronics to look like.  Besides, Sean was the guy he had ribbed all through auto shop class, pulling numerous pranks on him.  Why on earth had he come to see him? 
    Bob, wearing nothing but a raveled pair of cut-off jeans, crossed his scraggly legs and propped his bare feet on the coffee table.  Despite all the beer he consumed, he was thin and lanky, cheeks hollowed.  And, despite being only twenty-eight, his blonde hair was already thinning. 
    "Who wouldn't like to make a million bucks?" he answered. 
    Sean glanced around the room.  "You could buy a lot with it."
    That was for sure.  He had given Sean a can of beer and the only decent seat in the place, a dining room chair.  Bob sat on a blanket covering rips in the sofa.  The coffee table was held up only by a pile of phone books substituting for a missing leg.  Worse, the air conditioning was on the fritz again, so both of them sweat profusely.  Windows open to relieve the summer heat had let in a dozen buzzing flies now zigzagging about the room. 
    "What would you do with it?" Sean asked.
    "Move out of this dump," Bob answered.  "Trade in my pickup for a sports car, get some hot chicks, and party my brains out."
    "Sounds good."
    "Yeah, but what you want me to do for it?"  Bob squinted.  "I bet it ain't legal."
    "What makes you say that?"
    "The way you're dressed.  You didn't want no one to recognize you here."
    Sean grinned.  "You're pretty smart, Bob.  Would it surprise you to know I parked several miles away and took the bus?  I didn't want anyone to see my car.  I want you to know I pay close attention to details.  You can never be too careful."
    "Okay.  So what is it you want me to do?"
    The man gulped some beer before dropping a third bombshell into Bob's lap.  "I want you to help me waste my wife."
    His jaw dropped.  "You're kidding me, man."
    "Do I look like I'm kidding?"
    Bob stared into Sean's eyes.  They did not so much as blink.
    Whoa.  He was actually serious.  "She cheating on you or something?  Why not just get a divorce?"
    Sean leaned back a bit.  "That would be difficult.  I'm not married."
    "But you just said—"
    "I plan to be married on Saturday and widowed on Sunday."
    That made it four huge surprises.  "She loaded or something?"
    Sean snorted.  "She's not worth a dime."
    Bob swatted at a pesky fly zipping about his face.  "Then why?"
    "Life insurance.  I'm going to have her insured to the hilt."
    During a couple swigs of beer Bob thought it over.  "Won't the cops suspect you?  I mean, her dying so soon after you get married."
    "The insurance is going to be her idea.  Or at least she'll think it's her idea.  Trust me, I can maneuver this girl into doing anything.  I've set things up so she'll even write a check for the premium herself, despite my objections.  And all this will be witnessed.  Now, how can the cops think the money is my motive when I was dead set against the whole idea?"
    "You can really pull that off?"
    Sean nodded.  "I can be very persuasive with this girl.  I've been playing her for months."
    Bob drained his beer and rose to get another.  Popping the lid, he asked, "And how is she going to die?"
    "She's going to get hit by a car.  One you're driving.  The police of course will be checking the auto body shops for a car with a damaged front end.  It just so happens that you own such a shop, one that's always closed on Sunday.  But you could spend that day repairing the car.  It wouldn't take long because you'd already have gotten any parts you might need.  And you wouldn't exactly tell the cops about it, would you?"
    Sheesh, that was a good plan!  Except—
    "I don't want to damage my truck," Bob said.
    "You won't.  You'll rent a car."
    "Why?"
    "Well, suppose the cops suspect you for some reason.  They'll check your truck, right?  And what will they find?  Nothing!  But it won't occur to them to check the rental shops."
    Bob nodded.  "That's pretty smart.  What kind of car am I supposed to rent?"
    "Any kind you like."
    He mulled it over.  "I always wanted to drive a Jaguar."
    "Okay, not any kind you like.  A vehicle too rare would call attention.  Not something you're going to want.  Pick something else."
    "A Beemer, then."
    "Good choice.  A BMW.  Pick out the car and put a reservation on it for the weekend.  I assume you can get spare parts without leaving a record."
    "Yeah.  I got a friend who owns a junkyard."  Bob smirked.  "I get used parts from him and tell my customers they're new."
    "Like I said," Sean stated, "you're smart.  So you hit her, repair the car, and I collect the insurance.  Once I have the money, you get your cut.  What do you think?  Want a million dollars?"
    Bob sat back.  "You're asking a lot."
    "I'm also giving a lot," Sean replied.  "Trust me, a million is a terrific babe magnet."
    "Won't do me any good if I end up in jail."
    "You won't.  I got it planned perfectly.  For example, when you repair the car, use bleach to wash off any blood."
    "Bleach?  Why the hell use bleach on a car?" 
    "The cops have this chemical called luminol.  Any blood will show up when they spray it on unless you bleach it off first."
    "Damn!  You have thought of everything."  Bob guzzled the rest of his second can.  "A million bucks, huh?"
    "A million.  That's a thousand thousand.  Just like you always said you wanted.  And for just one day's work.  In fact," he unzipped the backpack and withdrew a stack of hundred dollar bills, "Because you're going to need some cash, I have two thousand dollars for you right now, although this, of course, is just a small bit of what you're going be getting.  The day after it's done, I'll have another ten thousand for you.  Then, once the insurance money comes through, you get the rest of your cut."
    Bob's eyes widened at more money than he had ever seen at once.  "Okay.  You got yourself a deal.  Where does it happen?"
    "I'll give you the details later.  Meanwhile," Sean said, drawing an object from the backpack, "I have something else for you too." 
    "Damn!  Is that one of those portable phones?"
    "A cell phone.  Know how to use one?"
    "Man, I never even touched one before."
    Bob listened closely while Sean explained how it worked, including extending the antenna and using the recharger. 
    "Don't use it to make outgoing calls," Sean said.  "It has a limited number of minutes on it, and the minutes get used up even if you're receiving a call.  Bob, it's important you follow my instructions to the letter if you want the million and don't want to get caught."
    "Oh man, okay.  I was going to use it to call my girl, but all right."
    "Keep the phone with you at all times," Sean said.  "I'll contact you on it in a few days and arrange for us to meet.  In the meantime, reserve the car for this coming weekend.  Make sure you get the replacement parts you might need.  Also, use the money to get yourself a new suit and a manicure and a pair of dress shoes, so you don't stand out when you go to pick it up."  He rose.  "Besides, you're going to be a millionaire.  Time you started dressing like one."
    Bob grinned.  "Okay.  But," he said as Sean headed for the door, "how do you know I won't tell the cops what you're planning?"
    Sean stepped outside but turned back.  "I don't.  But if you do, I'll deny everything."  He smiled.  "I was never here, remember?"
 
3
Friday, August 17, 1:35 p.m.

    A hot summer sun beat down upon Sean.  At his vantage point high on the hill, he leaned against his red Ferrari.  Because he hadn't wanted to call attention to himself driving here, he had the top up.  Now he peered through a pair of binoculars at the half mile of dirt roadway he had climbed earlier.  His T-shirt, which displayed the five interlocking rings of the Olympics Insignia and the words Los Angeles 1984, rippled in the breeze.  Holding the eye piece in his right hand, he grabbed a cell phone with his left and spoke into it.  "Turn onto Mt. Lee."
    Bob's voice spoke through the phone.  "I don't see it."
    "It's a dirt road on your left.  Can you find it?"
    "Hang on.  I think I just passed it.  Man, I didn't know there were still dirt roads in L.A."  After a long pause he added, "Okay, I'm on Mt. Lee.  Now what?"
    "Take it all the way to where it dead ends.  I'll meet you there," Sean said.  He clicked the phone off and tossed it onto his front seat.
    Squinting through the binoculars, Sean scanned the area for Bob's vehicle.  A few moments later a beat-up old pickup truck loomed into view, its tires kicking up roadway dust.  Even from so far away Sean could read "Bob Cutler Auto Body Shop" lettered on its side.  However, he ignored the vehicle as it scaled the hill.  Instead he kept the glasses focused on the area where it had first appeared.  For all he knew, Bob had squealed to the police and the cops were tailing him now.  But any car zipping up that road could not avoid being seen, especially since it would raise a cloud of dirt.
    The road remained clear.  Satisfied that Bob was not being pursued, Sean slipped inside the Ferrari and revved the engine.  He drove the final segment of the lane, a loop disappearing around the hill, and eased to a stop at the end of the cul-de-sac.  From here a sweeping vista of the L.A. basin could be seen.  Sean leaned against the Ferrari and waited for Bob.  A couple moments later his truck emerged around the hill, and he parked near a gigantic white letter D.
    Bob leapt out of his truck.  "Damn!  Is that what I think it is?"
    Sean nodded.  "Yup.  It's the Hollywood Sign."
    "Whoa!  I didn't know you could come up here!"
    Sean remained by his car while Bob stepped to a barbed wire fence surrounding the structure.  Apparently the barrier was not enough to discourage some determined folk, and the sign's backside was splattered with graffiti.  A few scrawls defaced the front of the sign too, but it was obvious from their scarcity that the side facing the valley got an occasional re-painting.
    A minivan with an Oklahoma license plate stood nearby, the couple from it snapping pictures.  Fortunately, they soon piled into their vehicle and rounded the curve, disappearing from sight and leaving Sean and Bob alone. 
    Sean allowed Bob a bit more time to check out the sign.  Eventually he called, "You done?"
    Bob trotted over.  "I never realized the letters were so huge."  Indicating Sean's shirt, he commented, "Hell, Sean, you look like a tourist.  The Games ended last week."
    "It's important not to call attention to us when we're together.  But speaking of shirts, I need you to take yours off."
    "What?  Why?"
    Without a word, Sean folded his arms and stared into the man's eyes.
    "Oh hell," Bob said.  "You think I'm wearing a wire?"
    Sean raised his eyebrows.  "Well?"
    "Fine," Bob griped, slipping off a dirty T-shirt.
    "And the pants," Sean said.  "Drop them."
    "You got to be kidding!"
    "Nobody's here.  The pants."
    Growling, Bob unzipped his jeans and dropped them to his ankles.  "Satisfied?  Or do you need to see what I've got in my boxers too?  I suppose next you'll think the cops planted a bug in that phone you gave me."
    "No.  I already considered that possibility.  I've had months to plan this, down to the tiniest detail.  Weeks ago, I took that phone I gave you apart and soldered in a bunch of extra parts.  So I happen to know there's no room in there for even the smallest listening device."
    Bob, yanking his clothes back on, said, "Sheesh, Sean, you're paranoid."
    "I'm cautious.  You should be glad I'm so cautious.  Now, have you taken care of things on your end?"
    "Yeah.  I'm getting a black BMW.  Bought the suit, the shoes, the bleach.  Got all the car parts I might need.  Everything's set."
    "Not quite," Sean said, seizing Bob's left hand.  "You didn't get a manicure.  It's extremely important you blend in when you rent the car.  Or do you want to stand out and get caught?"
    "Fine.  I'll get one this afternoon."
    "Make sure you do.  Also, when you dispose of any damaged car parts, do it in another city.  In fact, it would be best if you do it in another county."
    "Why?"
    "Because police in different jurisdictions usually don't communicate with each other.  So, if you commit parts of a crime in two different locations like that, your chances of being caught diminish.  Also, I want you to make sure the parts are too small to be recognizable.  Toss them into a communal dumpster, like at a big apartment complex.  As I said before, you can't be too careful."
    Breeze kicked up and whipped their hair.  Sean glanced around once more to make sure they were alone.  "You remember make-out point on Mulholland Drive?"
    Bob grinned.  "Do I ever.  I took Janie Monroe up there once."
    Sean grinned back.  "Everybody took Janie Monroe up there.  I just want to make sure you remember where it is.  Listen, if you drive beyond make-out point, there's a long stretch of straight highway, about a quarter mile's worth.  Sunday morning I want you to park at the end of that straight stretch, right at Base Line Trail.  Be there by six.  I'm taking her down to make-out point to watch the sunrise, and you'll hit her on our way back.  I'll blink my flashlight twice.  That'll be the signal to start the car and floor it.  Brake just before you hit her--this has got to look like an accident, remember.  Besides, you'll need to slow for the turn ahead in the road."
    Bob sighed.  "I don't know, man.  Now that you're actually saying it . . . I don't know if I can do it.  Taking a life."
    Sean clasped his hand on Bob's shoulder as if they were old buddies.  "Look, this girl's a clerk, spends all day filing. What kind of life is that?  You'll be doing her a favor, putting her out of her misery.  Besides, these past few months I've given her the best days of her life."
    "I still don't know."
    "Well, okay.  I guess you don't want the million.  Guess you don't want to have it made for the rest of your life, be able to buy whatever you want, get all the best chicks."
    Sean, strolling to his car, wondered how many steps he'd have to take before Bob called him back.  Apparently it was only five.
    "Okay, okay!  I'll do it."
    "Good.  Mulholland and Base Line, six o'clock Sunday morning."  He pointed a finger.  "Don't be late."
4
Sunday, August 19, 5:30 a.m.

    Glare around the perimeter of the door roused her out of slumber.
    Mrs. Rose Camden rolled over in bed, observed a silhouette of her new husband Sean in the light.  He mumbled a thank-you to someone there, and the door shut, burying the room in darkness.  Her eyes closed, and she slipped back into sleep.
    But only for a moment.  First arose a scent of sulfur, then of perfume.  Something soft tickled her nose.
    "Wake up, sleepyhead," Sean teased.
    Opening one eye a slit, she discovered Sean had lit a candle.  In his hand he held a long-stemmed red rose.
