"Well," Columbo said. "You know, in a case like this, it's routine we check out the spouse. Mr. Malcolm didn't get home until about 10 or so. He has a pager, but I guess none of the guys at the scene thought to call it. The funny thing is, sir, and I don't want to make any assumptions here…"  "Spit it out, Lieutenant," I suggested, knowing what was coming and dreading it.  "Well, the funny thing is, Mr. Malcolm insisted he was in a business meeting at the time of the murder last night, but he was very secretive about who else was with him."  He would have been, I mused, if he'd actually been taking a meeting. "Ah, Lieutenant, I know why Mr. Malcolm was being so secretive. It wasn't a business meeting. Unless he turned in the hotel receipt."  Columbo's brow furrowed as he scratched his blue chin.  "You know what I mean?" I asked, seeking comprehension. I found it: Columbo slapped his forehead and grinned sheepishly.  "My goodness," he murmured. Then, the policeman looked up. "But, if I might ask, how would you know that?"  I sighed. "At the time Mrs. Malcolm was murdered, I was sitting outside the Hollywood Siesta Hotel, near Wilshire? Mr. Malcolm and a co-worker were in a room of the hotel, engaged in, umm, engaged in adulterous activity."  Columbo nodded vigorously. "So that's why you were working for Mrs. Malcolm."  "It wasn't a divorce job," I said through my teeth.

A Good Cigar is a Smokescreen A Columbo/Rockford story By Martin Ross    Who were the two greatest detectives of the '70s? Los Angeles' two finest? The two sleuths legendary enough to bridge the decades and solve new cases into the new millennium? The two icons of the mystery genre most underestimated by their peers and criminals alike but most likely to bring home the goods by the end credits? Columbo and James Scott Rockford, of course. While Columbo established a niche as America's greatest classic mystery series, The Rockford Files has remained its most popular private eye series. James Garner created the most distinctive gumshoe since Sam Spade, Philip Marlowe, and Mike Hammer by flying in the face of all three and portraying a cynically folksy, often dour, soft-boiled pragmatist. He lived in a trailer by the ocean, traded barbs with his dad and his ex-con buddies, and drove like a freakin' maniac when pursued. Back in the day, Rockford was my Friday appetizer leading into Sunday's Columbo/McCloud/McMillan entree. My favorite episodes were the elaborate con games Rockford would construct to fleece the greedy and unscrupulous - great duplicitous pathworks of false identities, molecularly-timed meetings and encounters, and triple-twist payoffs leaving Rockford holding the bag -- of money. And thus we come to another common link between our favorite seventies sleuths: the classic con. Columbo a conman? Of course; consider the elaborate masquerade of slobbish density he presented to his high-class foes, the subtle ploys with pearls in umbrellas and fingerprints on paintings and switched apartments and cars that our lieutenant used to bring evildoers to justice. Imagine L.A.'s kings of the con matching wits with each other and with a killer who's every inch the big-time bunco artist (picture Dennis Hopper as this week's guest). Imagine the games within games, the crosses and double-crosses, the meeting of two deductive giants to solve a mystery of Hollywood tricks, missing charity loot, international crime, and perfect alibis. Let the game begin. Martin Ross is agricultural affairs editor with Illinois FarmWeek newspaper and a reporter for the past 20 years. He has published ten X-Files fanfics and several Columbo stories.

Jim Rockford
Wednesday
6:05 a.m.
 "Hey, I'm coming," I yelled for the fifth time as I cinched the belt of my robe and stalked the length of the trailer to my office/living room. I stopped for a second at the kitchen cookie jar for my .38; the Jehovah's Witnesses don't tend to come calling before cow milking time.
 "Yeah, who is it?" I asked, hugging the wall beside the door, out of submachine gun range.
 "Mr. Rockford, sir?" a sleepy voice inquired, louder than necessary. "Is that you in there?"
 "Yeah. You want to introduce yourself?"
 "James Rockford, the private investigator?"
 "James Rockford, the curious and increasingly irritated and sleep-deprived private investigator, yes. Now, you wanna either show me some identification or let me get back to my dream? Yasmine Bleeth was in it -- she showed up on my doorstep at six a.m., and I called the cops."
 "Oh, I am the cops, uh, the police, sir. Could I come in for a minute, please?"
 It just gets better, I reflected as I pushed open the door. The man outside looked less like a cop than one of the characters I'd seen on the curb at the Hollywood Siesta: Unshaven, shoes dull and cracked, raincoat that looked like it had kept Bogart dry back in the '40s before he pitched it in the Salvation Army bin. The derelict displayed a gold shield in a leather sleeve as he yawned gapingly. I looked it over thoroughly -- I'd used fake tin before a few times, and this guy didn't look like he'd pass an LAPD urine test. But the badge was regulation, and so I stepped aside.
 "I'm Lt. Columbo, LAPD Homicide," the scruffy detective said contritely. "I'm really sorry about getting you up this way. You get used to cop hours, and you forget not everybody else gets up at the crack…"
 "It was a late night," I responded, more defensively than was necessary. "Look, you said Homicide?"
 Columbo nodded slowly. "Yes, sir, I'm afraid so. You're working for a Melina Malcolm, out in Brentwood? Say, is that coffee I smell?"
 I cursed the Mr. Coffee, which had gotten up and boiled a pot a half-hour or so earlier. "Yeah, let me get you a cup."
 "Hey, that'd be great," Columbo brightened. "Just black, sir; I don't want to be any trouble."
 I poured the good lieutenant's Folger's with a knot in my gut. It wouldn't have been the first time a loyal wife discovered her husband's disloyalty and repaid it with a few ounces of lead and powder. Except Paul and Fran had left the Siesta so late I hadn't reported in to Mrs. Malcolm yet.
 "Who's dead, Lieutenant?" I asked bluntly as I supplied his caffeine.
 "Mrs. Malcolm, I'm afraid. Hey, this is really good."
 I plopped onto the couch. "Mrs. Malcolm? Mrs. Malcolm?"
 Columbo leaned forward. "Were you expected me to say someone else had been murdered, sir?"
 I backpedaled. "Well, no…. Have you talked to the husband yet? Paul Malcolm?"
 "The husband, sir? Does Mr. Malcolm have a reason to want his wife dead?"
 "Not that I know of, yet. I mean, not that I know of. When was Mrs. Malcolm killed, could I ask?"
 Columbo leaned back with his steaming coffee. "A neighbor was out for her evening run last night, around eight or so, and heard a shot coming from the Malcolm house."
 "Eight," I mumbled.
 "Or thereabouts," Columbo verified. "Anyway, she goes to the front window to investigate, sees Mrs. Malcolm on the floor, blood on the carpet, very disturbing, you can understand. And then she hears a rear door slam. Well, she hightails it home and calls 911, which was a very smart thing to do. You don't want to try to take a person like this on, believe you me."
 I chewed on my cheek. "Any suspects so far?"
 "Well," Columbo said. "You know, in a case like this, it's routine we check out the spouse. Mr. Malcolm didn't get home until about 10 or so. He has a pager, but I guess none of the guys at the scene thought to call it. The funny thing is, sir, and I don't want to make any assumptions here…"
 "Spit it out, Lieutenant," I suggested, knowing what was coming and dreading it.
 "Well, the funny thing is, Mr. Malcolm insisted he was in a business meeting at the time of the murder last night, but he was very secretive about who else was with him."
 He would have been, I mused, if he'd actually been taking a meeting. "Ah, Lieutenant, I know why Mr. Malcolm was being so secretive. It wasn't a business meeting. Unless he turned in the hotel receipt."
 Columbo's brow furrowed as he scratched his blue chin.
 "You know what I mean?" I asked, seeking comprehension. I found it: Columbo slapped his forehead and grinned sheepishly.
 "My goodness," he murmured. Then, the policeman looked up. "But, if I might ask, how would you know that?"
 I sighed. "At the time Mrs. Malcolm was murdered, I was sitting outside the Hollywood Siesta Hotel, near Wilshire? Mr. Malcolm and a co-worker were in a room of the hotel, engaged in, umm, engaged in adulterous activity."
 Columbo nodded vigorously. "So that's why you were working for Mrs. Malcolm."
 "It wasn't a divorce job," I said through my teeth.
**
 "You know Paul Malcolm is a financial counselor, investments, corporate securities, that kind of thing? Well, he and his wife were heavily involved in a number of charities, including Child Well-Fare."
 Columbo was on his third cup; I hadn't had my first. "I've heard of that. That's that big gourmet thing they have down in Beverly Hills every year. The money goes to help sick kids, disease research, right? That was Mrs. Malcolm's doing? Gee, that's a shame."
 "What was more a shame, and what didn't make the Times, was that Mrs. Malcolm calculated this year's Well-Fare came up nearly a million short. It was done cleverly and without anybody in the campaign or on the Well-Fare board noticing any obvious discrepancy. Mrs. Malcolm was chairperson of the campaign, and Mr. Malcolm was treasurer. Treasurer, Lieutenant."
 "She thought her husband had skimmed off the kids' money?" Columbo asked, seemingly horrified by the enormity of the act. It made me like the guy much better.
 "She had her suspicions. Seems Paul Malcolm has been known to go off on some pretty wild investment hunches, sometimes with his own capital, sometimes with others'. But lately, a few of his hunches have gone south. Mrs. Malcolm thinks, ah, thought her husband might've cooked the books a little, to the tune of around $110,000. I was hired to look for any sign he'd taken the money -- any big-deal investments that seemed beyond his current means, things like that -- and maybe try to locate the money."
"Then, you would what, Mr. Rockford? Call the police, tell Mrs. Malcolm?
I looked at the lieutenant. His expression seemed benign enough. "Get the cops in on it, I guess."
"Hmm. You think maybe Mr. Malcolm could've found out you were watching him, decided to kill his wife to keep the embezzling from coming out?"
The possibility I'd had even a passive role in Melina's murder didn't brighten my day any. "I don't think -- I didn't get the sense he'd spotted the tail. At least he and Miss Secrest -- his secretary, the woman he was, ah, with last night -- didn't seem to realize I was shadowing them."
Columbo leaned back and rubbed his chin. "You didn't happen to take any pictures last night, Mr. Rockford, did you? At the motel?"
"Yeah, sure, Lieutenant. I peeked in over the transom with my trusty Nikon and snapped off a good dozen shots. Nothing flashy, but I thought I might sell a few for the fall issue of Naughty Investment Manager."
The cop's eyes went wide, and he held out a conciliatory palm. "Gee, Mr. Rockford, I certainly didn't mean to suggest…"
"No, no, Columbo," I sighed. "Didn't mean to go ballastic there. Rockford Investigations hasn't had a great quarter, at least for the last couple of years, and it's gotten a little harder lately to turn down the dirty laundry cases. I don't do divorce, and I was telling myself this wasn't that kind of case. Guess it all went south on me, huh?"
"Oh, I don't know, sir. If Mr. Malcolm and the other woman, if you don't mind the expression…"
"Not since third grade."
"If they have solid alibis, sir, then this murder may have been totally unrelated to the Malcolms' marital problems." Columbo slurped down the last of his cup. "Yes, sir, that's excellent coffee, Mr. Rockford. Might I ask what kind you use?"
"Generic, I think they call it. Got it two cans for $4.99 at the Big Lots just last week. There may be a can or two left."
"Well, I'll have to get down there," the lieutenant said, rising from his chair and heading for the trailer door. He stopped. "Just one more thing, Mr. Rockford. You don't have any plans to leave town real soon, do you? Cause it'd probably be best if you kinda stuck around."
"There goes my trip to the Cannes Film Festival. Columbo, I doubt I have enough gas to make it to Bakersfield."
"Yes, sir." Columbo held a hand in the air and waved a goodbye salute. He disappeared back onto the beach, and a second or two later I heard something resembling an internal combustion engine kick into life, followed by a few loud backfires. I didn't mind; my Paradise Cove neighbors would just figure some of my regular social circle had dropped by for a cup of generic coffee and a whack or two at my career-hardened skull.

