It's one of the primary tenets of the mystery story: The supernatural may serve only as an element to be disposed of by the coldly rational detective. In short, no ghosts, no goblins, no little green men, or rogue robots. Everything must be tidy and clean, with no vestiges of The Unknown lurking at the edges. But great mystery writers like John Dickson Carr, Isaac Asimov (yes), and Arthur Conan Doyle (in Sherlock Holmes' affair with The Hound of the Baskervilles) have successfully explained the explainable, fairly and solidly, while leaving us with a few unearthly questions and sometimes a case of the creeps.

  I have three major TV passions: Columbo, The X-Files, and The Rockford Files. I've always been intrigued by the combination of fantasy or sci-fi and detection. Years before X-Agents Mulder and Scully came on the scene, I toyed with the concept of a Columbo encounter with a typical Hollywood type -- the celebrity psychic who counsels the rich and famous on what to wear to the studio meeting or what color of Lamborghini to buy. Picture Shirley MacLaine with ESP. What if this particular psychic were the real deal? What if she were driven to murder by a horrifying vision of the future? How do you solve a crime where the motive is based on hypothetical future events?

Well, first, you have to bring in someone persuasive enough to convince our lieutenant to look outside the box. That person, as I saw it, was Special Agent Fox "The Truth Is Out There" Mulder. Then you have to have a logical earthbound case for Columbo to solve. So I gave our psychic a perfect and very high-tech alibi and a few of those tragic flaws that doom our average Columbo villain to certain arrest and prosecution. So, although the theme may be fantastic, I hope you'll find the solution entirely logical.

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 on various sites.

6:48 p.m.

Beverly Hills, California

"I see a bearded man," Laine Tressault related. "He's from the East, no, not Asia -- New York, perhaps? I see streets -- evil streets, dark streets… No, this is odd -- mean streets."

"Scorsese," the actress gasped over the speaker phone. "Martin Scorsese, it's gotta be!"

Slouched on the crème silk settee on the other side of the room, Harrison nearly did a spit take with his iced chai tea. "Mean Streets, brilliant," he whispered almost inaudibly.

Laine threw him a fierce scowl as a sharp black fingernail depressed the mute button. She regained her Mona Lisa smile and lifted her finger.

"He's been after me for his new pic," the actress said. "But I got this kinda loose commitment to Spike, you know. Lee?"

"I see a green aura associated with the Scorsese project," Laine said.

"Wow, OK, then," the actress breathed. "Thanks so much, Lainey -- you are the bomb, babe!"

"Any time, sweetie," Laine cooed. "Just one last thing: I see a large man, a cuckoo-man. He will take a shining to you, but you must not agree -- what does this mean? -- to any specific terms of endearment."

"God, man, you've lost me, Lainey."

Laine sighed silently. "I see pagodas, dragons… Have you been to Chinatown lately?" Silence. The younger generation movie history for them began with Leonardo diCaprio. "Jack, jack -- I see you getting jack from this relationship…"

"Nicholson?" the actress piped, as if Regis Philbin was about to hand her a million dollars. A million, Laine thought: Bus fare for this Gen-Y brat-packer. "You're saying I oughtta stay away from Nicholson?"

"I see a bad alignment of cosmic forces."

"Wow. OK, then. Luv ya, Lainey!"

"Kisses, sweetie," Laine sang. Hollywood's top psychic exhaled as she slowly cradled the phone. "They're making them dumber and dumber every year. I thought I was going to have to warn her to stay away from witches from Eastwick."

"Or maybe a few good men, which I certainly wouldn't mind finding," Harrison sighed in melodramatic dejection. "Okay, I get the Scorsese thing -- I saw a thingie on the Internet about him casting some movie about coming of age in Brooklyn, and little Clueless there was a sure pick for his short list. But what was with that Nicholson business?"

Laine leaned back in her maroon swivel chair. "I don't know -- just some vestigial maternal instinct, I guess. I heard Jack's between relationships, and they're supposedly doing this new Mike Nichols script together. I suppose even the chronically brainless deserve some protection from themselves and the terminally hormonal. God knows, she and the rest of them pay me enough to tell them how to run their lives."