    She closed the eye but received another whiff of the flower's scent and another nose tickle.
    "Come on," her husband said.  "Up."
    Yawning, she asked, "What time is it?"
    "Five thirty.  Five thirty in the morning, and I have a single rose for my Rose who's no longer single."
    "Where on earth did you get it?  At this hour?"
    "No amount of trouble is too much for my beautiful bride.  So I made arrangements with a florist to have it delivered.  And I have a bigger surprise waiting for you this morning, too.  But first you need to get dressed if we're going to watch the sunrise."
    A wave of sleepiness swept over her.  The last thing her body wanted to do was move out of bed, not for hours.  But how could she say no?  Here he'd gone to so much trouble getting the flower.  Was he really asking so much?
    Rose shook her head a bit, willing herself awake.  He drew her up and kissed her. 
    "I'm so sorry about last night," he murmured.  "It's just that I was dead tired, and with all the champagne . . . . I just couldn't."
    "It's okay," she said.  What else could she say?
    "I do want to make love to you," he promised, sweeping a stray lock of brown hair behind her ear.  "I want to spend all day making love.  Soon as we get back from our walk."
    Rose tried to find a way out of spoiling such a romantic moment but couldn't.  "Honey," she said, "I hate to tell you this, but I have got to go to the bathroom."
    Sean, grinning, drew back.  "Yes.  Go to the bathroom.  Get dressed for our walk.  I can't wait to watch the sunrise with you, sunrise on the first day of the rest of our lives together."
    Rose smiled back, grabbed her overnight case, and ducked into the bathroom.  Catching sight of herself in the mirror, she gasped.  She looked like crap: her short brown hair mussed, skin pale as snow, dark circles under her eyes.  Barely twenty-two years old, short, skinny, and rather flat-chested, she was nothing like the sophisticated fashion model types whom she'd noticed constantly flirting with Sean.  She wondered, once again, what he saw in her when he could have any of them.  But somehow, out of somewhere, he had ridden into her life like a shining knight, swept her off her feet, and carried her into the sunset. 
    "You are the luckiest girl in the world," she whispered to her reflection.  She finished her business in the bathroom, brushed her hair, and applied make-up as fast as she dared.  When she emerged, she saw that Sean, already dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, held a flashlight and the room key.
    "Aren't you dressed?" he asked, frowning.  "Hurry!  The sun's not going to wait for us!"
    "Sorry," she muttered, slipping on a top and a jeans skirt.  They were halfway out the door when she darted back.  "Wait!" she cried, grabbing the rose.  "I want to bring it."
    Outdoors the air was crisp and still.  Somewhere in the distance a dog woofed.  Sean illuminated the flashlight, its beam slicing the darkness.  "This way," he ordered, cradling her hand and guiding her down a short path from the hotel to Mulholland Drive.
    "I know the perfect spot," Sean said as they strolled along the rim of the highway.  "It's where the road bends, and from up here, you can see for miles.  It's a bit of a distance but trust me, it's worth the walk."
    She didn't mind walking.  Hanging onto Sean with her left arm and clenching the rose in her right hand, she allowed him to escort her along the darkened lane.  Occasionally she put the flower to her nose and inhaled deeply, relishing its scent. 
    Eventually they rounded a turn, and Rose gasped.  "Oh, Sean!  You're right!  It's perfect!"
    Below them Los Angeles was spread like a blanket of glittering diamonds.  The Hollywood Freeway, a ribbon of red and white light, slashed across it. 
    "Which way is east?" Rose asked.
    Sean pointed to their left.  Rose stared in that direction but was surprised that this area of their vista was dark. 
    "There's nothing there," she said.
    "That's Griffith Park," Sean replied.  "The hills are blocking the view."
    Rose frowned.  How were they going to see the sunrise while standing where they couldn't see the sun rise?  But at that moment a soft luster glimmered in the sky.  Gentle breezes kicked up, weaving through her hair, as fingers of radiance swept across the valley.  Now she could detect, for the first time, the half-dome of the Hollywood Bowl below them.
    "It's beautiful," she murmured.
    Sean wrapped her in his arms.  "The first full day of our marriage."
    Tears budded along her lower lids.  "It's wonderful.  You're wonderful.  You're the most wonderful man in the world."  She stood on her toes to kiss him, but he broke the embrace.
    "I've arranged another surprise for you.  Let's get back to the hotel."
    "Another surprise?  Sean, you spoil me."  Holding hands, they began the return journey.  "You're just like the men in my romance novels."
    "Am I?"
    "Yes, you are.  Maybe I should write a romance novel about us."
    She glanced up to catch his reaction, but he was staring down the road.  After a few moments, he said, "Sounds like too much trouble."
    "It wouldn't be," she said, fingering the stem of her rose.  "It's practically already written anyway.  I wrote everything about us in my diary."  He flicked the flashlight on and off twice.  "Something wrong?" she asked.
    "Just wondering if we need still it," Sean replied.  "Guess we don't," he added, stuffing it in the belt of his jeans.
    The vroom of a car, headlights blazing, tore down the road, rushing toward them far too fast.  "Careful," Sean said, easing her to the rim of the lane and shielding her with his body. 
    His grip on her upper arms tightened as the engine roar grew.  It was, she thought, an indication of his protectiveness.      Rose gasped as she was swung around and up into the air.  Landing on her rear in the middle of the road, she froze in wide-eyed shock, her mind refusing to absorb this turn of events that made no sense. 
    Then, staring up at Sean, she glimpsed both steely determination and utter loathing in his eyes.
    She had only a split second to realize he had played her.
    Then it was all over.
 
     
   
      
5
    A silver Peugeot, engine pinging, clouds of steam huffing from the radiator, strained to climb the slope. 
    "C'mon," its driver encouraged, "you can do it."
    He shook his head a bit, forcing himself more awake.  It was bad enough trying to view the road through the radiator's steam but he was battling sleepiness too.  Fortunately, when the Peugeot rounded a curve, the flashing blue and red lights of police cruisers came into view.
    Grateful, he pulled over and set the parking brake.  Despite his removal of the key, the engine pinged a few times more before dropping into silence.
    Eyelids slipped shut, and his head leaned back.  A snore arose. 
    Tapping on the driver's window jerked him out of his nap.
"Lieutenant Columbo?  Are you all right?"
    Yawning, Columbo creaked open the door.  "Oh.  Cindy," he said to the petite young Asian woman who had asked the question.  "I'm okay.  Just sleepy," he added, combing a hand through his brown hair.  "I was up till three."
    "Well, this shouldn't take long.  It's a simple hit-and-run.  I've already--"
    "Whoa," Columbo said, holding up a hand.  "Let me have my coffee and some breakfast before you give me the details."  From the passenger seat he removed a thermos, and his raincoat pocket produced a couple hardboiled eggs. 
    "It would have to be a hit-and-run," Cindy complained while he sipped his coffee.  Fingers brushed her short black hair behind her ears.  "My cat got creamed by a car just yesterday."
    "Oh, I'm sorry to hear that.  You going to be okay doing this?"
    "I am a professional, Lieutenant.  I'll manage."
    "That's good to hear."  Peeling an egg, he asked, "You have any salt?"
    "Salt?  Sorry, no."  Cindy played with her camera.  "Guess what?  The victim was on her honeymoon.  Got married just yesterday."
    Columbo rubbed his forehead.  "Isn't there enough heartache in the world without a lunatic running down a bride the morning after her wedding?"  He downed the egg, screwed the lid back on his thermos, and stepped out of the car.  "Okay.  Show me what you got."
    "Victim's name is Rose Camden, maiden name was Lund.  Tire tracks indicate the car came from the west."  Cindy pointed down the road as they sauntered toward the body.  "Car flipped her, ran over her upper torso, and kept on going."
    Columbo stared at the body.  The woman lay face down, a single long-stemmed rose still clutched in her right hand.  Amazingly, the flower had come through the accident mostly intact. 
    "You have your pictures?" he asked.
    "All done," Cindy replied.
    "Well, let's turn her over."
    As Cindy and a uniformed officer rolled the woman over, Columbo caught her wrist, fingers still curled around the rose stem, and gently laid it on the asphalt.
    "She was struck on the right," he stated.  "Damage on her knees looks like nothing more than road rash.  Any witnesses?"
    "Just the husband."  Cindy snapped a picture of the body and then pointed.  "Over there."
    He turned.  Perched on a boulder near the rim of the road, his back to the accident scene, a young man huddled a blanket around his shoulders.  Columbo strolled to the edge of the lane, observed him from the side a moment.  Late twenties, early thirties, he judged.  The man's blank expression gazed--but not focused--upon the vista below.
    Columbo stepped up to him and displayed his badge.  "Excuse me, sir, I'm Lieutenant Columbo."
    No reaction.
    "Sir?" he asked.
    The man startled.  "What?  I'm sorry.  What did you say?"
    "Lieutenant Columbo, sir.  I'd like to ask you some questions."
    "More questions?"
    "Sir, I'm the officer in charge of the investigation, and it would be helpful if you went over it with me personally.  You do want the man who did this caught, don't you?"
    He turned.  "Rose is dead?"
    "I'm very sorry, sir.  Can you answer some questions?"
    "I suppose."
    "And your name, sir?"
    "Sean Camden."
    Columbo withdrew his notepad, and after a short search through his pockets, chanced upon a pencil. 
    "Address?"
    "4529 Blue Jay Way.  It's the one in the Beatles song."
    He squinted.  "Can you tell me what happened, sir?"
    "We were walking, and there was this car speeding, and . . . there was this dog . . . ."  Sean burst into tears.  "This is all my fault!"
    "Sir?"
    He bent over, nearly double.  "I should have stopped her.  The car was coming, and the dog was in the middle of the street, and Rose let go of my hand . . . and she rushed out to save the dog . . . and . . . the car hit her."
    "Don't blame yourself, sir," Columbo said, jotting in his notepad.  "Did you see what kind of car it was?"
    Sean squeezed eyes shut.  "I don't know.  It was all a blur.  It was dark."
    Columbo frowned.  "I'm sorry, but when you say 'It was dark' are you referring to the car or to a lack of sunlight?"
    "Both, I guess.  It was a sedan, I think."
    "Make, model?"
    "Kind of new, dark color.  Black, maybe."
    "I don't suppose you got the license number."
    Sean shook his head.
    "Did you see the driver?"
    "Just a blur.  I got the impression it was a man."
    "I see.  What kind of dog was it?"
    "I don't know.  I don't know breeds that well."
    "Big dog?  Little dog?"
    "What difference does it make?"
    "Well, sir, the dog might be hurt.  It might have crawled away injured.  We should look for it."
    Sean's shoulders sagged.  "Big dog, black.  We didn't even see it until we were close.  It showed up in the headlights."
    "I see.  Um . . . which side of the road were you walking on?  This side here near the edge or the other side near the hill?"
    Sean blinked.  "Does it matter?"
    "Probably not.  I'm just trying to visualize all this."
    "We were walking on this side, the side with the view."
    Columbo inspected the nearby rim of the road where dirt bordered the asphalt.  "These are your footprints?  Yours and your wife's?"
    Sean choked, "Those are the ones we left walking down to the curve.  We wanted to watch the sunrise from there.  Then, on the way back, Rose ran out to save the dog."  He gazed at Columbo with sorrowful eyes.  "Shouldn't you cops be out looking for the guy, setting up roadblocks or something?"
    "Sir, we're only half a mile from an onramp to the Hollywood Freeway.  Whoever did this was long gone before we even arrived."
    "You don't think you'll catch him, do you?" Sean said, gazing at his knees.
    "Sir, you might be surprised.  Forensics might be able to tell us quite a bit.  I promise you I will do everything I can to see that the man who did this is brought to justice."
    "Thank you, officer . . . uh . . . ."
    "Lieutenant Columbo."
    "Lieutenant Columbo.  Thank you.  If it's all right, I'd like to go back to my hotel room."
    "I'll have an officer escort you."
    Columbo summoned a patrolman.  "Would you please take Mr. Camden back to his room?"  As the officer grasped Sean's arm, he noticed Cindy, kneeling by the body, beckoning him.
    "Find something?" he asked, sauntering to her.
    "Got lucky."  Her forceps gripped a bloody shard of glass.  "I found pieces of headlight and turn signal glass in her hair.  Between that and the tire tracks, we should be able to narrow down the make of the car."
    "Soon as you do, please put the word out.  I want all body shops in L.A., Orange, Ventura, Riverside, and San Bernardino counties notified."
    "Will do."
    "Did you happen to find some dog prints?"
    "I didn't see any.  But the paramedics stomped all over the scene.  I'll check my photos later."
    "Okay."  He hollered to the uniforms in the area, "Listen up!  There may be an injured dog out here.  I want the entire area searched."
    Fingertips tapping his notepad, Columbo peered up the road at Sean Camden's retreating back.  The man turned, stared at the accident scene. 
    For a split second, their eyes met.
    Then Camden strolled up the driveway to the hotel.
*    *    *
    Sean bolted the room's door lock and blew out his breath.  What a relief to quit acting.
    The bottle of champagne he ordered had arrived.  Grinning, he popped the cork and chugalugged a long swig down his throat.  A leap onto the bed landed him on his back, the mattress springs squeaking.  It had been so easy, much easier than he thought it'd be.  Boy, the cops were dumb, especially that idiot of a lieutenant searching for a non-existent dog. 
    He downed more of the champagne.  Too bad, he thought, that he couldn't make an arcade game out of the whole thing.  "Spousal Kill," he snorted, giving it a name.  "Turn your bride into millions of dollars." 