Paul Malcolm
Wednesday
8:30 a.m.
 The little guy pulled to an abrupt halt in the main hallway, nearly causing a pile-up.
 “Of course,” the detective, what’s-his-name, exclaimed, slapping his head in a way that couldn’t be healthy. “I don’t know why the name didn’t register – the guys last night, they just said you were some kinda financial genius.”
 He was looking at the array of photos and posters from my American International and Warner Bros. days, numerous variations of a younger me in leather and metal, astride dusty choppers and itching for a knife fights in biker bars. Further up the hall was the garish poster for Russell’s Last Score (the first and last installment in the Detective “Rampage” Russell series, thanks to Eastwood), as well as the photo of me arm-wrestling with Lee Marvin, a look of feigned pain on my weathered, shaggy face. I had a feeling this was gonna be the longest walk since Rita Hayward in Rage to Live.
 “I remember THIS one, yes, sir,” he enthused, tapping the glass protecting Free Trip. Fonda and I looked down in grinning defiance at the guy (something Italian…Coppola?). I’d have to have Felicia clean the fingerprints off before Saturday’s party. “I seen this one a million times on TV. This is the one where you ride your motorcycle off the cliff into the ocean at the end, right? That sure was some ending, sir.”
 “Thanks, uh, man.” Columbus?
 “How’d you do it, sir?”
 I turned abruptly to him. “Hah? Whattaya mean?”
 “The jump, sir, at the end of the movie. I mean, they didn’t have special effects, all that computer stuff back then. That musta been pretty scary, I’ll bet.”
 I smiled; guy lived in Tinseltown, and he couldn’t work that one out. “You know, that was moons ago. Way I lived back then, I can hardly remember where I was crashing day to day, much less anything about the filming.”
 Columbo – yeah, that was it – Columbo nodded with a sly conspiratorial grin. Fuzz without a grudge, what do you know? Then his grin faded. “Sorry, sir, I don’t know what I’m doing goin’ on like this when such a tragic thing happened in this house. You have my sympathies, sir.”
 I clapped the cop on the shoulder (I’d worn jeans cleaner than that raincoat back in my badass biker flick days). “Hey, thanks, buddy – I appreciate that. And don’t you worry about being a little starstruck: It’s kind of nice to meet a fan, so few of ‘em left around. Gee, haven’t made a movie in about 25 years now. The investment market’s riskier, but a lot less fickle than the studios, Columbo. C’mon, man; I got a pot of the best damned coffee in the Western Hemisphere on the patio.”
 Once we’d settled on the terrazzo patio and Columbo had quit raving about the view and lavishing compliments on the coffee and reminiscing about seeing Russell’s Last Score with some of the “boys” in the department, the lieutenant started squirming in his chair. “Well, I just can’t think of any way to dance around this, sir. Could you tell me where you were last night? Don’t look alarmed, sir – it’s standard for us to establish the whereabouts of the spouse in any homicide case.”
 “Homicide?” I sputtered. “The guy last night, Sgt. Berg — ”
 “Burke, sir, Sgt. Burke.”
 “Yeah, he was talking like this was a break-in.”
 Columbo held up both hands. “Sir, please. As I said, this is standard procedure.”
 “You know what, though, Lieutenant? Once you’re an actor, you develop a knack for reading delivery, body language, a turn of phrase. Buddy, you’re either not saying something, or seeing if I will. Why don’t we skip the uncomfortable wriggling scene?”
 Columbo pursed his lips. “All right. Were you at a motel last night?”
 I stopped dead, arching my eyebrows and letting my jaw go slack the way I’d rehearsed. “Jeez H., Lieutenant. You been workin’, haven’t you? OK, yeah, I was at a little no-tell motel here in town last night.”
 “And, uh, were you alone, Mr. Malcolm?”
 “Yeah, I was doin’ my taxes. Sorry, man. Course, I wasn’t alone. But I signed in at the motel, so we don’t need to bring the little lady into it, do we? I already feel enough like a shithead doin’ the nasty while some scumbag was killin’ Melina.”
 Columbo scratched his forehead. “Well-l-l, I’m afraid that horse is already outta the barn. You see, there was a witness who could identify the woman in question. It was your secretary, Fran Secrest, wasn’t it, sir?”
“Administrative assistant,” I mumbled. Great touch; absent-minded irrelevance. “Uh, yeah, it was. Now, what kind of witness knows my secretary’s name?”
“A private investigator, Mr. Malcolm, hired by your wife,” Columbo responded, looking carefully at me.
“How the hell did she know?” Shocked wonder. Oscar stuff.
“Know what, sir?” Columbo inquired, complying perfectly with my script. “About Ms. Secrest? No-o-o, sir. I’m afraid she hired the private investigator to look into some suspicions she had about a recent charity event you two put on.”
“Child Well-Fare? Shit, Columbo – I know I’m not gonna win any Husband of the Year Award, but you think I’d steal  from little sick kids? Lemme tell you something, Lieutenant: One of these charity shindigs, you got hundreds of volunteers, caterers, support people milling around.  Cash donations, it can be like a free-for-all. Time you do the final tote-up, it’s a miracle if things add up. I know Melina thought the take shoulda been higher, but I had no idea she’d hire a private eye.”
“Turns out it’s a good thing she did, sir,” Columbo said, emphatically. “Mr. Rockford can attest that you had a perfect alibi for the time of the murder.”
I tipped my coffee cup. “Have to find a way to thank the man.”
**
 Victor was waiting in my office when I got downtown. Frannie gave me a quizzical look as I passed her desk. I nodded and gave her a quick “OK” sign, then shut myself in with the Brazilian.
 “This murder, a horrible thing,” Victor murmured, pulling at his wiry beard. “You have my sympathy, friend.”
 “Thanks, Vic, I appreciate that,” I said quietly, settling into the buttery leather behind my desk. “You’re not even safe out in the ‘burbs today, amigo. I just pray they hang the son of a bitch. ”
 “If there is anything I can do, you know my associates and I would be pleased to assist you.”
 “Cops are on it,” I informed him. “Such as they are.”
 “Yes, the police,” Victor Benarez nodded, smiling serenely. “Do you anticipate that the authorities will have any interest in your business affairs? More specifically, our venture?”
 I’d expected this. “Vic, buddy, don’t sweat it. Turns out some sleazy window peeper gave me the all-clear with the cops. Melina hired the guy to check up on me, and he caught me in flagrante delicto.”
 Victor shook his head slightly, a mildly disapproving look on his face. “You have a weakness for the ladies, friend. Myself, I have been married to the same woman for 15 years. I find fidelity gives me a, what, a focus on my priorities.”
 I grinned. “Fidelity gives me a bad case of the shakes. In this case, infidelity got me out of a real fix. Don’t get your shorts in a wad, Vic – cops aren’t gonna waste their time on me.”
 “How about our investors?” Victor inquired, somewhat more sharply. “At the risk of sounding insensitive, will your misfortune become an unpleasant distraction for our moneyed friends?”
 I waved him off. “You ever heard of the sympathy vote, compadre? They’ll beg us to take their cash.”
 Victor chewed at his moustache. “I will trust to your judgment. It is, after all, your country, and I’m but a simple farmer.”
 I laughed loudly. Farmer. Victor and his family owned several hundred thousand acres of soybeans in Brazil’s prime agricultural region, and were buying up South American grassland faster than a fat housewife buying Hummels off the Home Shopping Network. We’d met up at some indie director’s party, and over a couple or a dozen Cuervos came up with the perfect scam.
 Some of the major growers in the Brazilian inland were sinking major bucks into dredging and docks on the Amazon and Parana  Rivers, so they could get their beans to the coast ports. With millions of virgin acres in the grasslands waiting to be plowed up, they were sitting on a gold mine. And where there’s the whiff of money, there’s always an army of marks waiting to smell up the place with even more. A buddy of mine worked up some convincing paper for Victor, and we’d managed to pitch some of Southern California’s wealthier hairbags a piece of some invisible Panamax soybean barges.
 “What of this widow peeker? Is he still, as you’d say, on your ass?”
 “Window peeper, Vic. I got a feeling he’ll be off it real quick.”