Harrison grinned, pushed off the sofa, and began to massage his employer's shoulders. "You are one soft-hearted old witch, know that? With a heart of gold and a portfolio full of tech stocks. Which reminds me -- Got everything ready for the chatroom; all you have to do is wait for them to start in. Sure you don't want me to stick around, 'case you freeze at the mouse?"

Laine smiled frostily at the slim blonde man. "Just because I used to tell Nancy Reagan which earrings would bring her into harmonic convergence doesn't mean I can't operate a PC. Why don't you just sashay into town and enjoy your little evening of debauchery and inebriation?"

"Sashay? Puh-lease. But if you insist. Love."

Laine's smile warmed. "Love, sweetie."

After she heard the front door close and the engine of Harrison Feld's Jag rev into life, the psychic's smile faded and she took a deep breath. "Now or never," she murmured.

Harrison had indeed done his usual impeccable job, and everything was in place for Laine's 7:30 p.m. Internet chat at Futura.com. Laine had stayed up with the times, and it had paid off. While others were doing tired Tarot readings for bored and superstitious doctors' wives and addictive gamblers, Laine was developing a business plan and tapping into the often-addled eccentricities of the Hollywood community. Others peddled their prognostications to the grocery tabloids; Laine shunned the scandal sheets and got herself syndicated by a nationwide newspaper chain. Laine Tressault was one of the first in her profession to hit the infomercial circuit, her book of humorous observations on the world of the paranormal was twelve weeks on the New York Times trade paperback list, and she had taken on a strategic handful of police missing persons cases with reasonable success and the attendant headlines.

Laine chuckled at the late-night litany of psychic hotlines and testimonials from the gullible and foolish. She felt the Internet was the high-profile medium for the New Age. Laine'd always been a quick study, and it had taken her only a few weeks to master first the PC, then a variety of life-easing software applications, and finally the handheld PDA -- the key to this evening's success.

Laine settled in before the keyboard, launching the programs she'd need for the evening's activities. "Rubber baby buggy bumpers," she recited slowly into her PDA; she looked at the screen, and smiled broadly.

As she thumbed the remote to her garage, a black overnight of gear on the seat next to her, Laine Tressault leaned back, took a small metal object from her pocket, and revisited the images that had set her on this path. Nothing had changed, she determined as she grimly steered her convertible into the California sunset.

**

U.S. Sen. Thom Huykendall's California residence was located in a remote reach of East L.A., a late-model one-story of mixed Old West, Spanish, and Japanese influence, shadowed by Ponderosa pines. Laine could see Huykendall's SUV in the stone driveway, and lights burning throughout the house.

"Capital fifteen period," she said crisply into a headset mike. "I had been deathly ill comma and after I had pulled through comma I discovered I had gained a universe of new insights period."

Collecting the handheld computer and the .38 she'd had purchased the week before, Laine Tressault set off up the walk, peering at the illuminated screen. Absorbed in keeping up with the chat, she nearly tripped over one of a series of fluorescent orange flags flanking the walking stones. "Capital at first comma they were unformed comma disconnected images period. As I got older comma I was able to tune them in and get in touch with what I called the connective tissue that made sense of them period."

The side patio, surrounded by a spectrum of professionally-tended wildflowers and honeysuckles, was open -- drapes rustled in the doorway as the evening breezes picked up. Laine moved quietly to the front door.

"Capital yes," she hastily addressed the headset. The door was locked. "Damn it," she cursed before she could catch herself. "Period," Laine added, sighing.

Plan B. Laine riffled through her windbreaker pocket and came up with the extra key she had lifted from the senator's desk drawer during her last housecall. She slid it carefully into the lock and eased the golden oak door open.

The muted sound of ESPN emanated from the rear of the home. "Capital most comma but not everyone period. Capital children often set up more confusing signals comment because of their underdeveloped thought processes period."