    Rose had wanted to make something out of it too, he remembered, grinning.  She'd actually thought she'd write a romance novel about the two of them.  "More like a horror story," he snickered. 
    Near the end of a long draw on the champagne bottle, he choked, his heart pounding.
    What was that Rose had said?  "It's practically already written anyway.  I wrote everything about us in my diary."
    Eyes widened, breath panted.  Bloody hell!  What might she have said in there?  Tossing aside the bottle with the few ounces left in it, he snatched one of her suitcases.  Shirts, pants, bras, underwear sprang into the air as he plowed through her luggage.  No diary in the first suitcase, or the second, or the third.  Sean darted into the bathroom and upended her overnight bag.  Nothing but toiletries and makeup.
    Think.  Think, think, think!
    She must have left it in her apartment.  It had to be there.
    What if that cop got to it before he did?
    Cramming Rose's clothes back into her suitcases, he phoned the front desk and asked for a valet to haul the luggage to his car.  A dig through her purse furnished him with her keys.
    Moments later the Ferrari peeled out of the hotel lot, nearly knocking over the cop in the raincoat.
 
6
    Sean zipped the Ferrari into the guest parking lot at Rose's apartment block.  The building was like thousands of cheap rentals in southern California, two floors of units surrounding a pool.  Palm trees and succulents did little to diminish the run-down appearance of the place. 
    He bounded up a flight of outdoor stairs and crammed her key into the lock.  It unlatched and he stepped inside, bolting the door shut behind him.
    Musty air filled his nostrils.  The inside of her apartment wasn't any more elegant than the outside.  Burnt-orange shag rug, decades out of style, carpeted the floor.  A second-hand sofa and scuffed coffee table faced a small television with a VCR plugged in.  Housed in a bookcase were rows of paperback romances.     
    Okay.  Where would her diary be?
    He knew what it would look like: a squat, thick book with a strap that bound it shut, and a lock to prevent intruders.  His cousin had had one, and when he was eight, he'd located the key and treated himself to her secret thoughts.  He had also treated himself to the money he'd blackmailed out of her afterward.
    Maybe her diary was on the bookshelf.  She considered it a romance novel, so why not?  Sean scoured through the volumes.  Nope.  Nothing. 
    A step into the bedroom showed him a similar bookcase.  "Hell, Rose, didn't you ever read anything else?" he muttered.  A hunt through these also yielded nothing.
    "Nightstand," he said.  The lamp sitting on it trembled as, on his knees, he yanked out the drawers.  Riffling through canceled checks, pay stubs, and other documents produced nothing.  But wait a minute.  His cousin's had been hidden among her underwear.  Drawer after drawer, Sean pawed through Rose's clothing but came up empty.
    Her closet floor held only a few pairs of shoes and a cardboard box full of spiral notebooks, the kind kids used in school.  Sean wandered back into the living room. 
    "C'mon, where--" he growled but was interrupted by footsteps and muffled voices outside Rose's front door.
    A glimpse through the peephole set his adrenaline pumping.  Just on the other side of the door stood an elderly man sorting through a ring of keys, a uniformed police officer, and that cop in the raincoat, Lieutenant Columbo.
    Bloody hell.  How was he supposed to explain what he was doing there?  Keys jangled a moment, and one scraped into the lock.  Thinking quickly, Sean plopped onto the sofa and buried his face in his hands.
    The door opened and he heard Columbo mutter a thank-you, most likely to the man with the key.  After a pause he said, "Mr. Camden?  I'm surprised to see you here."
    Sean glanced up.  "You are?  Did it ever occur to you, Lieutenant, that I might want to be in the one place where I can feel as close to Rose as possible?"
    "No sir, I'm sorry to say it hadn't."
    "But what are you doing here?" Sean asked.  In an accusatory tone, he added, "Are you following me?"
    "Oh, no, sir.  It's just that . . . ."  Columbo turned to the uniformed cop.  "Sanchez, would you please wait outside?"  After the door shut, he said, "Sir, it has to do with the timing of your wife's death."
    His breath caught.  Had the police unearthed the insurance policy already?  "What do you mean?"
    "Sir, it occurred to me that your wife may have been deliberately targeted."
    Oh no.  He had to steer Columbo off this line of thinking.  "That's ridiculous," Sean said.  "Rose died because she ran out into the street."
    "Or," Columbo said, "someone wanted to run her down, maybe even both of you.  But when you separated, the killer had the chance to get only one.  Sir, did your wife have a jealous ex-boyfriend who was furious that she married you?  Perhaps one with a violent streak?"
    Oh.  Whew!  So that's where he was going. 
    "I don't know," Sean answered.  "We never discussed our previous relationships."
    "Perhaps someone who wanted to see you suffer?" Columbo prompted.
    He shook his head.  "No.  I think you're on the wrong track here."
    "Maybe.  Maybe not.  But that's why I'm here, to see if I can find evidence of anyone who might have wanted your wife dead.  Old love letters, something like that."
    Oh great.  He was going to search the place.  "I think you're barking up the wrong tree, Lieutenant.  Shouldn't you be out looking for the guy who hit Rose?"
    "Sir, I have someone comparing the tire tracks to known models, trying to find out which kind of sedan it was.  Trust me, my time is better spent here."
    "Well, frankly, I don't like the idea of you rummaging through my wife's things.  Or, rather, my things.  They're mine now, aren't they?"
    "No, sir."
    "Isn't California a community property state?"
    "Uh, yes it is, but the property a spouse brings into a marriage is not communal.  All this is still your wife's property, at least until a probate court settles the issue.  Uh, you do want me to follow up on all possibilities, don't you?"
    How could he say no to that?  "Of course I do."
    "Then you should have no objection to my searching the place."
    "All right.  But I'm not happy about it."
    "Sir, uh . . . there's one other thing.  I almost hesitate to mention it.  But after you checked out of the hotel, we went into the room, and sir, I couldn't help noticing a near-empty bottle of champagne.  And when I spoke to the clerk, he said he delivered it this morning about 6:30.  But sir, that was after your wife died."
    "Lieutenant, if you check with the front desk, you'll find I ordered that bottle when I made the reservations.  It was supposed to be a surprise for Rose when we returned from our walk."
    Columbo nodded.  "Yes, sir.  But, sir, you drank it."
    Sean held out his wrists.  "Well, slap the cuffs on me," he blubbered.  "I plead guilty to getting hammered after seeing my bride killed right in front of me!  Go ahead!  Arrest me!  Can this day possibly get any worse?"
    Columbo frowned.  "Arrest you?  For what, sir?"
    "For driving under the influence.  That's what you're talking about, isn't it?"
    As he had hoped, Columbo backed down.  "No, sir.  I was just wondering if you had an explanation.  But sir, you're quite right that you shouldn't be driving.  I'm going to have Officer Sanchez take you home."
    "Can't I stay here, Lieutenant?"
    "No, sir, I'm afraid not.  In fact, I'm going to have the door taped."
    "But my car is here."
    "Leave me the key.  I'll have it delivered to your house."
    Sean's brain scrounged for a way out, but he realized he was cornered.  He slipped his key from its ring. 
    Maybe, he thought, maybe he would get lucky and Columbo wouldn't unearth the diary either.
*    *    *
    After Sean departed and Columbo used Rose's phone to arrange for the Ferrari to be transported to his home, he glanced around the living room.  It was neat as a pin.  So was the kitchen.
    The bedroom was a different story.  Drawers had been left askew, some with their contents slumping over the edge.  "You sped out of that parking lot like the devil was chasing you," he mumbled.  "So . . . what were you looking for?  You didn't want me to conduct a search, so, whatever it is, I'm guessing you didn't find it."
    Since Sean had ransacked the bedroom, Columbo decided to begin there as well.  It wasn't long after sifting through the papers in the nightstand that he stumbled upon a $100,000 life insurance policy on Rose Lund.  Hopes that grew at unearthing a possible motive were crushed when he learned the beneficiary was a Blanche Lund.  Still, he decided to investigate it, see if Camden knew this woman who would benefit from Rose's death.
    All the drawers were searched, including their undersides to check if Rose had taped anything there.  Nothing.
    Sighing, Columbo turned his attention to the closet.  A cardboard box revealed a stack of spiral bound notebooks.  It appeared to be a pile of old schoolwork until he flipped the cover of the top one and noticed it was dated May 10, 1983—January 29, 1984.  The first entry read: The usual boring day at work.  I rented Somewhere in Time, but of course I'll have to watch it alone . . . .
    Pay dirt! he thought.  Columbo dug through the notebooks below and discovered they stretched all the way back to her high school years. 
    Thumbing to the final page of the first one, he noted it indeed ended in January.  Where is the current diary? he wondered.
    That, he realized, may very well be what Sean Camden had been desperate to find.  Columbo glanced out the bedroom window.  No notebook down there on the asphalt.  So at least it had not been tossed outside.
    Perhaps the man had stuffed it down his shirt.  He could radio Officer Sanchez and have him pat down Sean Camden, but it would be better if he didn't have to resort to that.  And he wouldn't have to if he could find it quickly himself.
    Where did women hide these things?  Being a man sometimes had its disadvantages.  But he knew a way to speed things along.
    Picking up Rose's phone, he dialed his home number.  "It's me.  Yeah, sorry, it's going to take a while.  I'll be there."  More strongly he added, "I'll be there.  There by six.  Listen, I need to know—okay, what?"  He scribbled in his notepad.  "Bucket of chicken, biscuits, coleslaw.  Yes, by six o'clock.  Listen, I need to know—and an apple pie.  Got it.  Listen.  Will you just listen a moment?  If you had a diary or a journal, where would you hide it?"  After a pause, he said, "I am not trying to find yours.  I didn't even know you kept one . . . So if you don't have one, what's the big deal?  I just need to know where a young lady would hide one in her bedroom. . . Yes, of course I'm going to read it. . . No, she won't mind. . . . Because she's dead, that's how I know.  Where?  Hang on."
    Columbo set the phone down and glanced behind the chest of drawers.  "Nope," he told his wife.  "Any place else?"
    Fingers digging between the mattress and box spring connected with a metal coil.  "Got it!" he crowed, yanking out a notebook.  "I could kiss you.  Well, I will when I get home.  No, I won't forget the chicken.  Love you.  Bye."
    Skimming through the pages, the first thing he noticed was that the penmanship changed between the beginning of the notebook and the end.  At the start it was depressed, letters almost weeping.  At the end letters stood upright and were punctuated with loads of exclamation points and the drawing of tiny hearts.
    "Got to be something about Sean Camden in here," he mumbled.  Columbo propped the pillows on the bed and settled in for a good read.
 
7
    The current volume of Rose's diary began on January 30, 1984, and Columbo, browsing through the first few months, encountered a girl brimming with loneliness.  She had no family except a grandmother somewhere in Ohio.  Work was boring, tedious, and she didn't seem to have much in the way of friends. 
    Everything changed around the middle of March.
    You won't believe what happened.  I was at the bookstore, getting the latest Danielle Steel paperback, and this really great-looking guy smiled at me.  Then later when I was in the coffee house, reading my new book, he smiled at me again.
    Camden? Columbo thought, rubbing his forehead.  It was a sad state of affairs if a man merely smiling at her warranted a journal entry.
    A week later the man was back: I saw him at the coffee shop again, and he smiled at me and came walking over and asked for my help.  He wanted to buy some romance novels for his sister's birthday and he said he noticed me reading them and could I help him pick some out.  So what could I say?  We walked back into the book section of the store and I picked out my five favorites and told him his sister would probably like them.
    Columbo drew his notepad from a raincoat pocket and scrawled Check on Camden's sister.
    The entry continued.  So I figured that was the only reason he was smiling at me, wanted my help getting a gift for someone.  But then he asked if I was going to be in the coffee house next Saturday and could he buy me some coffee to thank me for helping him.  I know it's just coffee but all the blood rushed to my head and I hope he couldn't see how excited I was.  I mumbled yes, and he's supposed to meet me there at ten.  I know it's not a date, but at least it's something.
    Immediately Columbo skipped ahead a week.
    He didn't come!  I can't believe I was such an idiot.  I wore my pink dress and even got my hair done and he didn't show up.  I waited until one, just sitting there reading, until I finished my book.  I should have known better than to think he might be interested in me.
    Columbo frowned.  Maybe this wasn't about Camden after all.  But then the next Saturday she had written:
    He was there!  And he was practically tripping over himself apologizing!!!  Turns out he got sick but he didn't know my name and didn't have my phone number so he couldn't call to say he couldn't make it.  He bought me coffee and we sat and talked for over an hour.  His name is Shawn (Sean?), and he was reading Mrs. Melville's Favorite Murder, so I asked him about it and he said it was pretty good and he asked me about my book, and oh! he has the most wonderful smile and he asked if I was going to be there next week and could we have coffee together again!!!  I can't wait!!!!!!!
    So, Columbo thought, he let her stew a week, missing him, so she could desire him all the more.  And then he let her get her hopes up again. 
    The next Saturday entry began with letters twice the normal size: He asked me out!!!  I can't believe it!  He showed up at the coffee house with a single long-stemmed red rose, and said "A beautiful rose for a beautiful Rose" and gave it to me.  He actually called me beautiful!  And we had coffee and talked for a while about books (he's really into murder mysteries) . . .
    Columbo thought, Why am I not surprised?
    . . . and just before he left he asked if (get this!) I would do him the honor of having dinner with him on Friday!!!  That's actually how he phrased it: "Will you do me the honor of having dinner with me on Friday?"!!!  Can you believe it?!!!  My first date!  It's like a fairy tale come true!!!