Jim Rockford
Friday
2:30 p.m.
 “Melina Shelbourne Malcolm was a beacon of Christian charity in a dark landscape of opportunism and hedonism,” intoned a California preacher who looked like he’d prepped for Melina’s service with three hours at a Beverly Hills salon. “She forsook the mantle of Hollywood glamor for a cloak of compassion…”
 The writing had gone downhill in sitcoms, network newsmagazines, and last rites. I glanced over at Paul Malcolm, seated next to the mausoleum vault in stylish black, surreptitiously checking his watch.  Fran Secrest was sitting in the cheap seats, checking out the fashions around her. I was sitting in the funereal equivalent of the nosebleed section, T’keyah Cleveland at my side.
 T’keyah was 120 pounds of steel cable and attitude, with a soft center. She’d been Melina’s combination administrative assistant, street liaison, and bouncer, working with her at WelL.A., the base operations for Well-Fare programs. T’keyah would likely have hurdled five rows of mourners and went right for Paulie’s jugular if I hadn’t told her about my stakeout at the Siesta Motel; her jaw was a solid mass of rock, and her wet eyes were gold with the L.A. sunset.
 “Look at him,” T’keyah spat as soon as the minister clapped his Bible shut and the mourners began to clump. Paul was surrounded by solicitous friends of the deceased and, I assumed, major business contacts. It wasn’t hard to sort them out: Quiet, quietly dressed folks with red eyes and wringing hands and loud, Armani-draped, ponytailed power dealers. “Just know he capped Mel, Rock; just know it.”
“T’keyah,” I sighed. “Granted, the man’s oilier than Kuwait and Texas combined, but unfortunately, I’m his chief alibi for the murder. And it’s a rock solid one, T’keyah. He might’ve robbed those kids, but he didn’t kill Melina.
“’Less he hired it done,” she challenged.
“And then establish a perfect alibi that puts you in a sleazy motel with your apparently very capable administrative assistant? Much as I’d like to put him in a concrete suite, I’d have to say you’re reaching. T’keyah, you have any idea of anybody at the Center who might’ve had it in for Melina. Dissatisfied client, parents of some kid who didn’t make it, maybe blamed her or Well-Fare?”
T’keyah insistently shook her head. “No, man. Everybody respected Melina, the gangbangers and the Beverly Hillclimbers. Rock, tell you how I met Melina: She come down to my school, looking for volunteer bodies. I take one look at this rich do-goody ofay, I say, better get the body bag ready, boys.  But she’s there all day, walking round the halls, talking with the homeboys, eatin’ that shit they serve in the cafeteria.
“’End of the day, I’m getting’ my ass outta there, and this crazy bitch is waitin’ for me at my locker. Said she been talkin’ to the counselors, did I want a job after school helpin’ her with paperwork and phone calls and shit. I looked at her like, ‘Girl, you must be crazy.’ But she didn’t flinch, and I needed the cash money, so I showed up next afternoon. That was eight years ago; since then, she’s helped me get my bachelor’s degree, helped me get my grandma in a good place when the Alzheimer’s set in, got me started on my master’s. I’m gonna be a social worker when the best I probably ever figured on before was a career fast food. And I ain’t the only one. Who’d kill a woman like that, Rock?”
I placed a hand on her shoulder. “Look, T’keyah, when you’ve been doing what I do for as long as I have, you begin to realize there isn’t much almost anybody’s not willing to do, if the money’s good enough or the stakes are high enough. After a while, it’ll toughen you up.”
T’keyah looked up at me, and suddenly grinned. “Yeah, you a real hard case, all right. That why we ain’t seen the first sign of a bill from you, Mr. Hard Man?”
“I plan on deducting my expenses as a charitable contribution next April,” I informed her with great dignity, steering her toward the line of departing cars a few hundred feet away.
“Sir, oh, sir!!” I turned to see Columbo walking as quickly as he could toward us, raincoat flapping in the light summer breeze. “I wonder if I might have just a moment of your time…”
T’keyah took in the battered coat, the lunch-stained tie, the scuffed shoes, and reached for her purse. “What you need, baby? Something to eat? Well, it’s a couple days ‘til payday…”
I held up a hand, struggling not to bust a gut. “T’keyah Cleveland, this is Lt. Columbo of the LAPD. Lieutenant, Ms. Cleveland was an associate of Mrs. Malcolm.”
“A pleasure to meet you, ma’am. And thanks for the offer, but I had a Danish right before I came over here.”
“What are you doing here, Columbo?” I inquired.
He glanced at the departing mourners. “Well, Mr. Rockford, sometimes I find coming to a funeral, the gathering of the loved ones, all the emotions in the air, sometimes I find it very illuminating. To watch the reactions of the people, that is. For example, you’re a private eye. Did you happen to notice that Ms. Secrest, Mr. Malcolm’s secretary, ah, administrative assistant – sorry, ma’am – that Ms. Secrest didn’t look at Ms. Malcolm even once during the entire funeral service. Not even once?”
“Yeah, I did kinda wonder about that,” T’keyah murmured. “What about you, Rock?”
I smiled weakly. “Well, I was sorta scanning the whole crowd, getting the big picture…”
“Well, don’t you find that odd, sir?” Columbo probed. “I mean, Ms. Secrest is
supposedly having a romantic liaison – pardon me, ma’am – with Mr. Malcolm, and here they are, him mourning this terrible loss and her having to keep some distance from him while they bury his wife, and she doesn’t even look at the man? In fact, she looked very disinterested to me, almost bored. Unless she’s one heck of an actress, sir – and with her Malcolm’s alibi for the murder, I can’t see why she would need to act disinterested toward him – that makes me wonder about their whole relationship.”
 “Maybe she was just after his money,” I suggested. “Maybe she’s one of those women who isn’t interested in a man after the wife is out of the picture.”
 “One of THOSE women?” T’keyah asked, an eyebrow arching dangerously.
 “I don’t know,” I said, backpedaling. “Look, Lieutenant, I know what I saw— ”
 “James Rockford?” a familiar voice sounded behind me. Paul Malcolm stood behind me with a beaming white grin and mirrored sunglasses. Behind him was a ponytailed man in a white linen suit.
 “Yeahh,” I drawled uncertainly. “That’s me…”
 He held out a well-manicured palm. “Hear you been keeping an eye on me these last few weeks. In fact, hear you helped clear me of Melina’s death with the lieutenant, here. Hey, Columbo.”
 Columbo smiled broadly, saluting the former film star turned embezzling adulterer.
 “Anyway, just wanted to thank you for clearing up a potentially messy situation, Rockford,” Malcolm said, pumping my hand.
 I glanced at the man in the white linen suit. He smiled. “Mr. Rockford, I’m Harold Faltzmann, Mr. Malcolm’s attorney, and I’ve been asked to inform you that any further effort to monitor my client’s activities or otherwise harass my client will result in legal action on Mr. Malcolm’s behalf. Is that clear?”
 I nodded numbly. “And beautifully said.”
 “Rockford?” yet another voice sneered. Couple of minutes, and the live people here would outnumber the dead. “You work for this guy?” Jake Paggio growled.
 “Who’re you, Ace?” Malcolm asked the restaurateur, whose European suit topped both Malcolm’s and Faltzmann’s. Certainly Columbo’s.
 “A friend of a friend, Hollywood,” Paggio smiled. I’d seen more inviting smiles through the glass at the Seaquarium shark tank. “We met at Child Well-Fare last year – Jake Paggio of Paggio’s Trattoria. I worked with your wife some on getting the restaurant owners out. She was a really nice lady. So, what, you two working together? You and the sleazeball here?”
 “Hey,” I protested.
 “I don’t know what your issue is with Mr. Malcolm here, but…” Faltzmann began to intervene.
 “Lemme guess,” Paggio said pleasantly, another inch of shark’s teeth unzipping. “You just have to be the lawyer, right. Nice suit, fella – you the new manager at Fantasy Island?”
 “Look, buddy, I don’t know what your damage is, but you think a guy like me couldn’t afford better than some trailer park gumshoe?” Malcolm offered personably.
 “Hey,” I objected.
 “Excuse me, sir,” Columbo interjected, finally. “You’re the restaurant guy? Paggio’s down on Vine?”
 “Yeah,” he said uncertainly, looking the rumpled cop up and down.
 The lieutenant stepped closer. “I gotta tell you, Mr. Paggio. We brought my nephew down to your place last January for his 16th birthday, and that was absolutely the best calamari I ever set my teeth into. I couldn’t believe that came off a squid, sir.”
 Paggio was at a loss. “And you are?”
 “Oh, I’m sorry, sir,” Columbo said, smacking his forehead. “I’m Lt. Columbo, L.A. Homicide Division.”
 Paggio skipped only about a half-beat, then recovered. “Well, Lieutenant, looks like you’re on the right trail here. Tell you what, you and the missus, you come down any time to my place, tell ‘em Jake said you should have the special, and they’ll fix you up. OK, paisan?”
 “Wow, thanks, Mr. Paggio – we sure will,” Columbo gushed.
 “And you, Rockford, I’ll be keeping tabs on you,” Bernardo Paggio’s oldest murmured with a big cartilaginous grin before aiming himself at a red Jag down the hill.
 “The hell’s the deal with Michael Corleone there?” Malcolm chuckled.
 “The ‘deal,’ Paulie,” I informed him, “is that he thinks I made up this whole Sierra Hotel alibi. He thinks you paid me off to cover your ass with the cops. Which would be worth a couple of chuckles except his dad is head of one of L.A.’s top families. And I don’t mean the Barrymores or the Estevez/Sheens.”
 “Why would he think that, Mr. Rockford?” Columbo inquired. “And what’s his interest in Mrs. Malcolm’s death? If he just helped with her charity activities, why would he threaten you like that?”
 “Well,” T’keyah mulled, “Melina and Mr. Paggio did spend a lot of time on the Well-Fare plans. I wonder…”
 “Yes, ma’am?” Columbo prodded.
 Melina’s assistant shrugged. “I don’t know, man. Just thinkin’ aloud.”
 “Well, this sure is turning into one hellacious little soiree,” Malcolm said, “but I’m gonna have a house full of folks arriving any time for Melina’s wake. You coming, Tequila?”
 T’keyah bristled at what was obviously Malcolm’s customary taunt. “You don’t mind, Paul, think I’ll mourn Melina by goin’ over the Well-Fare books one more time.”
 Malcolm chuckled and waggled a scolding index finger. Faltzmann started to say something, but his client waved him off. “Suit yourself, Tequila. C’mon, counselor.”
 “Uh, sir, I know you got your wife’s affairs to take care of, but I was wondering if I could go over a couple of things with you?” Columbo asked.
 Malcolm’s smile faded, then came back full-force. “Why don’t you come over to the house, Lieutenant, ask me some questions and have some expensive cheese and fish eggs? I knew Nicholson and Fonda back in the old days, Columbo; you might get a chance to do a little stargazing.”
 The little cop looked like a kindergartner in a Toys R Us. “You mean that, sir? I would love to, Mr. Malcolm. You do mean JACK Nicholson, right, sir?”
 “No guarantees, Columbo,” Malcolm laughed. “C’mon in the limo – I’ll see my guy brings you back to your…” he looked at the ancient import that couldn’t be anyone’s but Columbo’s. “…to your, ah, car when you’re ready to leave.”
 After Columbo piled into the stretch with the lawyer and the actor/investment whiz, just me, the gravediggers and T’keyah were left, along with the shells of several hundred of L.A.’s former citizens.
 “You got what we in the business would call an eclectic social circle,” she observed.
 I gave her a sour smile. “C’mon, I’ll take you to a burger place where the cheese is not so expensive and we can probably round up a few roach eggs.”
 As I turned toward the drive, I spotted her, folding her cell phone and rising from her folding chair. Fran Secrest crossed to a red Camry convertible, and I tapped T’keyah’s shoulder. “Better idea: How about a little surveillance, then I’ll take you for a real dinner.”
 “Jack-in-the-Box, yummy,” she replied glumly, following me to the Firebird. Boy, would she be surprised when we got to the Sizzler.

Paul Malcolm
Friday
4:24 p.m.
 “Mr. Malcolm, sir?” Felicia whispered, fretfully, tapping me with a chubby finger. I turned to my housekeeper, who looked distressed and embarassed.
 “Yeah, what’s up?” I asked, nudging the annoyance out of my voice and trying to locate the raincoated cop in the milling crowd of mourning actors, studio execs, investors, and Hollywood hangers-on. Columbo was bending Roger Corman’s ear loudly about old Vincent Price movies – my old producer looked like he was sorry he’d popped by to pay his respects. I pulled Felicia into the den. “OK, what’s the deal? That Laker chick pass out in the john or something? Nicholson eyeing the silverware?”
 “No, nothing like that.” Felicia chewed her lip. “It’s just I was packing up some of Mrs. Malcolm’s things, like you’d asked, and I came across something in her armoire. Something kind of unusual.”
 I looked at her for a moment. Had Melina come across some piece of evidence that I’d skimmed that Well-Fare money? I’d been very careful, had used every laundering trick I knew to turn it around for the Brazilian barge scam.
 Felicia fished in her skirt and brought up a Rolex. Pricey one, with diamonds. Mine was on my wrist, and I tended toward turquoise. I plucked it from her fingers, and turned it over. A simple monogram had been engraved on the back of the face. “J.P.” It took a second or two to click into place.
 “In her armoire, huh?”
 “Yes, Mr. Malcolm. Under, umm, under some of her private things.”
 I forced a smile, and slipped an arm around the pudgy domestic’s shoulder. “Felicia, honey, you got an overactive imagination. Jake Paggio, the Italian restaurant guy Melina worked with on the Well-Fare thing, left it at the center. She told me she was gonna hide it ‘til she could get in touch with Mr. Paggio. Melina was awful worried, something that expensive just sitting around on the coffee table.”
 Felicia nodded, relieved. Then her eyes clouded; probably thinking about Melina, who’d treated her more like a sister than our part-time maid.
 “I appreciate you coming over to help with the wake, Felicia,” I said gently, squeezing her shoulder. “I know this has been rough on you, so why don’t you take the next week off.”
 “But with the police and the funeral arrangements and the wake, I haven’t even had time to clean the house since Monday,” she protested.
 “Don’t worry about it – I’ll police myself for a week. I could use the time to myself, and of course, I’ll pay you for the week.”
 “Oh, Mr. Malcolm, I couldn’t let you…”
 “Won’t hear of anything else, Felicia,” I said, steering her firmly back into the hall. “You get something to eat, stay as long as you want, and I’ll see you back here a week from Monday.”
 “Okay,” she said, reluctantly. “Gracias.”
 “De nada,” I told her back as she headed toward the crowd. Jesus, so Mother Melina had been cheating – no other way I could think of Paggio’s Rolex could wind up under her frilly stuff. Probably thought I was screwing around, so she started up with Wolfgang Punk. I chuckled at the irony. Also explained why Paggio was so fired up at the idea of me hiring Rockford to give me an alibi. Hoped that funky little cop didn’t buy into that…
 “Mr. Malcolm?” I jumped – Columbo had been standing on the other side of the doorway when Felicia had left. “Great party, sir. I love those little pastry things with the crab. And that Dennis Hopper, he’s really funny. But the wife’s got a casserole on tonight, so I was wondering if maybe you had a chance to look at a couple of things.”
 “Yeah, sure, you bet,” I smiled, regaining my composure. How much had he heard?
 The lieutenant pulled a manila envelope from his raincoat pocket, smoothed it out on a hallway table, and tugged a sheaf of photos from it. “What I’m going to show you could be upsetting, sir. I just wanted to warn you. These were taken at the morgue, Mr. Malcolm.”
 “Real considerate of you, Columbo, but I’m a big boy.” I took the photos from him and peered  at them. “You say these are of my wife?”
 “Well, sir, actually, they’re of your wife’s slacks. The slacks she was wearing the day she was killed. They’re white cotton, and as you can see, she got into something. See that smudge there on the thigh, sir? And if you’ll look real close, maybe you can make out what looks to be some letters. They’re faint, but the lab guys managed to bring ‘em out.”
“IR,” I recited, checking my watch.
“Actually, sir, you'll see the 'R' is backwards,” Columbo echoed. “If the lettering were pressed into the fabric, it would've been backwards. So what we've got is 'RI.' Only thing I could figure out immediately was the abbreviation for Rhode Island, but that’s probably not right. Do those letters have any significance to you?”
“Nada, Lieutenant. What makes you think they got any connection to the case?”
Columbo shrugged. “I don’t know, Mr. Malcolm – I’m just working with what I’ve got. This case has me stumped so far, sir. There literally aren’t any suspects: Everybody seemed to love your wife. She must’ve been one heck of a woman.”
“Yeah,” I said, probably too quickly. “She was a gem.” Too much.
“So you see my problem. Once I eliminate the most obvious alternatives--”
“Me.”
He looked sheepishly up at me. “Well, sir, it is routine to eliminate the spouse. And with Mr. Rockford’s report, you’re in the clear. By the way, was that the truth, what your lawyer said, that you’d sue Mr. Rockford? I mean, it would seem that with his client dead, he wouldn’t have any reason to follow you any more.”
I could’ve kicked Faltermann’s ass for threatening Rockford in front of Columbo, but I couldn’t afford the nuisance with the Brazilian deal brewing. “Guess it’s the Hollywood mentality, Columbo. Even now I been out of the movie biz for 25-some-odd years, folks remember me and still pester my acting buddies. Paparazzis, psycho fans, folks with that magical comeback script. Some time, I’ll show you my collection of Russell sequel scripts. Anyway, you can’t just break some photographer’s arm any more, so you gotta carry a lawyer in your pocket. I just don’t want Rockford dogging my heels trying to find some way to finance a better grade of beachfront property.”
“I understand, sir, even though Mr. Rockford doesn’t strike me as that sort of fellow. Well, I sure enjoyed talking to the people here, even if the circumstances weren’t the best in the world, but if I don’t get home…”
“Yeah, the casserole, right,” I started around him. “Lemme get my driver…”
Columbo waved that off. “No, you’ve already been kind enough. If I can use your phone, I’ll get a patrol car to take me back to the cemetery.”
“Use the kitchen phone, less commotion.”
The lieutenant saluted, then peered seemingly at my right hand. “Wow, that is a beauty, sir.”
My fingers felt the Rolex I’d forgotten I was holding. I resisted the impulse to stuff it in my pocket. “Yeah, ain’t it? Cost a fortune.”
Columbo reached over and fondled the watch, nearly sending me into cardiac seizure. He tsk’ed. “Tell me about it. I buy the most expensive watch on the clearance table at the Safeway, and within a week, it kicks out on me. Then I gotta plunk down another $15, and who knows how long this one’s gonna last.”
“They’ll screw you, all right.”
“Yes, sir. Well, you take care, Mr. Malcolm.”
The lieutenant sauntered back down the hall, greeting Corman with a hearty farewell that nearly caused the producer to drop his Scotch. I wiped my sweat from the Rolex and slipped it into my slacks.