Laine had spoken as low as she could without risking garbling her communication. She stopped and strained to listen. Nothing but Nets and Lakers. She crept down the parquet hallway toward the sound of the television.

When she reached the senator's parlor, Laine fought the temptation to flee, to just let events take their course. But she knew the consequences would be too much to bear. With a start, she remembered to consult the PDA. Laine could see the back of Huykendall's lush gray head as he listened intently to the NBA standings, but knew the success of her plan demanded she respond to the chatters. Laine set the computer on a hall table, aimed the .38 toward the silver head and took a breath.

"That would be unprofessional," she said. Huykendall jumped and then leapt from his recliner.

"What the hell?" he yelled, and Laine fired a silenced bullet into the legislator's chest.

"I don't gamble or use my expertise to advise others on sporting events." Huykendall was on one knee; she franticly fired two more shots, and he collapsed in a spreading aura of his own blood. "Not only would I be misusing my personal gift, but I'd actually be influencing the future by potentially changing the betting odds on the event."

Laine stowed the gun in her windbreaker and plucked the PDA from the hall table. She strode as calmly as she could down the corridor, peered out into the growing dusk, and sprinted to her car, hidden by low-lying pine branches. Her heart was pounding as she checked the screen.

"Capital yes period," Laine pronounced with no note of the irony she felt at the moment. "I feel one definitely can alter the future period."

**

1:30 a.m.

Sen. Thom Huykendall residence

Los Angeles Homicide Lt. Columbo slammed the creaky door of his "vintage" Peugeot with a yawn and a back-cracking stretch. He pulled his beige raincoat tighter over his pajama top and stumped up the cobbled walk to the open door of the vic's house. A broad, mustached uniform stepped in the lieutenant's path; Columbo nearly collided with him.

"S'okay, officer," the elder cop yawned again, working his shield out of his jacket pocket.

The patrolman smiled and moved aside. Columbo focused on the home's rear hallway, where the impatiently patient Sgt. Kramer was consulting with a slim young man in a dark suit and a small redheaded woman with a grave expression and an arched eyebrow.

The pair moved back into a lit back room which erupted with the SportsCenter theme. Columbo sidled up to Kramer.

"What we got here?" the lieutenant inquired quietly.

"Vic's Senator Thom Huykendall. Shot three times, medium range, looks like left lung, stomach, heart. M.E. estimates time of death around 8 or 9."

Columbo glanced around Kramer's arm; a assistant M.E. was exploring the gunshot wounds as the dark young man and his apparent partner conversed over a nearby shelf full of knick-knacks. "Jeez, a U.S. senator?"

"Uh huh."

"Like a Washington senator?"

"The lawmaking kind, not the baseball team, right."

Columbo regarded Kramer's deadpan remark and broke into a sheepish grin. Kramer's face remained impassive. "Washington Senators, very good, Sergeant. Say, I know this guy -- the wife's been addicted to C-SPAN ever since they started showing the Lewinski thing. Couldn't even drag her away for Jeopardy. This man's the head of the House Foreign Issues Committee. Was, I mean. Sergeant, who are those two over there?"

Kramer's brow raised almost imperceptably with the faint disdain of the outgunned local cop. "They would be FBI Special Agents Mulder and Scully. Since there's a senator involved, 'delicate issues' and the like, they want joint jurisdiction."

Columbo scratched his shadowy chin and nodded. "FBI, oh my. Well, I guess three heads and all that stuff, Sergeant, right?"

"Sure," Kramer said tonelessly. "Nice. The shirt."

"What?" Columbo looked down at his shiny red pajama top. "Oh, that. That's pure 100 percent silk. The wife got them on clearance. Thought they'd liven things up a little, she said. I don't want to think what she meant by that."

"No, Lieutenant," Kramer said, retreating to the body and the assistant M.E. Lt. Columbo strolled over to the pair near the wall.

"Excuse me," he announced. "You two really FBI?"

The woman arched an eyebrow at his dissheveled garb. The man smiled broadly and extended a hand. "Agent Fox Mulder, and this is Dana Scully."