    "More like a romance novel come true," Columbo muttered.  He skimmed months of entries, read about a whirlwind courtship.  Camden opened doors for her, kissed her hand, phoned to say he couldn't stop thinking about her.  Little gifts popped up at her apartment and workplace.  He even serenaded her under her bedroom window.  And throughout it all, there was a series of single red roses.  She wrote about how he was the most wonderful man in the world and she was falling deeply in love.
    In late June she jotted a sentence in gigantic letters surrounded by hearts: He proposed!!!!!!  Going back to her usual font, she added, Sean took me to Chez Duvall for dinner, and just before dessert, right in front of everybody, he got down on one knee and he had a ring with the biggest diamond I've ever seen and he asked if I would do him the honor of making him the happiest man on in the world.  I was surprised because it's so soon and I wanted to sort of stop everything and have time to think but how could I say no?  How could I spoil a perfect romantic moment like that?  I do love him like crazy and I was hoping we'd get married, but Sean says he just can't wait to make me his wife.  So of course I said yes and everyone in the restaurant applauded and the staff brought us a bottle of champagne.  I'm looking at the ring on my finger right now and it's so pretty I could cry.
    Rose Camden
    Mrs. Rose Camden
    Mr. and Mrs. Sean Camden
    For over a page and a half she penned what would be her new name. 
    Then, weeks later, appeared a bit of a sour note:
    I always wanted a big church wedding with the gown and veil and flowers and scores of bridesmaids but it's not going to happen.  We've picked out a chapel and it'll be just us with the minister and his wife as witnesses.  I asked Sean about his sister, but he says she can't make it.  I'm so disappointed but how can I tell him no when he says he can't wait to make me his bride?  Oh well.  Dad's not here to walk me down the aisle anyway and Mom's not here to help me pick out a dress, and who would I have for bridesmaids anyway?  Anyways, July 28 is the big day!!! 
    Columbo frowned.  "But they got married August 18.  What happened?"  He skimmed forward a bit and read an entry that rang alarm bells.
    We have to change the date.  Sean wants to spend our wedding night at Mulholland Manor before we begin our honeymoon in Rome.  He wants to take me for a walk the next morning and watch the sunrise from a special place there and he always promised himself that when he got married he would do this with his new bride.  Honestly, how can I say no to that?  But every room in town is booked because of the Olympics, so he says we have to wait.
    "So he can't wait but he can wait," Columbo muttered.  "And the walk down Mulholland was planned over a month before."
    In his notepad he scrawled a reminder to check if reservations were actually made for a honeymoon in Rome.      Scanning ahead, he read: Today's the day!!!  Today I become Mrs. Sean Camden.  I can hardly wait!  But I'm going to leave this behind because I'd hate to lose my diary in Rome.  I'll write about everything when I get back!!!
    I'm so happy I could burst!!!
    It was the last entry.
    Flipping back through the pages since she'd met Camden, he tallied how many times she'd thought she couldn't say no to him and counted a whopping fourteen.  And those were just the ones he knew about. 
    Columbo gently closed the notebook and stared at the cover.  This could be interpreted one of two ways.  Either Sean Camden was the most romantic guy who ever lived or he was a manipulative bastard.  And he certainly knew which of the two a defense lawyer would argue. 
    He fingered a framed photo on the nightstand.  It was a picture of Camden with his arms around Rose.  She was simply beaming. 
    "Thank you," he told her picture.  "I usually don't get to know the victims this well.  And this could show premeditation.  But what was the motive?  He must have had a motive."  Sitting back, he said, "Rose, I promise you I will do everything I can.  You deserved so much more out of life."
9:55 p.m.
    Bob Cutler, the engine of his truck idling, lingered on the street outside the security gate of a condominium complex in Anaheim.  As Sean had instructed him, he had been careful to cross county lines in order to dispose of the BMW's damaged parts.  Garbage cans set by the curbs in this area told him pickup must occur Monday.  Now he waited for any condo resident to drive up and open the security gate so he could follow him in.
    He hated waiting.  With nothing else to occupy his mind, his conscience kept slamming back to the accident: the thrumming of the Beemer's engine, dark road slipping under the tires, the girl all of a sudden in his headlights.  At the last instant he had changed his mind, had swerved and floored the brake, but then came a jarring thump that jolted all the way up into the steering wheel.  A split second later had been another sickening thud when tires plodded over the body. 
    Maybe she wasn't dead.  Maybe she was just hurt.
    But damage to the Beemer provided little hope of that.  Not only were the passenger side headlight, highlight, and turn signal smashed, he'd had to replace the bumper and straighten the fender.  And the blood.  Dear God, there had been so much blood.  That was one good thing about replacing the lights and bumper--it had eliminated most of the blood.  Following Sean's warning, he had been careful to bleach even the tiniest stain of any left.
    Once the new parts were on, it had been a simple matter of matching the color.  Too bad he hadn't been able to cannibalize a black BMW, but a little paint had covered the new bumper's previous white.      
    Bob jerked in fright, hands gripping the steering wheel, at loud bangs like gunshots nearby.  Then, glancing up, he noticed it was only bursts of fireworks from Disneyland.  Boy, he was skittish.  A few deep breaths calmed him somewhat.       
    A blue Volkswagen van wheeled into the driveway.  The gate, humming, drew aside, and he slipped through behind the van.  Motoring around the complex, he spied the dumpster and parked nearby.  A scan of the area disclosed that no one was around.  Bob flipped the truck's rear gate down, grabbed a box of the smaller parts, and upended it into the trash.  The damaged bumper, cut into smaller pieces, was flung in there as well.
    A man walking his dog strayed nearby.  Bob slunk into the shadows beside the dumpster.  This, he realized, was what his life had been reduced to: startling at unexpected noises and hiding in the dark.  Gritting his teeth, he wondered how he had let Sean Camden talk him into it.
    Eventually the man and dog wandered on.  Leaning over the lip of the dumpster, Bob rearranged the trash so any evidence was concealed by garbage bags and old newspapers.
    Crickets chirped beneath a waning moon.  Bob jumped into his truck and gunned the motor.
 
 
8
Monday, August 20, 10:15 a.m.
    The office of Dr. Kinner, M.E. was sparse, containing nothing but his desk, a couple of chairs, a large file cabinet, and a lighted screen for exhibiting X-rays.  The room matched the man: he wore just his medical gown over a simple shirt and pants.  An arch of gray hair spanned the back of a mostly bald head.  No frills here. 
    When Columbo entered the room, Kinner glanced up from his paperwork and motioned him to one of the chairs.  The lieutenant preferred the office to the autopsy room with its stench of formaldehyde.  And, Kinner knew, he would rather not have so much as a glimpse of what was laid out on the examination table there.
    It was also one place the doctor didn't mind if he smoked.  Lighting a cigar, Columbo asked, "What you got for me?"
    "This is not your average pedestrian hit-and-run," Kinner said, slipping a couple X-rays from a folder.  He displayed them on the lighted screen.  "As you can see, all the damage is on the upper part of her body.  No broken bones in the legs and hips."
    Columbo scanned the pictures.  Despite the fact that these were only X-rays, the man still laid a hand on his stomach as if queasy.  Probably, Kinner thought, because the photos showed skull fragments penetrating the brain. 
    "Death was instantaneous?"
    "That's my take," Kinner said.  "Blunt force trauma on the right side, and the impact flipped her over.  Tire tracks began on her left shoulder, continued over her back."
    "Blood alcohol?"
    Kinner checked his notes.  "No alcohol or drugs in her system.  Oh, and between the tracks and the headlight glass, Cindy narrowed it down to a BMW.  An '83 or '84 model.  She's already putting the word out to the repair shops."
    "That's my girl," Columbo said, exhaling a cloud of smoke.
    "Wait.  There's more.  You'll never guess."
    "What is it, Doc?"
    "I got a surprise.  You told me she was on her honeymoon, right?  Well, I was all set to do the usual rape kit, like we do on all women her age who die violently, but guess what?  This girl died a virgin."
    Columbo merely nodded.
    Kinner had to ask.  "Okay, why are you not surprised?"
    "Well, Doc," he said, puffing his cigar, "it looks like this could have been planned for months.  And when a guy has that much time to think through the details, he's going to realize that in an accident like this, she might not cooperate by dying.  She just might end up in a vegetative state.  I think my guy wanted proof the marriage wasn't consummated, leaving himself the out of a legal annulment."
    "So you think you got yourself a homicide here?"
    "It sure is looking that way, Doc."
2:35 p.m.
    Sean Camden was on his cordless phone trying to sweet-talk Emmylou McGuinn into coming over.  He already had a bottle of champagne chilling in the refrigerator, and when she arrived, he intended to continue the sweet talk all the way up into his bedroom.
    "Aw, come on, honey," he pleaded into the phone.  Studying his appearance in a downstairs mirror, he slicked back his brown hair and winked at his reflection.  "I'm in terrible pain, grieving.  You're the only one who can console me.  You--"
    His exhortation was interrupted by a loud grinding punctuated with a couple of bangs.  Sweeping a curtain aside, he glanced out a living room window at the front drive but beheld only a cloud of steam.  When a light breeze dissipated the vapor, he could perceive that the cause of all the commotion was Lieutenant Columbo and his car.  If, that is, you could call the contraption he was driving a car.
    Great.  What terrible timing. 
    "I'll have to call you back," Sean said and hung up.
    Gazing through the door's peephole, he spied Columbo strolling up to his door and ringing the bell.  Since it would be a reminder of who was in charge here, he waited, forcing him to ring the bell a second time.
    After a count of three, Sean unlatched the door and acted startled to see him.  "Lieutenant?"
    "Mr. Camden, I hope this isn't an inconvenience, but I have a few more questions."
    "Oh.  Of course.  Please.  Come in."
    Columbo stepped over the threshold.  "I wanted to know," he said, scratching his head and carrying his briefcase, "about--"  The cop stopped dead in his tracks, gawking at the row of video games.  Although the screens were dark, he was visibly impressed.  Wide-eyed, he asked, "You own all these?"
    Sean couldn't help grinning.  "I own the company that manufactures them."
    "Of course," Columbo said, smacking his forehead.  "Sean Camden.  Camden Electronics.  I should have realized."  Setting his briefcase by a sofa, he stepped to the games.  "This is incredible.  An arcade right in your home."
    "Do you play?" Sean asked.
    "I do, although I'm not so good.  Mrs. Columbo, she's a whiz at this.  And I have a nephew, well, every time I play one of these, it seems I see his name already listed in the Masters category."
    "Let me guess which is your favorite," Sean said.  "I'll bet it's Badlands Pistols."
    Columbo shook his head.  "No, not that one."
    "No?  Don't you like shooting the bad guys?"
    "No, sir.  I prefer not to even touch a gun, if I can avoid it."
    "Lieutenant, it's plastic.  It's a toy."
    "Even so.  In my line of work, I've seen the aftermath of far too many shootings."
    "All right, then your favorite must be Tracker Cop."
    "You guessed it, sir.  That's the one." 
    "Let me turn it on for you."  Sean reached under the console and flipped a switch.  The screen sprang into life, portraying the overview of a street map.  Railroad tracks and a river meandered through a town.  Over a steamship horn and the squealing of a train whistle tooted the oompah of an electronic calliope.
     Fingering the joystick, Columbo asked, "May I, sir?  I think I have a quarter."
    "Your money's no good here, Lieutenant.  Anyway, these are set so you don't have to use a coin.  I take it you understand the game's premise."
    "I think so.  The bad guy robbed a bank, but the teller slipped a tracking device into the money bag.  I'm the police, and I have to catch him before my time runs out and he gets away."
    Sean nodded.  "You can set up three roadblocks."
    "But sir, here's what I don't understand.  Sometimes when I'm playing, the bandit disappears from the screen."
    "Your police car has to be close enough for the tracker to pick him up.  But that's a clue too, Lieutenant.  If you can't see him, you're in the wrong area."
    "So when I don't see him, I'm cold.  When I do see him, I'm hot."  Columbo raised a finger.  "That might help, sir.  Maybe this time I'll get past Level One."
    "You haven't reached Level Two yet?"  Sheesh, he thought, a five year old could get that far.
    "I always seem to get blocked by the train."  He pressed a button to start the game.  "Look, already I can't see the robber."
    "Take the freeway," Sean suggested.  "You can move twice as fast there." 
    Columbo sped his icon to the center of the screen.  "You were right, sir!  There he is!"
    A train chugged along the track, traffic flowed.
    "Roadblocks, Lieutenant."
    "Right.  I'm placing one here, and another here."  He glanced at Sean.  "That still leaves me one." 
    "He's getting away," Sean observed.  "Block him in.  You see, the robber's lost, which is why he's wandering all over the place.  Quick, Lieutenant!  He just went up a long dead-end street!  That's the best place to catch him, before he can get back to the freeway."
    "I will as soon as the train clears out of my way.  Okay, here we go.  He's not getting away this time, sir.  I . . . see, now I'm stopped by a drawbridge."  A buzzer droned.  "That's it.  I'm out of time.  You know, it's embarrassing when my wife catches the criminal and I don't."
    Sean clasped him on the shoulder.  "You just need to practice."
    "That would take a lot of quarters, sir."  He stepped back.  "But I didn't come here to play games.  I'm afraid I still need to ask you some questions."
    "Of course."  Nearby were two brown sofas facing each other, and Sean swept a hand toward them.  Columbo seated himself on the closest one, and Sean sat opposite him.
    "Sir, the first thing I want to ask you about," he flipped through his notepad, "is a comment you made at the scene.  When I asked for your address, it sounded like you said something about the Beatles.  Obviously I did not hear you right."