Jim Rockford
4:04 p.m.
Friday
 “This detective work, I think I’ll stick to takin’ shit from gangers and cleanin’ up drunks,” T’keyah groused as Fran Secrest pulled out of the Safeway lot. So far, we’d monitored Paul Malcolm’s paramour as she dress-shopped, shoe-shopped, liquor-shopped, and now dinner-shopped. Beyond possible criticism of her spending priorities, there was nothing I could pin on her yet.
 “A good tail should be boring,” I informed my young passenger. “Too much excitement, and the next thing you know, you’ve got a .38 caliber, blue-steel nasal obstruction.”
 “Baby, make me wet when you talk detective,” T’keyah yawned. “What are we hoping to find here, anyway?”
 “I dunno,” I said eloquently, keeping two cars behind the administrative assistant. Fran suddenly signaled a turn into a tree-lined residential neighborhood, and I tensed. A good tail was a lot harder to maintain once you got into suburbia. I let Fran get a good block on me – just enough to keep up with the turns.
 “That didn’t bother you, what that asshole said back at the dead folk’s home.”
 “Trailer trash?” I smiled and shrugged. “That’s an affectionate nickname in my trade. But it does break bad with me that Melina gets killed while I’m watching Paul, umm…”
 “Getting his groove on?”
 “Precisely. Makes me think that somehow he scammed me. But I’ll be damned if I can figure out how.”
 “So what do we do?”
 I grinned despite myself. “Oh, you’ll see. Whoop, she’s coming into port.”
 Fran had pulled up in front of a pink stucco apartment house. I cruised into a space two houses away, and we watched Paul’s assistant sprint up the walk and disappear through the arched front entrance.
 “What’re we gonna do?” T’keyah asked plaintively. “Just wait here?”
 I leaned back in the seat. “’Less the Israeli Army shows up.”
 She came back out five minutes later, wearing jeans and a tank top. Fran’s companion was similarly attired. At the end of the walk, Fran’s apparent date for the evening seized her by the waist and kissed her for an oxygen-depleting minute.
 “Shit,” T’keyah exclaimed. “Girl likes girls.”
 “Ain’t that a hoot,” I murmured.
**
 The Hollywood Siesta Motel at 5:30 p.m. was deader than the Bates Motel after Tony Perkins killed the last guest. A couple of bikers were recouping at the end of the row for a night of doubtlessly wholesome entertainment, but the working girls were still troweling on their makeup and working on their lines.
 I worked the key the manager had leant me. Careful to touch nothing and leave no trace evidence, I moved past the freshly made bed and into the bathroom. Tacky but eminently clean, a microscopic bar of generic soap the only amenity provided for and probably needed by the inn’s clientele, beyond the occasional shot of penicillin.
 The pebbled glass window over the Eisenhower-era toilet was tightly shut and crusted over with the caulk of neglect. No way Malcolm had squeezed out the back for a fatal rendezvous with Melina. And I’d kept my eyes locked on the room door, the only other point of departure.
 I leaned against the chipped sink, my brain cranking. Something was screwy with Paul’s perfect alibi. Unless Fran was what we in the sophisticate Southern California culture called “curiously bi,” I doubted an evening with Malcolm here in the Salvation Army Suite would have been to her taste. Of course, it wouldn’t have been the first time a savvy gal on the move would’ve used her charms to climb the corporate ladder – even a gal who didn’t care for guys – but in a one-man shop like Malcolm’s, what advancement was there?
 “Hello?” a familiar voice called from the doorway. I smelled a whiff of something acrid and organic. “Anybody home?”
 My bad knee wouldn’t have taken me out the back window even if my bad shoulder had wrestled it open, so I sighed and returned to the main room. “Right here, Lieutenant.”
 Columbo, holding a smoldering thing I guess he called a cigar, looked astonished. “Mr. Rockford? I thought Mr. Patel at the office said somebody from the building inspector’s was here. Said the guy’s name was Jim Taggart.”
 “Must’ve misheard me,” I ventured. “Just thought I’d check out the other scene of the crime. At least, in the biblical sense. I was hoping I’d find a way Malcolm might’ve given me the slip while I was staking out the room. But no such luck.”
 “You were wondering about Mr. Malcolm’s alibi, too?” Columbo lowered himself to the bed. “I kept thinking about the way Ms. Secrest didn’t pay any attention to Mr. Malcolm at the funeral today. It just didn’t square with this.”
 “Fran Secrest and Paul Malcolm don’t square in another sense, Columbo.” I described her liaison with the woman at the apartment. “Her name’s Gena Thuringer – only two women in the building, and the old lady emptying her garbage while I was looking at the mailboxes looked a lot more like a Tran Nguyen than Gena did. I thought there was something kinda phony about her, ah, her ‘enthusiasm’ that night. If things had really gotten that wild, Malcolm probably would’ve needed a twin brother to keep up.”
 Columbo’s eyes narrowed as white smoke snaked around his head. “What’d you say, Mr. Rockford. Twin?” He leapt to his feet and bee-lined to the phone on bedside table.
 “Lieutenant?” I asked as he punched a single key.
 Columbo held his cigar up to hold off my questions. “Yes, Mr. Patel, sir? This is Lt. Columbo, I was there a few minutes ago… No, sir, I don’t think the inspector will give you any hassles. Mr. Patel, would you know where there’s a video store in the neighborhood? Uh, noooo, sir, not that kind. Just a regular movie video store? Two blocks? A Thai restaurant, yes, I got that. Thank you, sir. Yes, we’ll drop the key off.”
 Columbo cradled the phone with a faint smile. “Wanna go to the movies, Mr. Rockford?”
**
 The video clerk had enough metal stapled, pinned and looped into him he could probably have blocked satellite TV signals. But the kid knew his cinema, and after a squinting study of Columbo’s badge,  he set us up with the overheard monitor.
 “Just the names,” Columbo instructed the clerk.
 “The names?” the kid grunted.
 “You know, at the end, when they show you who did everything.”
 “The credits?” I guessed.
 “Those,” Columbo stated.
 It was one of Paul Malcolm’s biker sagas, grainy and pale and full of amateurish histrionics, at least the minute before the final credits rolled. Columbo had his pen poised over a tiny spiral notebook, and scribbled manically as the last of the text moved up the screen.
 “Could we have the next one, please, sir?” Columbo called.
 It went like that for four more videos. Finally, the lieutenant turned to me.
 “Two stuntmen were in every one of those movies,” the cop informed me. “Hal Krausewitz and Jack Bryner. I think we oughtta look up those two fellas.”
I frowned. “Stunt men. Hold up a minute. You think Paul Malcolm used a stunt man to pose as him at the motel?”
“Bear with me, Mr. Rockford,” Columbo said. “When I first met Mr. Malcolm, I mentioned to him a very dangerous stunt in one of his biker movies. I asked him about it. He didn't try to claim he'd done the stunt, like some of these actors do. He didn't just simply tell me a stuntman had done it for him, which he certainly must've known. Either you'd ride off a cliff or you'd get somebody else to do it. He said he didn't remember. It was like he didn't want me to start thinking about stuntmen.
"'Sides, I got a feeling Malcolm knew his wife had hired a private eye to follow him, and that he even checked up on you. At the cemetery, he made that crack about you being trailer trash. Not about you being a cheap gumshoe or a sleazy private dick…"
"Yeah, point taken," I snapped.
"…but specifically that you were 'trailer trash,' as if he knew you lived in a trailer. Of course, that could just be a coincidence, but this afternoon, Mr. Malcolm suggested to me that you might be tempted to continue tailing him for purposes of blackmail. He said you might think you could extort enough money to buy 'a better grade of beachfront property.' How'd he know you even lived on the beach?"
I chewed on that. "The lawyer probably had me checked out."
"Maybe," Columbo conceded reluctantly. "But let's just say you're Paul Malcolm, and you want to find somebody who could fool a relative stranger at a long distance. Why not use the man who made a living doubling for you in the movies? You would've worked closely together, and in the case of these low-budget movies, you probably traveled in the same circles. And with all the fancy computer work in the movies today, combined with the fact this guy's in his 50s now, I'll betcha he could've used the money."
"Seems awfully complicated," I complained, as a short, portly man nudged past me on his hasty way to the curtained adult film cavern. "Why take the risk of me catching on? Wouldn't it be simpler to hire a hit and go to the motel himself?"
"If somebody came to you and asked you to kill their wife or just impersonate you in some kind of elaborate gag on the private eye your wife hired to follow him, which offer would you be more inclined to accept?"
I sighed. "Even if it weren't so implausible, there's a gigantic flaw in your little scenario. But if you want to hear, it, you've gotta buy me some dinner. I haven't even had lunch yet?"
"Excuse me," Columbo called to the clerk. "This Thai place across the street -- they got chili?"
**
 "As I look back on things, I was far enough away from Malcolm all evening that maybe he could've fooled me with a double," I admitted as I dug into some noodles with sesame. "When he left his house, I was parked about a half-block down. It was getting dusky by the time he got to the hotel, and of course, I couldn't see him close up once Secrest got there. Once the room lights went out and it was obvious they were going to sleep off their 'romantic ardor,' I didn't see any need to stick around. I was looking for evidence of embezzlement, not hanky-panky. So Malcolm could've slipped home from wherever he was once Frannie or his double gave him the high sign I was gone."
 Columbo gulped his Thai tea with gusto. "This stuff is very refreshing, you know that? What's the sweet stuff they put in here? Tastes almost like coconut…"
 "Lieutenant," I prompted patiently. "Your theory might hold some water except for one very important flaw. When Malcolm came out of his house to head to the Siesta, Melina came running out to bring him his briefcase. I guess he needed it for show. Then she gave him a goodbye peck. He got in his car, and I never lost sight of him all the way to the motel. Now, maybe Paul could've fooled me with a double, but his own wife?"
 Columbo set his tumbler down. "Never left your sight."
 "Never left my sight."
 The lieutenant smiled, rubbed his temples, and shrugged. "You think they got those almond cookies here?"