"Lt. Columbo, LAPD Homicide," the cop said, pumping Mulder's hand. "This is a great pleasure -- I always enjoy watching how you federal boys work. Oh, sorry, ma'am, I mean guys, um, agents. You two with the Sacramento Bureau office?"

"No," Mulder said. "We just happened to be out here, advising on a movie, when our A.D. -- assistant director -- assigned us to check into your homicide."

"So-o-o," Columbo mulled. "I don't mean any offense by this, but isn't it unusual that the Bureau wouldn't sent some local agents? I mean, I would think they'd assume a local agent would know the lay of the land, so to speak."

Mulder and Scully exchanged glances. "Actually, Lieutenant, my partner is acquainted with Sen. Matheson, a colleague of the deceased. I understand Sen. Matheson specifically requested we investigate the case."

"My," Columbo said, visibly impressed. "So, what do you think we have here? Everything looks to be in order; no signs of breakage or vandalism."

"The senator's wallet's intact, and I've inventoried some fairly pricey little items in this room alone," Mulder said. "Of course, that doesn't rule out theft. If the perpetrator was discovered and shot Huykendall in panic, I doubt he'd stick around to heist the good silver."

Columbo nodded, a finger to his lip. "Ye-e-ess. It's curious, though…"

"What?" Scully probed.

"Well, I assume nothing's been moved, no doors shut or anything, right? Okay, then. Why not the patio door?"

Mulder glanced at the still-open patio door on the wall opposite the TV. "What do you mean?"

"Well, the senator obviously was shot from the direction of the hallway. Coming up the road here, I could see the senator'd left a lot of lights on throughout the house. I do it myself; the wife could kill me over the electric bill. The killer couldn't immediately guess which part of the house the senator was in, and here in Southern California, this part of Southern California, at least, it's not unusual to leave the patio doors wide open, if you're somewhere in the house.

"The first thing you see coming up the walk is that wide-open patio door. If you're breaking in, why not take the path of least resistance, the open door?"

"Maybe it wasn't a break-in, and the killer had a key to the front door?" Scully challenged. "The front door was locked when one of Huykendall's golf buddies stopped by and he discovered the body. There was no obvious sign of tampering with the lock."

"Pardon me, but wouldn't that be more than a little foolish, agent?" Columbo asked. "If you had a key to the house, and you wanted to murder somebody, wouldn't you either fake a break-in or come in the already open door."

Scully fell silent.

"Excuse me," the rumpled lieutenant said, moving past the agents. He examined an elaborate phone on the end table next to Huykendall's recliner. Taking a pencil from his coat pocket, Columbo tapped a button.

"Hello, this is Southern California Gas and Power," a well-modulated voice intoned over the speaker. "If you wish to inquire about customer service, billing, or our energy efficiency programs, please call during normal…"

Columbo lifted and replaced the handset. "Redial," he explained to the FBI agents. "Lotta times, if the victim knows his or her killer, it turns out they talked on the phone before the murder. Get invited to the house, have an argument. Guess not in this case -- at least, the senator didn't call anybody. The power company would have closed by 5 or so, and the senator was shot around 8 or 9. But wait… Agents, could you come over here, please?"

"What's that?" Mulder asked, craning over Columbo's shoulder.

"See that?" the lieutenant murmured, indicating a row of buttons to the side of the touchpad. "These are speed dial buttons. You know, you program common numbers you use a lot, and then you can just hit the button, and ‘zoom,' they're on the line."

"I'm familiar with the technology," Scully said drily.

"Well, what's curious is the way these buttons here are labeled," Columbo said. "Number one is labeled ‘Dist. Off'..."

"District office," Mulder suggested. "His local congressional headquarters."

"Yeah, that's probably right...Button number two is ‘Gray,' who I believe is our beloved governor. Number four is ‘DeFazio's Pizza' — well, I guess all work and no play... Number five is ‘Albert,' who I don't have the foggiest about..."

"Wait," Mulder said. "Button three."