     "Actually, you probably did," Sean said.  "You see, this street is the title of one of their songs."  He slipped a copy of the Magical Mystery Tour album from a nearby shelf and showed him the track list.  Right here.  'Blue Jay Way.'"
    "Oh, you mean there's a song that has the same name as the street you live on."
    "No, Lieutenant.  The song was written about this particular street.  Check the lyrics."
    His eyebrows rose.  "It does mention L.A., right in the first line.  Well, you can understand my confusion," Columbo said as Sean re-shelved the album.  "It seemed a strange thing for a man who'd just seen his wife killed to mention."
    Oh, crap.  That had not occurred to him. 
    "I suppose it does.  But I wasn't thinking clearly.  You see, when I give out my address, I always mention the song.  Force of habit, I guess."
    Columbo nodded.  "Uh, huh.  Perfectly understandable.  But there's something else."  After a dig in his briefcase, he withdrew a red spiral-bound notebook.  "Have you seen this before, sir?"
    Sean, frowning, shrugged.  "School notebook.  I had plenty when I was a kid."
    "Were you aware your wife was using them as diaries?"
    "No, I wasn't," he said truthfully.
    So that's where it had been, right under his nose.  Too late Sean realized he should have known someone as poor as Rose would have chosen an inexpensive way to record her thoughts.  He stared at Columbo clutching the notebook, wished he could yank it out of his grasp and hunt for anything incriminating in there.
    "Well, sir," Columbo said, flipping the journal open, "I was curious about this one entry, about how you asked Miss Lund to help you find some books for your sister.  But, sir, I checked, and—"
    "I don't have a sister," Sean confessed.
    "As a matter of fact, you're an only child."
    "All right, Lieutenant, yes, I lied to her.  If you must know, I was interested in Rose, and I thought if I read a few of those romance novels she was so taken with, I might get an angle on courting her."
    His eyebrows arched.  "Did it help?"
    Sean smiled.  "As a matter of fact, it helped a lot.  She was looking for a Prince Charming, and I was more than happy to become that for her.  You'd be surprised how far just a little effort goes.  For example, have you tried serenading your wife?"
    Columbo broke into a huge smile and traced a thumb over his lower lip.  "Sir, with my voice, if I tried that, I'd be likely to get a bucket of cold water thrown on me.  But sir . . ." he rose and strolled to the bookcase, "I don't see those novels here."
    "I threw them out," Sean said.  "To tell you the truth, they were pretty awful.  Besides, I didn't want Rose to discover them in my bookcase."
    "But, sir, if you didn't want her to find out what you were up to, why did you tell her you have a sister?  Surely you must have known she would discover you don't."
    "Uh . . . ."  Oh, crap.   
    Because I knew she wouldn't live long enough to find out, that's why, he thought.  But Columbo was waiting for an answer.  Aloud he said, "I guess I didn't think that far ahead."  He spent a moment worrying Columbo would pursue this line of questioning, but instead he tapped the spine of a book.
    "I've read this one," he said.  "The Mind String and How to Pull It.  Besides all these mystery novels, I see you have a lot of books about the art of persuasion."
    Nodding, Sean commented, "I've found them very helpful in business."
    "And in romance?" Columbo asked, removing the book.
    "Yes, in that too.  I'm a man who knows what he wants, and I go after it."
    "That I believe," the lieutenant said, flipping through the volume.
    "But surely you didn't drive all the way up here solely to discuss how I persuaded Rose to date me."
    "No sir, I didn't, and thank you for reminding me."  He slipped the book back, returned to his briefcase, and withdrew a document.  "I wanted to ask you about this insurance policy for $100,000, listing a Blanche Lund as the beneficiary."
    "That's Rose's grandmother.  I bought the policy for her, paid a full year of premiums.  You see, Rose didn't earn much, but she sent a bit every month to her grandmother.  And she was concerned about what would happen if she died, and—" 
    Wide-eyed, Sean chopped his words short and hoped he had an expression of pure horror on his face.
    "Sir?" Columbo asked.
    "Oh no.  I just remembered.  The insurance policies."
    The lieutenant squinted.  "Other insurance policies?"
    Sean sighed, allowing his shoulders to droop.  "I might as well tell you.  You're going to find out anyway.  Rose and I insured ourselves.  Five million dollars apiece."
    Columbo's jaw dropped.  "Did you say five million?  When did you take out these policies?"
    "Saturday," he blurted.  "Lieutenant, I know how this must look.  But I didn't care about the money.  As you can see, I'm quite wealthy.  We only got it to make Rose happy."
    Flipping open his notepad, Columbo asked, "Which company?"
    "Dobblers.  We got the policies right after the wedding, at the office on Figueroa."
    "And what did you do with the paperwork?"
    "I don't remember.  We came out of the office, and . . . I think I left it in the glove compartment."
    "Would you check, sir?"
    "Certainly."  Sean stepped into the garage and, out of Columbo's eyesight, broke into a smirk.  Of course the authorities were going to discover the policy on Rose's life.  But this dimwit of a cop had supplied the perfect opportunity to come forth with that information himself and therefore deflect suspicion.
    When he returned to the living room, Columbo was playing Tracker Cop again.  Good.  That was a sign he wasn't putting too much interest in the insurance.
    The timer buzzed.  "How'd you do?" Sean asked.
    "I just can't get past Level One," Columbo complained.  "These are the policies?"
    "Yes.  You can take them with you if you want, but I'm sure you'll understand why I want to keep the receipts.  After all, one of them is worth five million dollars."
    "Perfectly understandable, sir.  Well, I should get going.  Have a good day, sir."
    He was one foot out the door when he swiveled around.  "Oh!  I almost forgot."  He stepped back inside and closed the door.  "It's about the dog."
    "Dog?  What dog?"
    "The dog your wife ran into the road to save.  I was wondering if you saw where it went.  You see, we couldn't find it."
    "No, Lieutenant, I didn't."
    "Hmmmmm.  Strange.  We canvassed the entire area, didn't even see any paw prints.  And the ground was still soft, sir, you know, from the morning dew."
    Sean raised his palms.  "I guess it walked on the asphalt.  Maybe it trotted back to its home."
    "No, nobody in the area owns such a dog."
    "You checked on that?  You're quite thorough, Lieutenant."  Which, he couldn't help thinking, is a very bad thing.
    "Well, I guess if it wandered that far away, it must not have been injured.  I hope it gives you some consolation, sir, to know your wife died saving a life."
    "Yes.  It does."
    Columbo was finally out the door and Sean was just starting to close it when he pushed it back open.  "Sir?  One more thing.  Is it all right if I use your hose?"
    "My hose?"
    "It's my radiator," the man explained.  "I need some water for the radiator."
    Whew.  Was that all?  "Help yourself," Sean said.
    Through the window he watched the lieutenant raise the hood of his car.  Sean considered calling Emmylou back but instead of dialing tossed the phone onto the sofa.  He didn't feel like guests.  He didn't feel like listening to the racket from Tracker Cop either, so he flicked the game off.
    "Ow!" he heard Columbo holler through an open window.  Glancing outside, he observed the lieutenant cradle his fingers, and then grab a rag from his backseat.  Protecting his hand with it, he unscrewed the radiator cap.
    Lips tightened, he mentally kicked himself for not thinking everything through: the fictional sister, dog paw prints.  They were, fortunately, only minor problems which he had managed to handle.
    The major problem, though, was that this cop he had thought was a dumb cluck was painstakingly meticulous. 
    And, for the first time, he started to worry.
 
 
9
Monday, August 20, 4:15 p.m.

    A little silver bell over the door tinkled.  Ernest Woodard of Dobblers Insurance glanced up from his paperwork.  He had never before seen the man stepping into his office, a brown-haired gentleman who, despite the summer heat, wore a raincoat.  Whoever he was, he didn't look like he could afford much insurance, but Ernest had long ago perfected methods of talking prospective clients into purchasing substantial coverage.
    The office seemed barely large enough to accommodate a man of Woodard's size, and sometimes he felt like he was working in a box.  He shoved his wide girth back from his desk and rose, extending a hand.  "Ernest Woodard, sir.  How may I help you?"
    The man shook his hand.  "Lieutenant Columbo."   He slipped a badge from a back pocket and displayed it.
    "Police?" Ernest asked.  His grey eyebrows knitted.  Showing him the ID meant this was official business.  There would be no sale here.  Worse, whatever the reason for the cop's visit, it couldn't be good.
    Lieutenant Columbo patted his pockets.  "I want to ask you about an insurance policy . . . where did I put it?  Wait.  Here it is."  He withdrew some folded papers.  "For a Rose Camden."
    Ernest, forehead pleated in concern, nodded.  "Mrs. Camden.  She and her husband purchased policies the day before yesterday.  Is there some irregularity?"
    "I'm afraid she's dead, sir."
    He froze, blood draining from his face.  He could not have heard right. 
    "Dead?  Did you say 'dead'?"
    "I'm afraid so, sir."
    His knees were weak as water.  Barely breathing, he dropped into his chair. 
    "Are you all right?" Columbo asked.
    "Five million dollars," Ernest gasped.  "We're going to have to pay out five million dollars.  My bosses will explode!  It wasn't by any chance a suicide, was it?"
    "Car accident.  Is it okay if I sit down?"
    "Certainly."  He regained some of his color as a thought occurred to him: since a cop was here, something must be wrong with the lady's death.  "How can I help you, Lieutenant?"
    "Well," Columbo said, "do you happen to remember the policy being purchased?"
    "Do I remember?"  Ernest let out a nervous laugh.  "It isn't every day I sell a five million dollar policy.  And I sold two!  Of course I remember."
    Columbo spread his palms.  "Could you tell me what happened?"
    "Yes, certainly.  Mr. Camden I knew from before.  He'd already purchased a couple of $100,000 policies.  One was on Mr. Camden's life with Rose Lund as a beneficiary, and the other was a policy for Miss Lund, with . . . I believe it was an older female relative as the beneficiary.  And he paid a full year's premiums on them right up front.  And in cash too."
    "Did you meet Miss Lund then?"
    "No.  I believe that second policy was some sort of gift.  Camden wanted it to be a surprise for her, but I explained she would need a physical exam before it could go into effect.  He seemed disappointed that the surprise would be ruined, but she did have the physical.  Both of them did."
    Columbo withdrew another set of folded papers from his pocket.  "This is the policy he bought for her?" he asked, handing them over.
    Ernest scanned the sheets.  "Yeah, that's the one.  Great.  That's another 100 grand on top of the five million."
    "Can you tell me exactly what happened Saturday?"
    "Certainly.  Mr. Camden came in with her, and I remember he said, 'Congratulate me!  I just married the most beautiful girl in the world!'  I'm ashamed to say I almost asked, 'And who is that?'  You see, Lieutenant, I thought the woman with him was his secretary.  He was a handsome man, and she was kind of homely, if you know what I mean."
    Columbo flipped open his notepad.  "Uh huh.  Go on."
    "Well, then Camden said he'd like to up his coverage in order to protect his new wife.  And I remember he had a big smile and he said he was going to make me very happy by earning me a huge commission.  And that's when he said he wanted five million dollar's worth on him.  I have to tell you, Lieutenant, I was thrilled.  I'm having a bit of financial trouble, and this was going to get me out of it."
    Columbo frowned.  "Don't you mean he wanted to buy two five million dollar policies?  One on him and one on Mrs. Camden?"
    "Well . . . here's what happened.  He wanted the policy on his life, and of course I suggested getting one on her too.  I always suggest that, Lieutenant.  All insurance agents do; it was nothing unusual.  But Camden said he didn't want to buy one on her."
    Pencil in hand, Columbo froze.  He blinked twice before asking, "He didn't want a policy on her?  But he got one anyway, didn't he?"
    "After his wife persuaded him to.  I'm sorry to say I was persuading him too."
    Mouth agape, the cop sprawled back in his chair.  He stared into space a moment and then shook his head a bit.  "Tell about this conversation."
    "Let's see if I can remember.  I recall he said something about the fact that he was quite wealthy, and he wanted to ensure she would be able to maintain the lifestyle she was about to become accustomed to.  I suggested the policy on her, and he said no, it wasn't necessary.  He said if anything happened to her, he would be in so much pain he wouldn't even be able to breathe or work or anything.  And Mrs. Camden, she pointed out that if he couldn't work, how could he earn any money?  I jumped on that too, Lieutenant.  I was so excited about the commission I would make on this."
    "And he let her talk him into it," Columbo stated.
    "Exactly.  Oh!  I remember one more thing.  Mr. Camden paid for the changes to his policy in cash.  He'd already researched our rates and he had the exact amount for the first month's premium in a roll of bills he took out of his pocket."
    "Did he pay cash for hers too?"
    "No.  She wrote a check."
    Columbo dropped his pencil onto the desk.  "She paid for it?" 
    "He didn't have that much cash on him.  She said something about how he always liked to pay for things in cash.  But he hadn't brought his checkbook, and he didn't have a credit card or even an ATM card on him.  He said he'd left all that behind because he didn't want them to get lost or stolen on their honeymoon.  All he had after paying the premium on his policy was about a hundred dollars and some traveler's checks.  I said I would take the traveler's checks, but they both agreed those were for their trip to Rome.  And since at that hour the banks were already closed, she wrote a check for the first month's premium on her policy.  In fact, she did it twice, because the first time she signed it 'Rose Camden' and I had to make her redo it so it would have the same name as the one printed on the check, her maiden name.  I have to admit I felt a little guilty taking it."
    "Why?"