Paul Malcolm
8:43 p.m.
Friday
 I'd forgotten I'd let Felicia go for the week, and I was surprised Victor had waited so patiently on the stoop after only one ring.
 "Vic, man, come on in," I invited, clapping him on the shoulder. "I got rid of the vultures, so we can talk some barge business."
 "We have other matters to discuss," Victor said quietly, a microscopic and chilly smile on his face. That's when I noticed the hulk behind him in the size 60 suit. "This is Arturo -- he's a hand with the family farm.'"
 Yeah, right. "What's up? Problems?"
 Victor glided past me. "I was under the assumption you would eliminate Mr. Rockford as a distraction from our venture. Yet, Arturo followed Mr. Rockford from the cemetery today, and our friend was quite busy. First, he spied on your Miss Secrest, and then he met the policeman at the 'hotel' where you and Miss Secrest enjoyed each others' company."
 I was silent for a moment. The room surely would've been cleaned of any evidence of Krausewitz' presence, even if the dyspeptic duo had suspected the truth. And if Rockford had fallen to Fran's alternative lifestyle, well, hell, this was Hollywood, and folks would sleep with Mel Gibson and a three-toed sloth in the same night if the mood or opportunity struck.
 "In my country," Victor interrupted calmly, "lawyers are for divorces and land leases. We have a more direct way of dealing with petty pests."
 "Wait a minute," I said, alarmed. "If you're saying what I think, whacking Rockford'll just bring the law down on us all."
 "Come along," Victor responded, gently taking my arm. "Some fresh night air will help you deal with your recent loss, and I will teach you how I resolve conflict. We will call it a cultural exchange."
**
 “What’s with Artie there?” I murmured to Victor as we headed down the Coast Highway. “Looks more like he crushes heads ‘steada soybeans.”
 Victor looked straight ahead. “Arturo is what you might call a Renaissance man. He is useful in business as well as in my family’s agricultural operations.”
 “You know, Vic, I’m starting to wonder a little about your operations,” I ventured, getting a little drymouthed.
 “Agriculture, as I have told you,” he responded, unperturbed. “In my culture, we do not make the subtle distinctions in ‘operations’ you do. Whether it’s soybeans in Brazil, corn in Argentina, or coca in Columbia…”
 “Holy shit,” I breathed. “Coca. As in cocaine?”
 “You have a good grasp of agriculture, my friend. We are a diversified corporation. That is why I was attracted to your ‘investment’ idea. This is also why I am concerned about your brush with the law. Arturo.”
 The Sandcastle restaurant loomed; I’d checked out Rockford’s trailer there, over a pitcher of vodka martinis. Arturo crunched to a stop a discreet distance from the mobile home. A light flickered in the front room – big night in front of the tube for old Jim.
 “You should remain here, Paul,” Victor instructed me courteously. “Arturo?”
 The pair strolled across the sand, as if to a board meeting. Victor stood at the bottom of the steps, arms crossed, as Arturo rapped on the trailer door. Rockford stepped out carefully, and he and Victor began to talk.
 I slumped back in the seat. I was partners with the freaking Cartagena Cartel. Scamming a bunch of easy old marks was one thing; trafficking with the guest cast of Miami Vice was another. I looked up as Rockford made what I assumed to be a smartass remark and Arturo’s fist piled into his gut. The private eye crumpled like a punctured beachball, and Victor knelt to converse further with him. Rockford nodded, Victor patted him on the shoulder, picked him up, and dusted sand from his shirt. The pair started back toward the car.
 “I don’t believe Mr. Rockford will harass you any further,” Victor smiled, settling back in the seat. “Now we may focus on business, eh?”
 “You sure Rockford’s off our ass?” I asked.
 “I have learned to be prepared for all, ah, contingencies,” he said, with the merest whisper of menace. “For example, I have a private jet waiting at a small strip in Bakersfield, with a pilot on 24-hour call. In the case too many complications arise, I am ready to disappear into the night. And I would like you to know that when a man is my partner, my resources are his, as well. Should any undue complications arise.”
 “Appreciate that,” I croaked.
 “I find myself extremely hungry,” Victor said cheerfully. “Arturo?”

Jim Rockford
8:32 a.m.
Saturday
 My plans for a late Saturday wake-up and huevos rancheros at the Sandcastle went up in a puff of cigar smoke. “C’mon in,” I sighed, gesturing Columbo in. “I got another can of that special blend you like so much – they got it down to $2.99 for two cans now.”
 “You’re limping,” the lieutenant observed, concerned. “You okay, Mr. Rockford?”
 “Something didn’t sit with me too well last night,” I said sourly, filling the Mr. Coffee pot. “You just come by for a cup of java, or you want a bear claw, too?”
 “Coffee’s fine,” Columbo chirped. “Just thought you’d want to know. I talked to a man over at UCLA, knows just about everything there is to know about the movies. I mean everything. And he knows Hal Krausewitz.”
 “The, uh, the stunt guy, right?” I asked, feigning disinterest.
 “The stunt guy, yes, sir. Mr. Krausewitz was Mr. Malcolm’s stunt double in every biker movie he made, plus that Russell movie. You ever see that one?”
 “Electronic music, bad hair, worse acting?” I posed, measuring cheap coffee. “Yeah, loved it.”
 Columbo waved a hand. “Course, that isn’t really how we operate, you know.”
 “Naaww. Look, Lieutenant, I’ve got a very busy day ahead of me – I might even get out the old metal detector and look for Civil War booty.”
 “I got a better idea, Mr. Rockford. We drive out to Mr. Krausewitz’ place, maybe grab a little lunch.”
 I poured a cup of bean sludge into the LAPD guest mug. “Lemme guess. We’re going to sell some Thin Mints to Hal Krausewitz.”
 “You got anything better to do?” Columbo asked.
 “Cheap shot, Lieutenant.”
**
 Hal Krausewitz very likely had never received a plaque from the L.A. Chamber of Commerce or a certificate from the L.A. Rotary Club. I questioned whether the LAPD would even bother to give him a ticket for public intoxication. The stuntman – or, more likely, ex-stuntman – lived at the end of a cul-de-sac that had peaked somewhere around June 1965. The drive had more cracks than a night at a comedy club, and grass was no longer the dominant species in the Krausewitz lawn.
 “Hello? Hello, ma’am?” Columbo called to the overweight old gal mowing the next lot. “This the Krausewitz’ house?”
 She glanced warily at the lieutenant’s Peugot. “You lookin’ for the hippie?”
 “The hippie, ma’am? Would that be Mr. Krausewitz?”
 “The hippie, the pothead, the deadbeat, the souse, the has-been, whatever,” the old lady growled. “All I know is, he’s flushing my property values down the crapper.”
 I glanced at the house behind her. One window was boarded; an abandoned Frigidaire sat in the corner of the porch.
 “Thank you, ma’am,” Columbo shouted cheerfully. We started up the patchwork walk, and I gingerly tested the plank porch. Columbo rapped on a scabby white door. We tried twice more, then my “partner” peeked in the front windows. I stepped around to the single bay garage, and rubbed the dirt from a side window.
 “Columbo,” I  called.
**
 “You know, I’ve had nightmares about the day you two might hook up,” Capt. Diehl sighed as Hal Krausewitz left his garage in a black bag, assisted by two of the L.A. coroner’s staff. The former stunt double had decided on carbon monoxide as a fitting final exit. “What’s your interest in this, Rockford? Or you just get tired of trouble following you and decide to start looking it up for a change?”
 “Uh, Captain,” Columbo spoke up, apprehensively. “Mr. Rockford here is an important witness in a homicide I’m investigating. The Malcolm case, sir? I requested that he accompany me out here.”
 Diehl regarded the lieutenant’s shabby raincoat and food-stained tie, then glanced up at the Krausewitz mansion. “And what’s your stiff here got to do with the Malcolm murder?”
 “I have a theory, sir,” Columbo said in a confidential voice.
 “Oh, boy,” I murmured. For once, I wished Doug Chapman had taken the call. One dimwitted tantrum, and I’d be on my way back to my trailer. This could take awhile.
 “I think I saw this plot on Nash Bridges, and it sounded like bullshit then, too,” Diehl responded as Columbo concluded his hypothesis. “Look at this place, Columbo. Neighbor said the guy hadn’t had a movie gig in years, and if you’ll look in the kitchen, you’ll find more dead soldiers than in Arlington Cemetery. Sometimes, the obvious answer, no matter how banal, is the way to go. My advice, Lieutenant, is to file your report, take your lovely wife for a Saturday ride in the country, and reevaluate your professional relationships, at least with former felons.”
 “Much as I’m enjoying this little seminar on supervisory dynamics, Diehl, don’t you think the coincidences here are just a little fishy?” I asked.
 “Maybe you just need to switch to the $4.99 cologne, Rockford,” the captain quipped, his moustache twitching. “And, Columbo, four words. Burlington Coat Factory Outlet.”
 “Captain seemed tense,” Columbo observed as Diehl pulled away from the curb.
 “Lieutenant, it’s been a little slice of heaven,” I said. “But if you’ll take me home now, I think I can still catch Julia Childs on PBS. I think Julia’s making a linzer torte today, and I promised some of the guys from the old cell block I’d make one the next time we got together.”
 “Mr. Rockford, Jim, if you could just bear with me for one more minute?” Columbo pled. “And I wouldn’t let what Captain Diehl said – about the felons? – bother you. Maybe what we need in this case is a good criminal mind.”
 “Now I’m dancing on a cloud,” I mumbled as the lieutenant marched across the lawn to the neighbor’s house, where the old lady was watching the post-homicide festivities with a bag of Doritos. She hadn’t expected any of the players to wander onto the sidelines, and she clasped her snack food to her sagging bosom.
 “Ma’am, I’m sorry to bother you,” Columbo began contritely. “But I wonder if you could help me with one detail?”
 She looked at him for a second, then at me. I smiled, and she decided to look at Columbo again.
 “When you called Mr. Krausewitz a hippie, what precisely did you mean by that?”
 The old lady relaxed and shoved a nacho-encrusted chip into her dentures. “Hippie. Long hair, tattoos, buncha scummy friends drinkin’ in the front yard. Made the whole neighborhood look low-class.”
 “Yes, ma’am, thank you,” Columbo replied courteously. He looked around, then bellowed. “HEY, GUYS!! GUYS! Don’t take the body yet.”
 The rumpled cop hopped off the old woman’s porch as she coughed chip shrapnel out of her windpipe. I followed Columbo to the morgue wagon in the Krausewitz drive. “Lieutenant?”
 Columbo leaned over the tailgate. “You fellas mind if I open him up?” The fellas shrugged. I could’ve done without it, but I guessed my vote was about as viable as a Florida chad.
 “Mr. Rockford, would you please look at this?” Columbo requested, heightening my joy.
 I took a good breath and leaned into the wagon’s interior. The lieutenant peeled the bag back from Krausewitz’ cyanotic face. “You see his hair? Does he look like a hippie to you?”
 It was a reasonably costly short executive cut that didn’t mesh with his antique Rampage Russell crew T-shirt and grubby jeans. “So maybe he got a job, screwed up first thing out, and decided to take the pipe. OK, OK, I know it leaks, Lieutenant, but I told you what was wrong with your theory.”
 Columbo sat on the tailgate and sighed. “All right. Lemme get you home to your TV show.”
**
 After I waved off Columbo’s mini-war wagon, I checked my messages and crossed cursingly over to the Sand Castle. It was only about 3, so the supper crowd hadn’t yet packed it in. It was the perfect time for a little borderline felonious activity.
 “’Bout time you showed up,” Angel Martin complained, chewing on a piece of the T-bone in front of him. “This one’s drivin’ me bughouse with this Board of Health routine.”
 “Hey,” Kenny Hollywood protested blandly. “Jim, you got any idea what kind of temperatures the salmonella pathogen can survive. This fork here could have half the population of Detroit on it. And the rim of these plastic tumblers?”
 “Thanks, Kenny,” I smiled tersely. “Guess I’ll pass on the pie after all. And Angel, I said for us to meet over coffee, not the $14.99 special. I am not picking that up.”
 “Where’s Gabby?” Gandolph Fitch demanded. He and Marcus Hayes O’Brien, parole agent/private eye/grifter, had worked a previous gig without me, and it had left my former prison buddy somewhat soured toward Mark. “Thought he was in on this scam.”
 “Gandy, you wanna keep it down?” I asked through my teeth. “Mark just called. Said he had some family troubles, and he’d have to ‘bow out.’”
 “Just like that turkey,” the hulking man growled.
 “We’ll just have to work around it,” I said, taking a deep breath. “That means you’ll have to play the DEA part, Kenny.”
 “Aw, man, Jimmy,” Angel whined.
 “It can’t be helped, Angel.”
 Kenny compulsively pulled a Sani-Wipe from his pocket and ripped the packet open. “Jim, I don’t like to play feds. Not that it’s a federal beef I get caught. It just isn’t my style.”
 “Always gotta be the sport, huh, Kenny?”
 Kenny scrubbed his fingertips. “No need to get mad, Jim. I’ll do it, for the kids.”
 “For the kids,” Angel jeered. “You Jerry Lewis, man?”
 I looked the little scam artist straight in the eye. “Angel, that’s why we’re all doing this. That, and the $600 in car repairs you cost me when you needed ‘to run a few errands.’ Gandy, you got your part straight?”
 “Yeah, Rockfish,” he said. “Man steals from little sick kids, you say the word, I’ll rearrange his..”
 “Gandy, I thought we were working on our anger management skills.”
 Kenny checked his watch. “I’m gonna do this DEA thing, I want to get home and study my lines. You need anything else, Jim?”
 I scanned the “team” I’d assembled. “Don’t suppose you know any good prayers?”