    "I wasn't trying to peek, but I couldn't help noticing the balance she had left.  She pretty much drained her checking account."
    A flicker of dark anger crossed the lieutenant's face.  Ernest wanted to ask about it, but the man spoke.  "I noticed the policies went into effect immediately.  Let me guess.  Normally, you insist on a physical before issuing such a policy.  But, coincidentally, they'd both had physicals just recently."
    "That's exactly what happened.  So long as the physical we require has been conducted less than thirty days before, we accept it.  They both had had theirs in late July."
    "You don't still happen to have the check she wrote, do you?"
    "As a matter of fact, I do.  I haven't made my run to the bank today yet."  Ernest rose from his desk and, unlocking a file cabinet, slid a drawer open.
    "Wait!" Columbo cried.  Stepping next to Ernest, he added, "Don't touch it.  It should have Mrs. Camden's fingerprints on it.  I'd like to have the lab check it out, that and verify her signature."
    "You think maybe the woman wasn't her?"  Ernest's hopes rose. 
    "A possibility," Columbo said, grabbing a tissue from a nearby box and handling the check with it.  "Got an envelope?"
    Ernest produced one.  "Lieutenant, if your investigation proves some sort of fraud here, I would be eternally grateful."
    He nodded.  "And I'm sure your company will want to conduct its own investigation."
    "They'll want to investigate, all right."  His shoulders sagged.  "Unfortunately, one of the things they'll want to investigate is me."
*    *    *
    Rose's check secure in his pocket, Columbo shuffled back to his car.  He'd parked the Peugeot in the shade of a leafy tree, and the windows were dipped partway to allow cross ventilation.  Dog, his basset hound, whimpered when he creaked open the door.
    "How ya doin'?" he asked, scratching the back of his pooch's head.  "I'm not doin' so good.  Here I find one of the best motives I've ever seen, and it fizzles out right in front of me.  No jury would convict based on it.  But I'm certain he tricked her into paying almost every cent of her hard-earned money for her own death."
    Dog stretched and rolled over, displaying his belly.  Columbo scratched that as well.
    "And wouldn't you know, he made the plane and hotel reservations for the trip to Rome.  I thought I might have had something there.  You know what I got?  I got nothing."
    Dog yawned.
    "Right.  What do you care?  You don't even know what I'm talking about.  I could use a break.  Could you use a break?  And it's hot.  What do you say we drive over to Baskin-Robbins and I get you a vanilla ice cream?"
    Tail swishing, Dog flipped over and woofed.
    "Oh, those words you recognize, do you?  'Vanilla' and 'ice cream' huh?  Okay, okay.  We're going."
    Engine grinding, he backed out of his parking space.
    "I need a break, all right," he mumbled.  "What I need is a break in this case."  
10
Tuesday, August 21, 2:09 a.m.
    Sean Camden began to lean against his Ferrari but then remembered the gun stuffed in the back of his belt.  He stood upright beneath the dim yellow lights of an empty parking lot.  This was the pistol he had reported stolen in his first insurance scam.  Who knew it would come in so handy for the second one? 
    Even at this time of night a warm summer breeze whisked over him.  He perspired beneath his brown leather jacket, but it was necessary to conceal the gun.  Except for the hum of distant traffic, the lot here at the Rose Bowl was silent.
    Checking his watch, he discovered Bob was late.  That was surprising; he was sure the guy would be early to pick up the $10,000 payment he had been promised. 
    Glancing up, Sean couldn't help but be struck by the irony of meeting here.  The stadium's logo, a couple of red roses composed of neon lights, shone on the arena's exterior wall.  How many times had he brought that dumb girl a red rose?  He had lost count.
    At last the glare of headlights swung into view.  Bob's pickup eased to a stop alongside him.  The driver's window sank.
    "The money?" Bob asked.
    "Not so fast," Sean answered.  "I need to check a few things with you first."
    Bob killed the engine and, dressed in a simple white T-shirt and blue jeans, stepped out of the truck.  "What?"
    "First I want to tell you that you did a great job.  I saw from the tire tracks that you swerved and everything.  It looked great, just like an accident."
    "Well, I'm glad somebody's happy.  I'm having nightmares."
    "You'll get over it.  Did you fix the car?"
    "I had to replace the bumper.  Plus the headlight, high beam, and the turn signal."
    "Bleach the blood?"
    "Every drop."
    "You return the car?"
    "This morning."
    "And the damaged parts?"
    "Went into a dumpster in Anaheim.  Trash picked up today."
    Sean nodded.  "Great.  You did great."
    "My ten grand?"
    Sean whipped out the gun.  "Sorry.  A bullet costs less than ten grand.  And it certainly costs less than a million."
    He had been certain Bob would beg for his life or at the very least his skinny frame would tremble with fear.  Instead, he calmly said, "I wouldn't do that if I was you.  They'll know you did it."
    "No, they won't.  Right after I leave here, the gun's disappearing off the Santa Monica pier."
    "That won't matter.  You always thought I was stupid, Sean.  But I couldn't help wondering why you wanted to meet here in Pasadena instead of someplace closer, like Dodger Stadium.  Then I remembered you told me it was smart to commit crimes in different cities, so the cops wouldn't put two and two together."
    Sean squinted.  "If you have a point, you'd better make it quick."
    "You should appreciate this, Sean.  You're big on insurance.  So I took out a little insurance policy of my own."
    As Bob began to reach behind himself, Sean cocked the gun.  "Stop!"
    He smirked.  "I don't have a gun.  I got something better."  He turned around.  "Take a look at what I brought in my back pocket."
    A folded paper was stuffed in his jeans.  Cautiously Sean leaned forward and plucked it out.
    As Bob turned back around, Sean scanned the paper.  It was a handwritten confession.
    "That's a photocopy," Bob said.  "I sealed the original, along with my car rental agreement, in an envelope addressed to the LAPD.  Then I sent the whole thing to a friend with instructions to mail it if I should die unexpectedly or go missing, anything like that."
    Bloody hell!  Sean racked his brains for a way out of the box but came up empty.  He lowered the gun.
    "That's what I thought," Bob said.  "You got my ten grand?"
    "No," Sean confessed.
    "Yeah, I didn't think so.  I want it, and soon.  I want all of the million you promised.  I got to live the rest of my life with what I've done.  The million's going to help me get through it."
    "Fine," he growled.  "You'll have to wait until the insurance comes through.  And it'll have to be in payments.  Banks normally notify the police of extremely large cash withdrawals."
    "That'll do."  Bob slipped into his truck.  "Next time let's meet at Dodger Stadium instead of driving all the way out here.  Hell, Sean, you seen the latest gas prices?  More than a buck a gallon."
    The motor revved and, tires screeching, the truck peeled out.  Red taillights vanished in the distance.
    Great, Sean thought.  First he had this nit-picky cop.  Now this.
    What else could go wrong?
10:18 a.m.
    Blake Howard gazed down his nose at one of the scruffiest people ever to stroll in the door of Emerald Automobile Rentals.  Hair mussed, shabby suit, frayed raincoat, smelly cigar.  And those shoes!  Had they ever been clean?
    "Excuse me," the man said, approaching the counter.  "You rent BMWs here?"
    Blake's perfectly manicured fingers set aside the paperwork he had been studying and adjusted his glasses.  "Why do you want to know?"
    "Well, I was rummaging through the Yellow Pages, searching for anything about automobiles, and I found this full-page ad of yours."  He tugged a jagged page out of a raincoat pocket.  "It says here you rent Cadillacs, Mustangs, even Peugots.  And BMWs."
    "I doubt you could afford it," Blake said.
    Scratching the side of his head, the man agreed.  "Well, you're probably right about that."    
     Blake stepped into the back room, essentially dismissing him.  When he emerged a few moments later, he was surprised to see the man in the raincoat still there.
    "Is there something else?" he asked, wishing he would leave.  What would his clientele think if they spied someone like this in his rental agency?
    He spread his hands.  "You didn't answer my question.  Do you rent BMWs?"
    "Yes, we do.  Now, if you don't mind, I'm very busy."
    "I'm sorry to take up your time.  Did you happen to have one rented out on the 19th?"
    "We don't give out that kind of in—" he began but interrupted himself as the man displayed a police badge.  "Oh."  Well, at least he wasn't here to rent a car.  If his attire was any indication, heaven knew what kind of condition it would be in when he brought it back.  "I can check for you, Officer, uh . . . ."
    "Lieutenant Columbo.  Thank you."
    Tapping at his computer keyboard brought up the desired information.  "We had two out this past weekend.  One to a Miss Dayna Leeds.  She's a regular customer.  The other was rented by a Mr. Robert Cutler."
    "Robert Cutler."  Columbo frowned.  "Why does that name sound familiar?"  He froze a moment, thinking.  "Just a minute, please.  I need to get something out of my car."
    Through the door's glass, he observed the officer stroll out to the parking lot.  Good heavens!  Was that his car?  What in blazes had he done to it?  Scuffs marred the paint, and the license plate looked like it was hanging by a thread.  The interior clogged with smoke as he puffed his cigar.  A basset hound roamed the front seat, probably leaving scratches and dog hairs all over.  Shivers ran down Blake's arms.  That was a classic Peugeot!  And he had ruined it!
    Columbo returned with a stack of papers stapled together.  "I got a list here," he said, "of all the repair shops in the area.  I thought I'd seen a Bob Cutler Auto Body Shop, and I was right.  Does this Robert Cutler of yours happen to live on Whittier Boulevard?"
    Blake checked.  "According to the address he gave us, he does."
    "Has he returned the car?"
    "It was brought in yesterday morning."
    "Was it damaged?"
    "No."
    "Are you certain?"
    "Officer, I assure you that if the car had so much as a scratch, Mr. Cutler would have been billed for it."
    "I'd like to see it."
    Blake grimaced.  The thought of this man even breathing on one of his precious cars was almost more than he could bear.  But this was the police.
    "You'll have to get rid of your cigar," he said.  "We don't allow smoking anywhere near our automobiles."
    Columbo gazed at the cigar longingly but complied with the request, extinguishing the tobacco's glow.  Even then he seemed reluctant to let go of it.  Blake held forth a small trash can until the man relented by dumping it in there.
    "This way," he said, leading him into the showroom.
    After Blake pointed out a black BMW, Columbo inspected the front passenger side.  "Sure is a beauty.  Well, you're right, I don't see any damage, but this guy Cutler does own a body shop.  If it's all right with you, I'd like to take the car down to the station and have it inspected by an expert."
    Blake folded his arms.  "It is certainly not all right with me, Officer."
    "Would it help if I told you I believe this car may have killed somebody in a hit-and-run accident?"
    "It would not.  If you want it, you'll have to obtain a warrant."
    "Okay.  I guess I can get one.  Of course, it'll take a few days.  Probably won't be back with it until Friday.  And that would put your car out of commission for the entire weekend.  I'm guessing that's your busiest time.  Too bad, because if I took it now, most likely I could have it back for you before then.  But we'll do it your way."
    Blake's shoulders sagged.  "You're not going to drive it, are you?"
    "I sure would like to, but no.  We'll bring it in on a tow truck."
    He sighed.  "All right, Lieutenant.  But it had better come back in the same condition it went out in."
    Columbo raised his palm.  "I promise you, sir.  Not a scratch!"
   
4:25 p.m.
    "Come on," Columbo told Dog, tugging on his leash.  "It's hot in the car, but it's air conditioned inside.  Trust me, you'll like it better."  Dog responded by flattening himself on the passenger seat.  "All right, fine."  He scooped up the animal, carrying him.  "You lazy bum."  Shifting the dog's weight onto his left arm, he opened a door with his right and entered the LAPD auto inspection lab.  The BMW, he observed, was up on a rack.
    "Cindy?" he called, parking Dog on the cool cement floor.
    "Here," she said, stepping out from behind the car.
    "Listen," Columbo said as she strolled toward him, "I remembered you said your cat died.  Well, the dog two doors down had pups, and I thought maybe you would like one."
    "Is this guy the daddy?" she asked, pointing at Dog sprawled on the floor between them.
    "Uh . . . there is some debate about that.  But you want one?"
    "It's so sweet of you to think of me, Lieutenant, but I've already decided to get a kitten."
    "You sure?  Dogs make better pets."
    "How do you figure that?"
    "Well, dogs will ride with you in the car."
    "So will cats," she said, "if you train them from kittenhood."
    "Man's best friend," he pointed out.
    Cindy smiled.  "I'm a woman.  And you have to bathe a dog.  Cats bathe themselves."
    "Yeah, with their spit.  Ick."
    "But you have to walk dogs.  Either that or scoop it up out of the backyard."
    "Better than a stinky litter box."
    "No litter box with an outdoor cat.  A cat at least has the courtesy of digging its own potty and then covering it up afterward.  You also don't have to pay for a license, and you don't have to keep your cat either chained or fenced."
    His lips tightened.  He was losing the debate fast, but then he thought of something that overrode all her objections.
    "Suppose somebody breaks into your house?  How much protection do you think your cat is going to be?"
    Cindy's eyes wandered downward.  He followed her gaze.  Dog lay like a puddle of melted butter on the cement floor.  Her head shook a bit, and she strolled away.
    Columbo squatted.  "Sometimes you embarrass me."  Dog stared up at him with soulful eyes.  He patted his head.  "But I love ya anyways."  Straightening up, he told Cindy, "Well, I didn't come here to argue the merits of cats and dogs.  What do you have for me?"
    "I got good news, bad news, and better news," Cindy said.  "Which do you want first?"
    "I guess I'll take them in that order."