Paul Malcolm
11:15 a.m.
Sunday
 They tell first-time public speakers to get over their nerves by picturing the audience in their underwear. All that ever did was make me horny, which is OK if they’ve got you behind a podium. Unfortunately, the modern speaker’s gotta move around, work the crowd, sprint around like Carl Lewis.
 What works for me is picturing my audience as a group of sleeping sheep, their wallets lying on the table in front of them. Gets my blood pumping.
 “When I was riding a Harley around the set, choking on dirt and bad direction, I learned an important thing,” I concluded as I looked into the rapt faces of the 200 Shropshires gathered for brunch and some get-rich-quick advice. “You don’t rev your motor ‘til it counts – ‘til the cameras are on, the road is open, and you got some hope of getting somewhere. And when you do gun it, you gotta go full-throttle – no puttering around, no sightseeing. Race for those opportunities, and leave the other guys choking on your dirt. Thanks, guys!”
 They were up on their feet before I set the mike down. Standing ovation for a bunch of bullshit clichés and thin air. I loved it; this was immediate gratification, no waiting for some hack editor to chop and puree your work and serve it up half-cooked to a bunch of candy-ass critics. And if that wasn’t enough, these yokels would probably jump on the CD/video table outside faster’n Brando on the Sizzler buffet. These sheep, unlike my Brazilian barge investors, would not only stand still while you sheared them, but would offer to serve you an arm or a leg with some mint jelly.
 As the next speaker, a motivational clown who’d come out of white-collar prison with some lamebrain “Dare to be Free” scam, grabbed the mike and started hopping and skipping across the stage, I tried to make the ballroom doors without getting nibbled by sheep. Unfortunately, a small flock lay in wait, videos and books in hand.
 “Man, I can’t talk about that,” I joshed with a guy with too much hair in his ears and an unhealthy interest in how many actresses I’d banged. “Let’s just say, though, that I had to get a new seat for my chopper time she was done.”
 As my number one fan guffawed, I spotted him leaning on the other wall. About 10 feet down the wall was a bald, tough-looking side of beef in a double-breasted suit, the scar tissue on his face clashing with his kiltie tassle loafers.
 “Hey, sport,” I greeted Jake Paggio. “Shouldn’t you be off scampi-ing your shrimp or pounding your veal or something?”
 Paggio waited on the wall. “Don’t open ‘til four, Mr. Malcolm. Thought I’d see what you’re dishing up for the marks in there. My grandpa grew vegetables in that stuff. I can’t believe Melina ever fell for it.”
 I kept my smile pasted on my face. “You wanna make it for that four o’clock opening, maybe you want your watch back. I dipped into my jacket and brought up the Rolex.”
 “Wondered where it went to,” Paggio said, accepting the timepiece. “You even care, Easy Rider? It even bother you another man was seeing your wife, treated her like a woman of her quality deserved?”
 “Sorry, Jake. My hotel brawling days ended back in ’78. There a reason you’re here, besides to get back your bedroom souvenirs?”
 Jake’s face turned to smiling stone. “Just want you to know we haven’t forgotten you. Melina always figured out you screwed those kids outta their money, but she couldn’t prove it. That little cop, the paisan, he knows you murdered Melina, you… He knows it, but I doubt he’ll ever prove it. Great thing about me is, I don’t need any Miranda-Escobedo, any preponderance of evidence. I was very fond of Melina. So was my dad.”
 I felt a wave of cool air, but I just turned up my wattage. “That who John Shaft there works for?” I asked jerking my head toward the Incredible Hulk down the wall. “Or he your salad chef?”
 Paggio pushed off the hotel wall. “You gotta see him with a knife sometime, Malcolm. Stop by the restaurant, we’ll give you a demonstration.”
 I stood planted on the floral carpet as Paggio and his muscle left, half to stand my ground, half to keep my knees from buckling. I could call Columbo, put him on watch, but I didn’t need any more official attention.
 “Ah, Mr. Malcolm?”
 I whirled to find a spectacled dull-looking guy in a cheap blue suit. “Yeah, you want me to make it out to you.”
 “No, sir, no autograph,” he said. He flashed me a federal ID. “I’m Special Agent Max Falder of the Drug Enforcement Agency. Wonder if you might have a few minutes to help us out?”
 Victor, I immediately thought. Need disclosure statements just to work a scam these days. “Why don’t you give me a yell in the morning, at the office. Be happy to help.”
 The agent nodded. “You can follow me down to the federal building, OK?”
**
 Falder’s office was done in classic fed -- metal files, traditional walnut that had probably been cycled through a dozen agencies, President Dubya looking down from where Slick Willie had hung a few months before. Falder settled into his Uncle Sam’s surplus revolving chair, after dusting the seat and arms.
 “Sorry for the secrecy, Mr. Malcolm, but I didn’t want to discuss this in the middle of the Beverly Wilshire. You know a Victor Benarez, sir?”
 “Yeah, we have some business dealings, nothing major,” I said as casually as I could. “He’s like some kinda farmer, right?”
 Falder’s brow rose. “I don’t know what he told you, Mr. Malcolm, but Mr. Benarez helps run the so-called agricultural operations of one of Colombia’s major drug families. I’m not talking about 40 acres and a mule, Mr. Malcolm. Colombian farmers are forced to grow coca or their fields are torched, family members murdered in cold blood. And Mr. Benarez is the guy who makes sure it happens.”
 “Jesus.” Bright response, Paul.
 “It’s a filthy business, Mr. Malcolm. Both metaphorically and physically. Guys swallowing cocaine-filled bags to get through airport customs. That sound sanitary to you? People passing weapons around with no regard for safety or hygiene...”
 “Huh?”
 The agent coughed. “Thing is, Mr. Malcolm, we’d like to ask you to help your country, to help us win the Drug War.”
 “Drug War, man,” I chuckled. “You’re about three presidents behind, aren’t you? Look, like I said, I hardly know Vi--, Mr. Benarez.”
 “We just want you to report back to us about any local connections you may witness Mr. Benarez making in the course of your business dealings. We’re about to launch a deep investigation into Mr. Benarez and his associates, and anything you might turn up would be of immense value.”
 I rose. “Don’t know what I can do to help you, sport. I’m an investment counselor, Agent, not an undercover snitch.”
 “Well, think about it,” Falder said, placing his palms on his blotter and levering to his feet. "And, in any case, I'd be very careful about any business dealings you have with Mr. Benarez."
 If you only knew, I mused as Falder led me to the door.  Outside, an old guy was mopping the marble hallway.
 "You get a chance, could you go over the desk -- my desk in there?" Falder called to the janitor. "It's like a biological war zone or something."

Jim Rockford
1 p.m.
Sunday
 "Lifeguard told me you was here." I squinted up to see T'keyah silhouetted against the sun. "Why anybody'd wanna wrestle with slimy fish and that nasty-shit bait out here in the UV zone's beyond me. Smells all funky."
 "That would be the fresh ocean air," I replied, patting my tackle box. The Malcolm operation was well underway, and all I could do was supervise from a lawn chair on the pier. "Sometimes, a wave or two of oxygen will get through the smog. Real shock to the system."
 "You feel like this is the most cost-effective use of your time?" T'keyah challenged. "I mean, I know the fish are bitin' and all that shit, but I thought we were trying to get the center's money back and, incidentally, catch the man who killed Melina."
 "T'Keyah," I interrupted, unperturbed. "Everything that can be done has been done. With any luck, our first objective is well within reach." I took a breath. "But as far as putting Malcolm away for killing Melina, well, T'keyah,  I think we're going to have to leave that one to the cops. I've been trying to take Malcolm's alibi apart, but it won't break. Even if he used a stunt double to play him at the hotel, like Columbo thinks, Melina wouldn't have been fooled back at the house."
 T'keyah looked out over the breakers. "Look, Rock, I don't want to disrespect your professional skills, but is there any way Paul coulda given you the slip somewhere along the way?"
 "Professional skills aside, no way," I sighed. "I watched him like a hawk all the way to the Siesta. Hey, it's getting cold out here. You want to grab a cup of coffee at the Sand Castle?"
 "Ply me with caffeine, that your game?" T'keyah rose. "Buy me a slice of apple pie, you write your own ticket."
 "Ee-yeah," I said, knees popping as I worked to my feet and folded my chair. "Oh, crap. T'keyah, you got something on your, uh, your pants."
 She twisted for a look. "Heard the anatomical reference before. Your fishing box, whatever, musta been dirty." T'keyah began swiping at her backside.
 "I'm afraid you're a walking advertisement for the Zebco people until you get to the laundromat," I apologized, glancing at the raised letters on my plastic tackle box.
 She shrugged. "Always wanted a designer label, even though some cracker fishing company ain't what I had in mind. Hey, Rock? You ain't sundownin' on me, are you?"
 I'd lapsed deep into reflection. That photo Columbo'd shown me at the Thai place, of Melina's body. Something clicked into place, and it sounded something like a cell door closing.