    "The good news is this car has had body work.  And right where we hoped to find it.  Come here and take a look."  Shining a light on the underside of the car, she added, "I noticed some Bondo on the fender.  And you can see a tiny area underneath where this bumper used to be painted white."
    "Very good.  Blood?"
    "That's the bad news.  Nary a smidgen."
    "You try luminol?"
    "Of course.  Got nothing.  I'm betting this sucker was bleached."
    "Our friend was careful."  He stared at the floor.  "I was hoping for more than this."
    Cindy smiled.  "Did you forget I have better news too?"
    "Which is?" he asked, glancing up.
    "Found three hairs wrapped around the axle.  Brown, and the appropriate length."
    "So we can compare those to the victim's hair."
    "Oh, it's infinitely better than that, Lieutenant.  The hairs had follicles still attached."  At his frown, she added, "Follicles contain DNA."
    "Wait," Columbo said, holding up a hand.  "I've heard something about that, about DNA.  Something about a new kind of test."
    "Uh, huh.  Well, basically, each person has his own unique DNA.  And once you identify it, you can compare it to a known specimen, like a blood sample."
    "You mean to tell me," he said, a grin breaking out on his face, "that you can say with 100% certainty if this is the car that ran over Mrs. Camden?"
    "Unless she had an identical twin who also happened to get creamed by a BMW.  Anyway, I sent the hairs plus a blood sample from your victim to a DNA lab and asked them to check for a match."
    "Cindy, I could kiss you.  In fact, I will."  He smooched her cheek.
    She grinned.  "Don't get too excited, Lieutenant.  This is all very brand new and may not hold up in court.  At least, there's no legal precedence for it yet." 
    "Understood.  Well, I got to go check if there's a relationship between this Bob Cutler and Sean Camden."  He tugged on Dog's leash.  "Come on.  Come on, you lazy thing."  When the animal refused to budge, Columbo sighed and gathered him up.
    Cindy called after him, "Cats are easier to carry."
    "Quit embarrassing me," Columbo told his dog.  "Or, if you must, at least wait until we get home."
 
11
Thursday, August 23, 2:15 p.m.

    Over the honky-tonk of tinny piano music, Sean Camden shot one bandit after another on the Badlands Pistols video screen.  He was up to the Master Level when he noticed a police cruiser slowing to a stop in his driveway.  Frowning, he abandoned the game, allowing Dirty Dabney to gun him down.
    To his surprise, Lieutenant Columbo slipped out of the passenger seat.  It had been a few days since Sean had seen him, and he wondered what this visit was all about.
    "Not driving your own car?" he asked when he answered the door.
    "No, it's that darn radiator," Columbo replied.  "I got it in for repairs.  I hope you don't mind me just showing up, sir.  It's important."
    "Not at all," Sean said, ushering him in.
    "Now I don't want you to get your hopes up," Columbo said, seating himself on the sofa.  "But we may have a suspect."  He plucked a color photo from a raincoat pocket.  "Sir, have you ever seen this man before?"
    Sean snatched the picture and nearly had a heart attack.  It was Bob.  How the hell had they found him?  Worse, had they talked to him yet?
    Deny everything, he told himself.  "He doesn't look familiar," he said out loud, passing the photo back.  "Who is he?"
    "His name is Robert Cutler," Columbo said.  "Does that ring a bell?"
    Sean shook his head.  "Afraid not."
    "Your wife never mentioned him?"
    This answer, at least, was truthful.  "No."
    Columbo sat back.  "He attended the same high school as you, sir.  Graduated the same year."
    Sean blinked in surprise.  "Lieutenant, how on earth did you even know which school I attended?  I don't recall ever mentioning it to you."
    "Oh, sir, I just happened to notice your yearbook the day we had that conversation at your bookshelf."  
    Bloody hell! Sean thought.  How observant was this guy?  And how much digging was this cop willing to do?     Aloud he commented, "Lieutenant, there were over two thousand students at my school.  Do you expect me to remember all of them?"
    "School records show you had a class together.  Fifth period auto shop."
    Great.  Sean sighed.  "May I see the photo again?"
    When Columbo handed it back, he pretended to scrutinize it more carefully.  "Maybe . . . maybe it was this guy I knew as Bobby.  I don't remember a last name."
    Columbo rose, stepped to the bookcase.  "May I, sir?" he asked, slipping out the yearbook. 
    When Sean nodded, he returned to the sofa and flipped through the volume to Senior Pictures.  "Was this Bobby?" he asked, displaying a page.
    Sean sighed.  "Yes, Lieutenant.  He did have more hair back then."
    Columbo eased the book shut and laid it on the coffee table.  "Hmmmmm.  I thought . . . ."
    Sean's heart stopped.  "Thought what?"
    "That maybe Robert Cutler had it in for you."
    Recognizing an angle, Sean grabbed onto it.  "Come to think of it, Lieutenant, Bobby played a lot of pranks on me in class.  I thought he hated me.  You think maybe he hated me enough to wait ten years to kill my bride?"
    "Well, sir, you might be surprised.  You've become very wealthy, successful.  Could be he was envious of you.  Or, perhaps, he dated Mrs. Camden, but when she married you, he decided to kill her.  Or it could be a combination of both."
    "You sure he's the guy?"
    "No.  But he is a person of interest."
    Sean relaxed somewhat until Columbo said, "Sir, there's something else."
    "What?" he asked, already dreading the answer.
    "It has to do with the position of your wife's body.  And this," fingertips clasped either side of his head and eyes squeezed eyes shut as though he were thinking intently, "has really been bothering me.  Now you did say you two were walking along the rim of the road, and the car came from the west."
    "Yes," Sean said, wondering what on earth was wrong with that story.
    "And she let go of your hand, ran out to save the dog, and you saw her hit by the car."
    Sean exhaled a painful sigh.  "Yes."   
    "So when she ran into the road, she was facing the hill, which means the car came from her left."
    Sean visualized the fictional scene in his head.  "Yes, Lieutenant."
    "But sir, your wife was hit on the right side of her body.  That's what I can't figure out.  Why would she push the dog out of the way and then swivel around to head back when she knew very well a speeding car was coming her way?"
    Oh hell!  When he had swung Rose around and onto the road, she had ended up facing toward him, not away from him. 
    "That doesn't make any sense," Sean agreed.
    "More than that, sir, your wife wasn't struck on her hips like most pedestrians in a hit-and-run.  She was struck on her head and shoulders.  But how did they get so low?  Sir, I'm sorry to ask you this, but exactly what position did you see her in when she was hit?  How did she get turned around, and how did her body get down so low?"
    Those were questions for which he had no answer, at least no answer he was willing to give.  Sean rose from the sofa, paced the room a moment to allow himself time to think. 
    An idea occurred to him.  "Lieutenant, I'm ashamed to tell you this.  I didn't actually see Rose hit.  I knew it was coming and it was too late to save her, so I squeezed my eyes shut and turned away.  I simply could not bear to watch."
    "Well, that's understandable, sir.  But it doesn't explain how her body ended up so low on the road, and it doesn't explain why she was hit on the right."
    "Could it be," Sean said, "that she had to fight the dog to get it out of the way?  Or, perhaps, she slipped and fell."
    Placing a finger to his lips, Columbo sat back, thinking.  "Could be."
    "I guess that's your answer.  It has to be."
    "You're probably right.  Sir, regarding the life insurance policy, I discovered your wife wrote a check for the coverage on herself.  We verified her signature, and the fingerprints on it match hers."
    "Well, I could have told you that, Lieutenant."
    "Although, sir, you have to admit it's quite a coincidence that your wife died so soon after—"  Columbo interrupted himself when a knock rapped on the door.
    Sean, answering it, discovered the uniformed policeman who had come with Columbo.  "May I speak with the lieutenant?" he asked.
    "What?" Columbo asked the officer.
    "Sir, Cindy is radioing from the station.  She says she has those test results you wanted."
    "Oh!"  He rose.  "Mr. Camden, excuse me, please."
    Test results?  What the hell, Sean wondered, was going on?  Could the police possibly have found some kind of physical evidence that linked him to Rose's death?
    As Columbo jogged out to the police car, Sean stood next to the living room drapes and extended an ear toward the window.
    "Yeah, Cindy," Columbo said, fingering the radio mike.
    "Great news," Sean heard a female voice say, "the DNA matches."
    "So the hair you found wrapped around the axle of that BMW definitely came from Mrs. Camden."
    "No doubt about it at all."
    "Thanks, Cindy."  Columbo dropped the microphone and addressed the uniformed cop.  "That's it.  Have Robert Cutler picked up and brought in for questioning.  I want to talk to this guy."
    Bloody hell!  They were going to get Bob!  Sean darted for the phone and grabbed the receiver but then slammed it down as Columbo stepped back into the room.
    "Sir?  I have to leave.  There's been a development in the case."
    "Oh.  All right, Lieutenant.  Let's hope it's good news."
    "Well, I don't know yet.  We'll see.  Looks like we found the car, but that doesn't prove who was driving it.  Keep your hopes up, sir."
    This time Sean waited until the police cruiser motored out of his driveway before picking up the phone and dialing.  "C'mon, c'mon," he said, listening to incessant breeping as he rang Bob's cell phone.  "Pick up, damn it!"
    At last the line clicked, followed by a "Hello?"
    "Bob, thank God.  Listen, the cops are onto you!"
    "What the hell?  How did that happen?"
    "You didn't clean the car carefully enough, that's how!  You left some kind of evidence in it!  They're coming right now to arrest you.  You got to get out of there!"
    "I hear sirens coming!  Damn it, Sean!"
    "Get out of there now!" Sean cried.
    "I'm already out the door."  Over the phone Sean listened to the vroom of his truck engine starting.  "Damn it, Sean," Bob snarled, "you better get me out of this!  If I go down, I swear I'm taking you with me."
    "Go!  Go!"
    "I'm going!  Man, that was close.  In my rear view mirror I saw a couple cop cars zoom into the trailer park right after I got out the back exit."
    "Did they see you?"
    "I don't think so.  They're not chasing me."
    "Put some distance between you and the trailer park and then hole up somewhere.  I'll call you back in a few minutes, check that you're all right."
    "Okay."
    Sean hung up and paced.  A good stiff drink did little to calm his nerves.  
    Dialing Bob's cell phone fifteen minutes later produced a busy signal.  Who the hell could he be calling?  He waited a few minutes and tried again.  This time he got a ring.
    "You okay?" he asked.
    "Yeah.  I'm in a bar at the corner of Fifth and Wall."  Sean heard, in the background, a few pool balls clunking and someone asking for a beer.  "Listen," Bob added, "I figure the cops will be watching the waiting rooms at the airports and bus stations, but I called a pal in Burbank who has a Cessna, and he says he can fly me to the Bakersfield Airport.  I got another friend I can stay with up there."
    So that's what the busy signal was all about.  Sean let out his breath and laid a hand over his heart.  "That's better than I could have hoped for." 
    "Yeah, but he wants a thousand to do it.  All up front and in cash.  So I got to pay for the plane, and I'm going to need some money to live on, but I got only about twenty dollars in my wallet.  I want that ten thousand you promised the other day."
    "I don't have that kind of cash on me!"
    "The banks are open.  You better get me my money, Sean.  The cops find me, I got nothing to lose by spilling my guts."
    "I'm well aware of that.  Okay, fine.  I'll get the money and meet you there." 
    Before Bob could ask anything more, he hung up.
 
 
12
    Bankbook and cell phone in hand, Sean stepped into the garage and hopped into his car.  A moment later it roared out of his driveway.  A weave through the labyrinth of hillside streets assured him he was not being followed.  He spent an agonizing twenty minutes at his local bank before he could withdraw what Bob demanded.  He stuffed his passbook into his back pocket and the cash into the glove compartment.  Hopeful that this was going to work, he merged onto the Harbor Freeway, heading toward downtown.
    It was a matter of moments after exiting the freeway that Sean located the bar.  Bob, moron that he was, had left his truck, with "Bob Cutler Auto Body Shop" printed on the door, parked right in front where it was visible to the whole world.  Worse, Sean suddenly realized, his red Ferrari was horribly conspicuous in a run-down neighborhood like this.
    Sean drove past the bar and zipped into a parking garage almost a block away.  He curved up a couple ramps and eased
the Ferrari into a space on the top deck where it would be out of sight at street level.  Fortunately, he had left his binoculars in the car, and, grabbing them, he jogged to the edge of the structure.  Below, traffic hummed and an occasional horn beeped while he swept the area up and down the street, searching for black and white units.    
    None were visible.  Still, a thought occurred to him.  What if the cops had already found Bob in the forty minutes he had been delayed?  What if they had set a trap?  For all he knew, Lieutenant Columbo, or some other cop, was inside that bar right now, waiting for him.
    Staring through the glasses, he wondered how on earth he could explain a man of his status showing up in a dive like that.  Well, you see, Lieutenant, I wanted a drink and I just happened to pick this hole-in-the-wall bar several miles from my house and it's just a coincidence that the man who ran over my wife was waiting there, even though I couldn't have missed seeing his truck right outside.
    And my bride, whom I'd known only a few months, just happened to get killed hours after her life was insured for five million dollars.  And that, of course, was because she'd run into the road to save a dog who just happened to walk on nothing but asphalt so it didn't leave any paw prints behind.  And in spite of the fact that the car came from her left when she ran into the road, she just happened to end up facing the opposite direction when it hit her.  And even though she was standing on her feet, it just so happened that her head and shoulders got smacked instead of her hip.
    Strolling into that bar was one "just happened" he could not explain away.  Sean drummed his fingers on the concrete railing.  He had to get Bob out of there.  He had to think of a place where they could safely meet, where he would be sure no cops were around.