Paul Malcolm
6:11 p.m.
Sunday
 There was something relaxing about Mike Wallace, unless of course he showed up at your door with a cameraman and your financial records. I settled into the red leather armchair Melina'd bought me on our fifth anniversary and watched the 60 Minutes boys take apart some New York financier who'd got caught with his dick out, figuratively speaking. Normally, I'd root for the financier, but the guy was stupid enough to leave a paper trail, he deserved an Ed Bradley enema.
 The sound of my garage door rising jolted me from a Rooney-induced snooze. Must be Felicia; she forgot something. But why not use the front door?
 I grabbed a large knife from a kitchen drawer -- the non-recorded family gun had been disposed of about 30 miles up the coast. I threw open the door.
 Columbo was on his knees next to my wife's car, pressing against it like a cat against a leg.
 "Lieutenant, you havin' some kind of episode or something?" I asked, incredulously.
 "No, sir," he drawled, crawling to his feet and examining the side of his raincoat. "Just working out the last few details."
 "How'd you get the combination to my garage? Details? Of what?"
 Columbo smiled. "I know how you did it, sir. I know how you killed your wife and managed to fool Mr. Rockford into thinking you had a perfect alibi."
 I stepped into the garage. "You are havin' an episode, man. I was at the motel, knockin' boots with Frannie. Airtight -- your boy Rockford will testify to that, if any prosecutor was high enough to charge me."
 "You used a double -- your own stunt double, Mr. Krausewitz -- to play you at the Siesta Motel. You'd been watching Rockford watching you for a few days, maybe a week, and you knew he parked far enough away that he might be fooled by somebody who had a superficial resemblance to you. Mr. Krausewitz had just had an expensive haircut a few days before the murder, even though I couldn't find any sign he had any job interviews or even prospects coming up. That was so he'd look more like you, like he did in the old days. I even used the lab computer to compare your haircut and Krausewitz'. They were virtually identical.
 "And then there's Mr. Krausewitz' tragic suicide. I think he thought you were just playing a joke on your wife and the private eye she'd hired to catch you with another woman. He'd chase you out to the Siesta while you were at home with Mrs. Malcolm. When he realized what he'd helped you do, maybe while he was drunk, he decided he couldn't live with it."
 I crossed my arms. "I think I oughtta call Faltzmann.”
 “But my problem was, Mr. Rockford swears Mrs. Malcolm came out of the house and kissed you goodbye before your drove to the motel,” the little guy went on. “Certainly, Mrs. Malcolm would’ve known her own husband from a double. Unless, unless, unless SHE was a double, too.”
 I laughed. “I think I’ll call Faltzmann just so he can get an earful of this horseshit. And where was Melina when this double was kissing me on the front lawn?”
 Columbo held up a hand and walked back to the trunk of Melina’s Chrysler. “I was curious about those letters that were imprinted on your wife’s pants. So I went back to the lab. They got some amazing machines there can tell you what anything’s made of just by putting in a few microscopic particles. Well, the guys analyzed those letters, and they found rubber – tiny particles of rubber you wouldn’t be able to see with your naked eye.
 “Sir, would you please look at the front tire of Mrs. Malcolm’s car?”
 “The what?”
 “The front tire, sir. What’s it say on the side of the tire?
 I turned my head at an angle. “Ah, Goodyear.”
 “And what else, sir?”
 I peered at the belted radial. “R15…”
 “Thank you, sir. R15 – that means a rim size of 15 inches in diameter. They always put the rim size on the outside of the tire like that. You notice something else, sir? That tire is new; tread’s hardly worn. Look at the other tires – at least a few thousand miles worth of wear on ‘em. Now, could you please pop the trunk, sir? I don’t have a key, and I think it’s unlocked.”
 I should’ve called Faltzmann at that point, but Columbo had an interesting presentation style, and I’m a sucker for that. I reached under the dash, and the trunk popped open.
 “Ah, yeah, here it is.” I heard Columbo grunt, then he came around the car hauling a tire. If it was possible, it was making a mess of his raincoat. “You know, it was a very lucky thing your wife had a spare in the trunk. Lotta the times, I use my spare, I forget to go and get a new one.
 “See, your wife was one of those people didn’t mind getting her fingers dirty. When her tire went flat, she changed it herself. The tire I just removed from the trunk is flat, sir. No reason to keep it, except for the rim.” The lieutenant leaned the tire against the driver’s door. “Now, if you’ll look at the writing on the side of this tire, you’ll find it’s entirely different. It’s a different brand of tire, in fact. The lettering on your wife’s pants came from the new tire – the one she replaced this old one with. She got those marks on her when she lugged it to the front. Mrs. Malcolm must’ve been some kinda woman – lotta people would’ve just called a wrecker.”
 I nodded, numbly.
 “And I’ll betcha that when the lab guys analyze this old tire, they’ll find evidence it was intentionally cut or punctured in some way that wouldn’t have flattened it until she was out on the road. That way, she’d be delayed long enough for Mr. Rockford to see our substitute Mrs. Malcolm kiss our substitute Mr. Malcolm goodbye.
 “Like I said, it’s an unusual thing these days, somebody changing their own tire on a busy, rush hour street. I’m gonna check every police report, every patrol officer working the afternoon of the murder. Chances are, somebody will have remembered seeing Mrs. Malcolm changing her tire, maybe at exactly the time Mr. Rockford saw her kissing you on the lawn.”
 I looked at the deflated tire. “I’ll tell you what, Columbo. I’ll come down to headquarters, we’ll get all of this down on paper, I’ll sign it, and then we’ll get my agent to send it to Warner Bros. This could be just the goofy vehicle I need to bring ‘ol Rampage Russell back. Hey, by the by, who was the talented little gal who played our substitute spouse?”
 Columbo had waited patiently through my monologue. “My guess is your secretary, sorry, your administrative assistant, got her friend, Ms. Thuringer, to play the role. It would’ve been risky to hire an outside actress, and I assume Ms. Secrest has some pull with her. Oh, and incidentally, sir, I talked to Ms. Thuringer’s agent, and he was very appreciative of you helping her get a part in that sitcom.”
 “Fran asked me to put in a word for Gena,” I said stiffly. “She’s a real up-and-comer.”
 “I suspect Mr. Rockford would think so,” Columbo shot back. “I’ll be interested to see how good an actress she is when we take her downtown. I’m sure Ms. Thuringer had no idea you and Fran were using her to set Mrs. Malcolm up for murder. I wonder if a job on a comedy show is worth being charged as an accessory to murder.” He clapped his hands together. “Well, sir, I better get going now – Mrs. Columbo’s got a roast on.”
 “Whoa,” I sputtered. “Don’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth, but you aren’t gonna haul me in?”
 Columbo headed for the garage entrance. “Oh, there’s not nearly enough evidence for that yet, Mr. Malcolm. And I wanna make sure we’ve got an airtight case when we do haul you in. This won’t be our last talk, sir – I guarantee you that.”
**
 “So, you think this Columbo will be able to prove his case?” Victor inquired, a half-hour later. Arturo stood stone-still in the doorway of my den, doing a great job of scraping my very last nerve.
 “I dunno,” I shook my head. “I don’t think Gena – I dunno.”
 The “farmer” sighed. “We both appear to have very deep problems. I thank you for your loyalty with the agent this morning. You are truly a good friend. That is very rare in our business.”
 “So what do we do?” I asked.
 “Well, Paul, I’m afraid that first of all, we will have to terminate our dealings with the investors,” Victor murtmured.
 “Hey, Vic, that’s gonna look pretty hinky to these guys,” I protested. “Some of these guys are pretty influential in this town. My name would be shit.”
 “I am sorry,” Victor said, sincerely. “But my plane is warming up in Bakersfield, and I must return to my country. The DEA can’t pursue me there.”
 “Vic…” I began as the doorbell rang. “Shit! Just a minute, Vic.”
 “Arturo,” Victor barked. “Go with him.”
 The big Brazilian (or colossal Colombian) pulled out a big hunk of gun and shadowed me down the hall. I yanked open the door as Arturo flattened himself against the wall.
 “Paulie,” Jake Paggio sneered. The Incredible Hunk was behind the restaurateur’s right shoulder. “My paisan, Columbo, told me some very interesting things over scallopini this afternoon. Very clever, you scum-eating son of a bitch. You killed my Melina, and I’m here to even things up. Grab your coat. No, don’t bother; you won’t need it at the bottom of the Pacific.”
 Before I could respond, a huge hand shoved me across the room. As I ricocheted off a Rampage Russell lobby poster, I heard a muffled pop. I looked up from the carpet: Arturo’s gun hand was still extended, smoke rising beyond his fingers, and Jake Paggio was halfway in, halfway out of the house, a red/black hole in his white silk shirt. In the night, I heard a car scream away.
Arturo holstered his silenced pistol (farmhand, my ass), crouched over Paggio’s body, and laid two breadstick fingers on his carotid artery. He nodded and dragged the corpse into the foyer.
 “Madre dio,” I heard Victor gasp.
 I was shaking violently. “Artie killed Bernie Paggio’s kid!” I yelled. “Guy’s like the godfather of L.A., and he offed his kid! They’re gonna find me out in the desert! Shit, there won’t be anything to find in the desert!”
 “Please be calm, my friend.” Victor suddenly was serene. “Perhaps if we were to dispose of the body in some remote location. Surely this mobster has many enemies…”
 “No, man,” I nearly sobbed. “The other guy got away. I think he works for the dad. Oh, shit!”
 Victor helped me to my feet. “Then, my friend, it appears you will be joining me in Bakersfield. I have been impressed by your business skills, and I believe my operation would benefit from your expertise.”
 Great; from conman to killer to drug dealer’s stooge in less than a week. “Guess I don’t have a lot of options, huh? Can we wait ‘til I get to my bank in the morning. I gotta have some travel expenses.”
 “I’m afraid your Mr. Paggio will have someone at your bank before it opens. No, Paul; we must depart tonight. Do you have any cash on hand?”
 “Yeah, yeah, the den safe. Only about a quarter mil, though.” By the time the DEA and/or the cops catch on, my remaining assets, I thought glumly.
 “How do you say it here?” Victor mused sadly. “It is better than a hole in one’s head.”

Jim Rockford
9:12 p.m.
Sunday
 The banging on the trailer door set off an immediate alarm. Gandy had called an hour ago, to report everything had come off like a charm. If Angel was at the door, I’d throttle the little weasel. T’keyah had agreed to go home and “chill.”
 I shook cookie crumbs off the office .38, and swung the door open. Columbo’s eyes widened. “Who were you expecting, Mr. Rockford. I mean, jeez, that’s some kinda shock on a Sunday night.”
 I lowered my gun hand. “You’re not exactly Roma Downey yourself. What’s up? You hit Malcolm with the tire.”
 “We can talk about that later,” the lieutenant said briskly as he took a seat on the couch. “Why don’t you tell me about Jake Paggio?”
 No sense feigning virginal innocence – that ship had sailed the day I checked into the state hotel. “What about him?”
 “Well, there seemed to be no love lost between the two of you at the cemetery. Which, if you’ll allow me to say, seems pretty weird considering you probably saved his life less than a year ago. I checked with some of the organized crime guys down at the department, and they said Mr. Paggio is no more ‘connected’ with his father’s business than I am. And they told me you broke a murder frame some of his father’s business rivals tried to stick to him. So you wanna tell me another one?”
 I smiled, weakly. He smiled, less weakly. “All right. Maybe Jake agreed to help me put a little pressure on Malcolm, see where it led.”
 The lieutenant nodded. “Then there’s this. I had Sgt. Burke run by the Beverly Wilshire this morning to ask Mr. Malcolm a few questions about his wife’s Center clients. He sees Mr. Malcolm coming out of the hotel with a man, and then following that man to the federal building. On a Sunday. Then the sergeant remembers where he’s seen the man before: When he worked out of Bunco. Kenny Hollywood, a small-time conman, known associates James Scott Rockford.”
 “Small world. It really and truly is, isn’t it?”
 Columbo chuckled and crossed his leg. “You wanna tell me about it, or do you think Capt. Diehl would like to hear it, too?”
**
 “It started a few days after Melina hired me,” I began as Columbo turned onto the highway. “She was sure Paul had skimmed off the Well-Fare money, but I knew there was virtually no way I’d prove that. But if I could get something on him, some little white-collar fraud I could use to leverage the kids’ money out of him…”
 “Extortion?”
 “Leverage, Lieutenant, leverage. But then Melina got murdered, and we had to switch gears. Change the objective of the game. We talking officially, or off the record?”
 “I got a feeling off the record’s gonna be a lot more interesting.”
 “See, Columbo, bringing off a good con is mostly a matter of misdirection – taking the mark down a half-dozen paths until he’s willing to say or do things he’d have never considered the first day out. In Paulie’s case, I wanted to rattle him from a lot of different directions, in the hope he’d get sloppy. A phony pissed-off suitor, with the help of Jake and a cooperative housekeeper who also happened to be Melina Malcolm’s devoted friend. A bogus drug agent, with the help of a small bribe to a federal building custodian with a set of keys. You were merely icing on the cake, a good, credible threat to Malcolm’s sense of long-term security.”
 “And the purpose of all this was…?”
 “To make our rat run,” I said, with no small feeling of pride. “And, Lieutenant, I think the rodent is out of the cage.”

Paul Malcolm
10:20 p.m.
Sunday
 The Bakersfield strip was out of some old Rampage Russell sequel that'd never got made: Well off the main road; weedy, patchwork runway; a single modular barracks-style building. A moderately pricey Piper Cub stood on the tarmac, idling.
 "Cropdusters used to use this field," Victor informed me as we pulled up to the barracks. "That appealed to the farmer in me."
 I tried to chuckle appreciatively, but it came out like a cat choking on a ball of hair. Arturo popped the trunk and handed me the tote bag that held my immediate financial future.
 Inside, a pair of men in gray coveralls, apparently Victor's countrymen, were playing cards, what appeared to be a huge radio on the table before them. They greeted Arturo in Spanish or Portuguese or whatever they spoke. Guess I'd have to learn it soon, whatever it was. Arturo nodded to the men and went outside to check on the plane.
 "I can understand your unhappiness, Paul," Victor sympathized, placing a hand on my shoulder. "You're about to leave everything you've built over a lifetime. But do not worry -- we will make a new fortune for you."
  "It ain't even that," I sighed. "I'm gonna be this year’s O.J. They'll be dissectin' me on CNN and Court TV, makin' me out to be some kind of monster psycho. They'll make me for Paggio and probably that old drunk Krausewitz. Shoulda known he couldn't keep it together – started a fight with Fonda one time on the set. And that police dude, he'll probably turn Frannie's, uh, buddy."
 "You worry for nothing," Victor said, waving a dismissive hand. "They cannot extradite you where we are going, even if they succeeded in finding you. It is best to, how would you put it, cut your losses and look ahead."
 Arturo's massive head popped into the doorway. He nodded once, briefly, to Victor and gestured the coveralled men to follow him. They collected the cards and the radio, and we all moved silently back outside. Victor helped me aboard, and we settled into a couple of cush seats. Arturo plopped into the seat across from us as one of the coveralled men began arranging bags behind us.
 “You know, many in my particular field of ‘agriculture’ do not embrace my particular family values,” Victor mused as he smoothed a crease in his slacks. “I think it is the corrupting influence of the wholesale end of the business that leads them astray from their women, their children. I find it a fascinating phenomenom. I therefore hope you will not find it untoward if I ask this: What could bring you to kill the woman to whom you pledged your life under the eyes of God?”
 I suppressed a comeback to Victor’s invocation of church and family. “Melina and I came up together in this town, none of this silver spoon, private school shit. We were smart and careful and made some good investments. When we decided to get out of that crazy studio scene, we just went two different ways. I saw the opportunities out there, she decided to be Mother Teresa. Fine -- we agreed we wouldn’t get in each other’s face, just do our respective things.
 “So when she asked me to help her with her sick kid shit, I thought, hell, she ain’t asked me for much. But, man, when I got into it, you shoulda seen the loose money just flying around, begging to be reinvested somewhere more useful than in a bunch of dead-end hospital cases. So I take a little off the sides, just enough so nobody would fall to it. But my Melina always was a sharp one, and somehow, she musta worked out enough to hire that P.I. That’s when I knew that if it came down to me or her rugrats, it’d be the rugrats. So it had to be me or her. One bullet equals zero problems -- simple business equation. Sorry if that offends your sancrosanct view of matrimony, Vic, but I wasn’t gonna lose it all for the sake of some do-gooder bullshit.”
 Victor nodded, and smiled with the slightest hint of malice. “And yet, here we are, preparing to flee the country in the middle of the night, you with only a bag of money.”
 I should’ve taken offense, but instead I grinned. My smile vanished as I heard angry voices outside the plane. My gut took a nosedive as Jake Paggio’s man-mountain sidekick shoved one of the coveralls crunchingly into a wall. My gut crashed on landing as a bulletheaded old man materialized behind him.
 “Him?” Bernardo Paggio grunted, nodding at me.
 “Big dude ‘cross from him,” the Incredible Hulk amended. “This one’s the one whacked Jake’s lady.”
 The mobster looked blankly at Victor. “And that makes you?”
 “Victor Benarez,” my partner volunteered cordially, showing no sign of alarm or anxiety. “I am a farmer and businessman. I believe we have some common associates, based in the Bogota and Sao Paolo areas.”
 Victor named a few common associates, and Paggio nodded slowly. “I got no desire to piss off our mutual friends. But this man of yours, he’s gotta pay for murdering my boy.”
 “He is yours,” Victor invited, as if he were offering a plate of hotwings. Arthur’s heavy eyes popped open.
 “And this one,” Bernardo growled. “Jake loved this woman, his wife. And he shot her like some kind of dog.”
 Victor looked at me and rose, a look of seemingly sincere sorrow in his eyes. “I am sorry, Paul. But I can no longer afford to allow your domestic affairs to influence my business decisions.”
 “Hey, man,” I yelled, girlishly high. The Hulk straight-armed me back into my seat as Victor offered a small salute and left the plane.
 “Do it,” Paggio murmured wearily.
 I nearly wet myself with relief as a shaggy head popped around the passenger partition. “I wouldn’t do that, if I was you,” Columbo advised. “Hi, Mr. Malcolm.”
“Lieutenant, man, thank God,” I almost sobbed. “The godfather here was about ready to do me. Get me outta here.” I looked out the window; a county car was flashing red and blue, a couple of deputies at the ready.
  “Quit kiddin’ around, Pauli,” Bernardo rumbled with friendly menace. “Detective, me and my friend Paul are heading out on a fishing trip on the Baja. You got some concern?”
“Fishing?” Columbo inquired, looking quizzically at me. “Is that right, sir? Cause I don’t know if you oughtta leave town…”
“God’s sake, Columbo!” I snapped. “I did it! You want a confession? I killed Melina, just like you said. Now you gotta take me in, and them, too. The kid and the dad were gonna kill me.”
 “This turkey needs a Valium or something,” the Hulk suggested. “Hey, man, you keep any Eagle Snacks on this thing?”
I looked up quickly.
“My boy’s plane – my buddy Mr. Fitch always here wanted to see it,” Bernardo Paggio explained. “Now, mister, why do you want to make wild charges like that. I gotta check, but that may be legally actionable. Why, Lieutenant, we ain’t even got guns. You search us, you want.”
I looked at them all wildly. “The hell’s goin’ on here?” The bag. I scrabbled among the luggage, and yanked my Beverly Hills Gym bag out. With a single rip, I unzipped it. The glossy cover of the two dozen or so magazines inside heralded Trailer Living. I turned to a concerned Columbo, an incredulous Paggio.
“Rockford,” I muttered.