    Just when he had decided on the perfect location, a police cruiser coasted down the street.  To his horror, it stopped parallel to Bob's truck.  Through the glasses, Sean watched the officer scoop up his microphone and speak into it.
    Oh no.  No, no, no, no, no.  He dialed Bob's cell phone but got the buzz of a busy signal.  Who the hell could he be talking to now?  Didn't he understand how crucial it was to keep the lines of communication open?
    Keeping the glasses trained on the cop, he frantically redialed Bob over and over but kept getting that annoying busy signal.  The officer slipped his patrol car into a parking space alongside the curb.  Moments later a second cruiser rolled into view and parked behind the first one.  He recognized the cop who stepped out of its passenger seat: Lieutenant Columbo.
    Sean expected them to storm the bar.  Instead, the uniformed officers gathered around the lieutenant.  They spoke a while in words too distant to hear.  Columbo removed a small grey metallic box, about one by two inches, from his raincoat pocket.  He showed it to the officers, and then, stooping behind Bob's pickup, affixed it under the rear of the truck.
    "Tracking device," Sean muttered.  So that was his plan.  A grin arose on his face.  "What, you think you're going to play Tracker Cop with me?  Do you think a Level One player can pit himself against a Master?"
    Apparently Columbo did, because the police jumped back into their vehicles and zipped around a corner.  From his perch high in the parking structure, Sean spied them waiting.
    "You idiot," Sean said as if speaking to Columbo.  The lieutenant had, unknowingly, provided Bob with a way to escape.
    He tried him on the cell phone again.  This time he got a ring.  "Hello?"
    "It's about time!" Sean griped.  "I got a busy signal before."
    "I was calling my friend.  You know, the one I gave that package to with instructions to send it to the LAPD if I turn up dead.  Told him I'm moving to Bakersfield.  Or did you want him to think I've gone missing and drop a certain something into the mail?"
    "Okay, fine.  Listen, I don't want you to panic, but the cops found you."
    "What the hell!  I don't see any!"
    "I said not to panic.  They've put a tracker on your pickup."
    "Why would they do that?"
    Sean stared through the glasses right at Columbo, noticed he was puffing on a cigar.  "Because," he said, "there's a certain lieutenant who thinks you'll lead him straight to me, and he'll catch us together.  But what he doesn't know is that I'm at the top of that parking structure down the street, and I saw him put it on.  It's under the rear of your truck, just past the bumper.  Here's what I want you to do: get into your truck and drive away."
    "With the cops on my tail?  No way!"
    "Don't you get it?  They don't know we know about the tracker!  Once you leave, they're going to hang back several blocks.  The idea is that you're not supposed to see them while you lead them to me.  But it'll give you plenty of opportunities to pull over and get rid of the device."
    "Oh, you mean chuck it into the trash somewhere?"
    "No, I mean plant it on another vehicle heading out of town.  Let them follow that instead.  By the time they realize what you've done, you'll be long gone.  Do you see?  You not only get them off your tail, you send them in the wrong direction."
    "Sean, I got to admit, you're brilliant."
    "Okay, so get into your truck and drive.  I'll call back to tell you how long it is before they follow."
    He hung up but kept the binoculars trained on the bar entrance.  A couple moments later Bob emerged, hopped into the pickup, and sped away.  Sean then concentrated on the two police cruisers.  Sure enough, after waiting about half a minute they crept into traffic, pursuing him.
    Sean dialed Bob's number.  "They're several blocks back.  You can get rid of it any time."
    "Already done.  I slapped that sucker under the rear of a semi stopped at a red light in a 'Freeway Only' lane."
    "I hope you got out of the area quick."
    "That truck will go north, so I'm on the freeway going south.  I'm going to loop around on the 10, then take the 5 up to Burbank.  Meet me at the airport there."
    "No.  We shouldn't meet at the airport.  There's probably still an APB out on your truck.  Besides, if you leave it there, they'll find it quickly, since airport parking lots will be one of the first places they'll look once they realize you ditched the tracker.  And then they'll start checking flight plans for today."
    "Okay, not a good idea.  Where do you want to meet, then?"
    Sean grinned.  "I know the perfect place: that road that dead-ends at the Hollywood sign, Mt. Lee.  There are no homes or businesses on it, and usually the only people that go up it are tourists.  Why would the police patrol a dirt road like that?  If you leave your truck at the top there, it probably won't be reported for months.  Nobody will even be able to see it until they round that last bend anyway."
    "And then you drive me to the airport?  Yeah, that sounds good."
    "Remember how to get there?"
    "I think so.  But you better have my money, Sean."
    "I got it, I got it," he said, trotting back to the Ferrari.  "Don't worry.  I got the cops off your tail, didn't I?"
*    *    *
    Just as he had before, Sean peered through the binoculars to observe Bob's pickup approaching the long straightaway on Mt. Lee.  And, as before, he kept his focus on the area behind the truck, just in case some patrol officer had caught a glimpse of his vehicle and decided to pursue him.  But no car followed, and no other cloud of dust was raised. 
    He allowed Bob's truck to roar past him, vanishing around the hill, before hopping into his car and looping the last few yards of road himself. 
    "The money?" Bob asked when Sean sprang out of the Ferrari.
    Although they were alone and out of sight, Sean decided not to take any chances.  "You know the drill," he said. 
    Sighing, Bob stripped down to his underwear, folds of his pants dropping into a pile around his ankles.  "See?  No wire, okay?" 
    Confident that they were safe, Sean said, "Let's go."
    "Hold on," Bob said, fastening his belt buckle.  "Money first."
    "Fine.  Whatever."  He fished the roll of hundreds out of his glove compartment.
    Bob insisted on counting it.  "Don't you trust me?" Sean asked.
    "This from the guy who pulled a gun on me.  This from the guy who insists on me stripping.  And now you made me lose count.  I have to start over."
    Eventually he finished.  "Okay, this is ten grand, and you already gave me another two.  But you promised me a million, and that's a thousand thousand.  So far I've only gotten twelve."
    "I already explained.  I can't get it for you now.  I have to wait—"
    "For the insurance money.  Yeah, I know.  But I'm going to be on the lam in Bakersfield.  How am I going to get it?"
    "Send me your new address.  I'll mail it to you in installments."
    "No way.  The guy I'll be staying with, I don't trust him to not open any packages I get."
    "Fine.  Rent a post office box."
    "No can do.  You need to show your ID for that.  Not a good idea for someone in my situation."
    Sean racked his brains, remembered a plot from one of the mysteries he had read.  "I know a way to get a new ID.  Go to the Hall of Records and look up the death certificates for the year you were born.  Find the name of some kid who died shortly after birth.  Then you tell the clerk that's your name, and you need a new birth certificate because your house burned down, something like that.  Once you get the birth certificate, you can get a new driver's license."
    Bob squinted, thinking it over.  "Okay.  Guess I could do that.  Get a new birth certificate, get a new driver's license, rent a P.O. Box."
    "Anything else?" Sean asked.  "We should be getting you out of town."
    "You want to be careful?" Bob said.  "Well, I want to be careful too."
    Sean spread his arms as if to ask Well?
    "Give me a minute here."  Bob strolled to the edge of the road, gazed upon the valley.  Through a dome of deep blue sky, sunlight beat down; wind fanned their shirts.  Below them the city sparkled, freeways and railroad tracks cutting across this map of Los Angeles.
    "I'm going to miss this," Bob mumbled.
    "It's just a city," Sean said.  "Like any other.  Are you ready?  Or have you forgotten the cops are after you?"
    "Trust me, I haven't forgotten."  He caught one more glance
before conceding, "I guess we can go now."
    "Finally," Sean muttered.  They piled into the car, buckled their seat belts.  The Ferrari looped around the hill . . .
    . . . and rolled to a stop.
    About fifty yards down the lane, two police cruisers, their blue and red lights flashing, were parked nose to nose, blocking the road.  Standing where they met, hands calmly folded, was Lieutenant Columbo.
    Sean blinked twice, but the scene in front of him did not alter into something that made sense.  Heartbeats pounding in his ears, he sat with his hands frozen on the steering wheel.
    Columbo strolled up to the Ferrari and tapped on the driver's window.  "Mr. Camden?  Would you kindly turn off the engine?"
    What choice did he have?  Mechanically he turned the key.
    "And would you please get out of the car, sir?"
    Like a robot, he set the parking brake, eased the door open, and stood up.  Two uniformed officers and a young Asian woman approached.  Columbo turned to one of the officers and said, "Would you please search and Mirandize Mr. Camden?"
    While his rights were being read, Sean watched Bob, spread-eagled against the car, being patted down.  The roll of hundreds was quickly discovered, and the woman began counting it.    Columbo counted it as well, and the cash was tucked into an envelope marked "Evidence." 
    The search of Sean's body yielded his bankbook.  Columbo flipped through it to the last transaction. 
    "Sir, I happen to know that when Mr. Cutler left the bar, he didn't have a penny on him.  And I see here, sir, that you withdrew $10,000 cash from your account today.  Would you care to explain how the man suspected of killing your wife came by $10,000 cash and is riding in your car?" 
    "No," Sean choked.
    Columbo shrugged.  "Well, you do have the right to remain silent.  But I think it's going to be very hard to explain to a jury."
    "But . . . but . . . how did you know we were here?"
    "Well, sir, we had Mr. Cutler yesterday.  When we explained about DNA and asked him who the hairs we'd found in the car he rented were going to match, he broke down and confessed, which was a good thing since getting DNA results actually takes several weeks."
    "I thought you got those already."
    "Oh, no sir.  We just allowed you to overhear us and think that.  Anyway, when Mr. Cutler explained how painstakingly cautious you are, I realized you'd have to think you'd found and eliminated any danger before you'd chance meeting with him.  So I let you watch us plant a tracking device on his truck."
    "You couldn't have known I was there to see you do that!  I was almost a full block away!  I parked my car out of sight!"
    "Sir, it's your company that designed Tracker Cop.  Where does the device get put on the guy the cops are chasing?"
    Sean gasped.  "At the bank.  You knew Bob was going to demand money, and you knew I'd have to make a run to the bank."  
    Columbo nodded and, stretching an arm under the rear of the Ferrari, detached a second tracker.  "I got a court order for this one," he said, slipping the paperwork from an inside pocket.  "You never should have gone up a dead-end street, sir.  You gave me the perfect place for my roadblock.  You see, we told Mr. Cutler that when you met him, he should delay you a while to allow us time to get into position."
    "I can't believe you let Bob go unsupervised after he confessed to killing Rose."
    "Well, we didn't exactly do that."  Columbo beckoned Bob over, raised his left pant leg.  Locked around his skinny ankle were both hoops of a handcuff, a third tracking device welded to them.
    "But why didn't you arrest me right after he confessed?"
    "Any good defense lawyer would argue that Mr. Cutler was implicating you solely to receive a reduced sentence for himself.  I apologize for the theatrics, but I had to prove the two of you were in cahoots."
    With both of them handcuffed, the uniformed officers began ushering them to the cruisers. 
    "One thing," Sean said.  "When did you know?"
    "Oh, about a minute after I met you," Columbo replied.
    "That soon?  Before you found out about the insurance policy?  You couldn't have!"
    "It was the rose, sir."
    Mouth agape, he asked, "The rose?"
    "The rose in her hand.  A woman rushes into the path of a speeding car to save a life--even a dog's life--well sir, she's going to want her hands free and unencumbered.  But the fact that she was still clutching the rose meant she was so taken by surprise she didn't have time to let go of it.  A single rose, sir, told me you hurled her in front of that car."
    Sean snorted.  "And to think I got it for her so she would feel too ashamed to deny me the sunrise walk."
    "May I ask you a question about that, sir?" Columbo said as they arrived at the patrol cars.  "Why a single rose?  Why not a dozen?"
    "It's more personal," Sean explained.  "A dozen roses have to be put into a vase.  One she can carry around with her as a constant reminder."
    "I never thought of that."
    Sean eased into the back of the cruiser.  "You know, Lieutenant, that 'handcuffs around the ankle' idea is pretty good.  It could probably be developed into a device that would keep tabs on criminals out on bail or under house arrest."
    "Naw.  I don't see any future in it."
    "Of course it would have to be designed so it couldn't be removed without a key, maybe even an electronic key.  I could probably come up with something."
    "Well, you'll have plenty of time to think about it, sir," Columbo said, closing the door.
*    *    *
    The two police cars, each containing a prisoner, roared away, leaving Columbo and Cindy alone on the hillside.
    "Did you call a tow truck so we can impound the Ferrari?" he asked.
    "Darn it," Cindy said, smacking her forehead.  "Must have slipped my mind."
    Columbo grinned.  "Well, what are we going to do?  We can't leave it here with the keys inside."
    Her grin was as wide as his.  "I guess we'll just be forced to take it to the station ourselves.  So who gets to drive?"
    Columbo opened the car door, noticed the gearshift.  "Uh, tell you what.  You did such a terrific job finding those hairs, you deserve a treat."
    Her eyes sparkled.  "You don't know how to drive a stick shift, do you?"
    He answered by slipping into the passenger seat.
    Cindy turned the key, and the engine vroomed into life.  "Straight to the station, sir?"
    "Actually, I want to make a couple stops along the way.  First I want to visit a certain insurance agent.  I have some news that's going to make him very happy."
    "And the second place?"
    "A florist."  Columbo held up a finger.  "I just discovered an inexpensive way to make Mrs. Columbo very happy too."
    The Ferrari zoomed down the hill, spewing a cloud of dust in its wake.