Jim Rockford
11 p.m.
Sunday
 “Seen the guy’s face,” Angel hooted. “’I am sorry, Paul, but I can no longer allow your domestic affairs to influence my business decisions.’ You’da thought he was gonna make in his Armani trousers, Jimmy.”
 “Any way to shut him up, Rockfish?” asked Gandy, who was leaning on the Firebird with Angel and I as the cops tried to sort it out.
 “None I ever knew of,” I sighed. “Short of a five-fingered lullaby.”
 Angel instinctively shrunk from my former cell block associate, then straightened with false dignity – the only kind he had. “See, I got ready for my role by seein’ a bunch of them snotty foreign flicks. The key is, you don’t use no contractions. Makes you sound all hoity and everything. James, I would like to imbibe a finger or two of your Muscatel, if you would please.”
 “Rock-a-bye, baby…” I started to sing, softly.
 “All right, fine,” the little grifter snapped.
First the county sheriff, then Chapman had stomped around the tarmac threatening us, but they couldn’t figure out anything in the California statutes to charge us with. Then the sheriff and Chapman got into it over jurisdiction, and we just kind of drifted off. Now, we stood silently as the warm California breeze drifted over the runway and Columbo, Malcolm, and a deputy emerged from Jake’s plane.
“Just a shame is all,” Angel began. “I mean, the man is pure pond algae, I ain’t gonna argue with you. But he had one sweet scam. I mean, you wouldn’t like rip the kids off or anything, but how much they need, anyway? Way I see it, you’d leave the donations alone and clean up on the merchandising. T-shirts, mugs, them little bags you clip on your ass…”
“Angel,” I said through my teeth. Gandy’s face was impassively threatening.
“Couple a’ Eagle Scouts, you two,” Angel snorted, dusting himself off and heading for his car. “I got important business in the morning, so I’ll just mosey on.”
“Hey, Angel?” I called as he yanked open his door with an agonizing creak. “Oscar caliber performance, Angel. Tom Hanks wasn’t up this year, you’d take home the trophy, hands down.”
Angel broke into a barracuda grin. “My regrets, James, Gandolph, but I must repair to my humble abode.”
That got a grin even from Gandy, who’d dubbed Angel “Gabby II.” “Gandy, real pro performance from you, too,” I said, clapping him on the shoulder.
His scarred face beamed, then it faded, and he shook his head as the deputy helped Malcolm into his cruiser. “Sad old world, Rockfish. Man stealing from little kids. Little sick kids. Makes you wonder.”
“You contemplate, I’ll be right back,” I told Gandy, beelining for the lieutenant.
“You know that confession’s not gonna hold up,” Columbo said, matter-of-factly. “D.A.’s gonna say it was coerced, that what you and your friends did was entrapment.”
I reached into my jacket and withdrew a cassette. “Maybe this’ll help. As it so happens, Mr. Paggio’s crew members were practicing their lines for a community theater production they’re in, taping ‘em so they could see what they needed to work on. Guess a lot of actors do it. Anyway, Malcolm and Angel interrupted their practice, and, wouldn’t you know it, they forgot to turn off the tape.”
“Who’da guessed,” Columbo responded, a faintly disapproving look on his face.
“So it turns out Malcolm’s whole conversation with Angel is on that tape, including his confession to Melina’s murder.”
“And since they ‘forgot’ to turn off the recorder, it’s not like they taped Mr. Malcolm wilfully, without his consent,” the lieutenant supplied. “Mr. Rockford, do you really believe a judge is going to let all that into court?”
I shrugged. “But you have got a double confession, both spoken and on tape, at least for the next few days. And at least for tomorrow morning’s L.A. Tribune. I mean, you know how it is: Somebody’s probably already called Joe Rossi over at the Trib, some law-abiding citizen, no doubt, and of course Joe’ll call to confirm the confession, and of course you’ll have to tell him you do indeed have not one but two. I wouldn’t be surprised if Fran and Gena turned up on your doorstep, straining at the bit to sell out good old Paul.”
Columbo studied me for a minute, pulled out a cigar, lit it, and took a few puffs before he walked silently away.

Jim Rockford
7:12 p.m.
Wednesday
“In one more curious twist on what has become L.A.’s most bizarre homicide since the Nicole Simpson/Ron Goldman murders, the LAPD has reported Fran Secrest, the personal assistant to investment maven and cult film star Paul Malcolm, as well as Secrest’s purported personal companion, Gena Thuringer, have revealed their role in Malcolm’s allegedly elaborate scheme to alibi himself in the killing last week of Melina Malcolm, a former actress heavily involved in local children’s charities,” the Fox anchor enunciated. His tanned face surrendered to some footage of Rampage Russell busting some street toughs.
“Malcolm was the star of a number of biker and crime movies in the late ‘60s and early ‘70s before he retired to become one of Southern California’s more flamboyant investment consultants. Details remain sketchy about Malcolm’s arrest at a private airstrip outside of Bakersfield, and Malcolm attorney Harold Faltzmann reported he would challenge a confession he argued had been obtained under constitutionally questionable circumstances. However, Los Angeles District Attorney Bruce Rogoff said he was confident in his ability to convict Malcolm based on what he termed ‘compelling’ DNA evidence.”
The screen went blank. I turned; Jake Paggio was aiming a remote at the set in the corner of the dining room ceiling. “This is a party, not a news conference,” the restaurateur chided as a waiter edged past with a groaning tray of antipasto and appetizers. “’Sides, I’ve seen that asshole’s face enough in the past week to do me for the rest of my life. So eat up, and don’t mess with the remote.”
“You know, you didn’t have to do this, Jake,” I complained. “I said I was buying.”
“Grade Z steaks at the Sand Castle,” Jake sneered. “It was fun, putting the screws to Malcolm, the no-talent hack. Melina was worth a million of him. And I owed it to Melina to put on a proper party for Child Well-Fare’s new executive director. Board voted today.”
I glanced across the table at T’keyah. Her shining eyes began to overflow, and she waved Jake off.
“Who’s the hardcase, now?” I kidded, gently.
She scowled, but it didn’t work. “Rock, I don’t know if I can do this…”
“Hush. Melina knew a class act when she cornered you at your locker, and the Well-Fare board knows one, too.”
“I’m a pretty good judge, too,” T’keyah smiled, reaching across to squeeze my hand.
“Aw, shucks,” I joked, reddening as the assembled members of the Squeeze Paul Malcolm Club looked on. “What was it, the plaid polyester jacket?”
“Rock, way I see it, you’re stylin’.”
“This goes on much longer, I’m gonna chuck all over the prosciutto,” Angel groaned. “Less Sister Teresa here wants to do grace, you mind if we dig in?”
Angel Martin, shining jewel of any social gathering. But in this case, I was happy for the diversion. “Eat up, folks; you earned it.”
He showed up during the cannoli course, just as Kenny Hollywood was asking Jake the mean temperature at which his utensils were washed. Columbo accepted a cannoli and an expresso gratefully, and settled in at my right. I shook off the effects of my previous two Chablis – I thought I’d seen the last of the raincoated detective at the Bakersfield airport.
He leaned over in unnecessary confidentiality. “I just thought you’d wanna know, since you were so helpful to the investigation, that I’m pretty sure we’ve got Mr. Malcolm.”
 “Yeah,  saw on TV just a minute ago,” I smiled, warily. “By the way, Lieutenant, just what DNA evidence does Rogoff have. I saw that hotel room – but I’m pretty sure Fran and Krausewitz weren’t doing anything more than bad porno dialogue, and even so, I don’t think anything would’ve survived Mr. Patel’s sanitation procedures, such as they are.”
 Columbo scattered powdered sugar on his vintage coat as he crunched into his pastry. “No’ da hohel. Sorry, Mr. Rockford. Not at the hotel. At Mr. Malcolm’s house. See, after your little confession, uh, ploy, I put some heat on Ms. Thuringer. She never met Mr. Malcolm, didn’t even know him personally. Certainly was never at his house.
 “But I had the lab guys run a fine-tooth comb over Mr. Malcolm’s, you know, his front room…”
“Foyer?”
“Yeah. They did that. You know, they got those little vaccuum things and brushes, and, Mr. Rockford, they found enough hair and skin samples in that room to positively place Ms. Thuringer there. If Mr. Malcolm hadn’t let his housekeeper off for the week, we might never have gotten the evidence we needed to implicate her.”
“Screw the cheap son-of-a-bitch,” Felicia slurred at the next table. Columbo grinned at her, and turned back to me.
“My guess is she planted Mr. Paggio’s watch in Mr. and Mrs. Malcolm’s bedroom,” Columbo ventured.
My eyebrows rose slightly. “You saw the watch?”
“I felt it,” the lieutenant corrected. “See, I got this nephew, he does a lot of work with old people, the blind. Wonderful boy. Well, a few years ago, he taught me how to read Braille. As it turned out, my fingers are very sensitive, and when I felt the back of the watch, I could tell right off the initials engraved on it were J.P., not P.M. You see, Mr. Rockford, you’re not the only one who has a few tricks up their sleeve.”
I chuckled nervously.
Columbo sipped his coffee. “Now, the only mystery left is that bag. Mr. Malcolm’s bag, at the airport. If I was leaving the country for even a few months, maybe forever, to escape arrest, I would take along some money. Lots of it. You know what I think?”
“What’s that?” I asked, licking my lips.
“I think he was a very greedy man, but not terribly smart,” Columbo said, looking pointedly at me. “The real shame is, we’ll probably never be able to prove Mr. Malcolm stole that charity money. Those poor kids.”
“I wouldn’t worry, I was you,” T’keyah said brightly. “Guess it must be all the news about Melina’s murder, but for some reason, hundreds of checks have been rolling in the last few days.”
Columbo didn’t release his lock on me, but he smiled a little more warmly. “That so, Miss. Well, that’s wonderful. Hey, you people are having a party, and I just bust in like this. I better get home. Mr. Rockford, Ms. Cleveland.”
When he was gone, I frowned at T’keyah. “That really necessary? He’s not as dumb as he looks.”
T’keyah snorted. “You pay attention, you might see he ain’t nothin’ like he looks. Man knows you pulled a fast one, and you know what? Man doesn’t care. He got his killer, and I just let him know the kids got their cash money.”
“To kids and cash,” I relaxed, tipping my wine. As we clinked glasses, T’keyah looked behind my shoulder, amused.
“Excuse me, Mr. Rockford,” Lt. Columbo murmured. “But there was just ONE more thing…”