"Ah, yes, button three," Columbo announced triumphantly. "The anonymous button three. See, Agent Scully, button three is the only speed dial button on this phone that's not labeled. Now why would that be, I ask myself."

"Hooker?" Mulder offered, perhaps a bit too anxiously. "He is a public figure, and God knows who may come and go through this house."

Columbo pursed his lips. "Oh, I doubt that, Agent Mulder. If you were a public figure, would you even program something that incriminating into your phone? I mean, who knows when you might have to answer to 60 Minutes, Dateline, federal investigators such as yourself? You see my point? Nooo, I have to think this button is connected to something legal, but something the senator wouldn't have wanted people to know about. Maybe something embarrassing, something bad for his public image."

Mulder smiled. "May I venture a theory? Look over here."

Columbo and Scully followed the agent to the shelf where the lieutenant had first laid eyes on agents. The oak shelf was covered with goats — representational porcelain goats, expensive marble rams, cheap bug-eyed plastic billy goats, African carvings, hundreds of renderings in every medium and style.

"Goats," Columbo mulled.

"Goats, no kidding," Mulder deadpanned. Scully's eyes were on the ceiling, and Columbo was smiling indulgently. "Uh, usually a collecting mania like this is motivated by some personal or occupational interest, a major life experience. I know Democrats who collect donkeys, Republicans who acquire elephants, cops who collect pigs. But what do goats signify for Sen. Huykendall?"

"I'm baffled," Scully murmured.

Mulder grabbed a plastic evidence bag from a nearby table. Inside was an expensive leather billfold. "Huykendall's wallet. I checked the senator's birthdate earlier: December 26. Thom Huykendall was a Capricorn. The astrological sign of the goat."

Columbo nodded for several long seconds. "Oo-kay..."

"Bear with me," Mulder pled. "I'd say a man who builds a hobby around his astrological sign likely has a strong belief in forces beyond our ken -- horoscopes, the Tarot, the continued popularity of Who Wants to Be A Millionnaire? If you were a respected federal statesman in whom the public places it's trust, would you want the public to know your legislative decisions might be based on mumbo-jumbo?"

Lt. Columbo continued nodding. "Very interesting, sir; ver-r-ry interesting."

"Remember the uproar when the media reported Nancy Reagan had had psychics into the White House? A lot of Hollywood celebrities believe firmly that the stars can be used to chart their personal or professional destiny. What's so wild about a powerful man from the New Age capital of North America consulting a spiritual advisor?"

"You think the senator here went to a, whattya-call-em, a psychic? Crystal balls, tea leaves, that kind of thing?"

"Eenie, meanie, chili beanie," Mulder chanted.

"Well, that could be a possibility, sir."

"I think a good possibility."

"Yeah, but…"

Scully made an aggrieved noise and marched to the phone. With undue emphasis, she punched the speaker and number 3 speed dial button. The machine erupted in a series of staccato tones, and the phone began to ring.

"Well, yeah, if you want to take the non-intellectual route," Mulder complained.

"Welcome to Laine Tressault Consultation," a pleasant, middle-aged female voice greeted. "We provide spiritually-based personal and professional guidance for selected clients during our normal business hours, from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. Monday through Friday. At the sound of the tone, please supply your name, return number, and the nature of your concern or request. Thank you, and may you be guided toward the way of light."

"Well," Columbo said as Scully disconnected the line. "That is very impressive, Agent Mulder. Of course, the thing is…"

"No, what?"

"Well, and I don't want to take away from your deductive reasoning just now, 'cause that was brilliant, sir, but what does that tell us about our murder here?"

Mulder glanced at Scully, who was looking extremely noncommital. "Maybe nothing. But if Sen. Huykendall was consulting this Laine Tressault, it's likely he may have told her personal things, worries he might have harbored, threats he might have received. Like a priest and his parishioner, or a lawyer and his client. Something that could give us a clue."

Columbo brightened. "Yesss, yes. I think you're onto something." He fell awkwardly to one knee, and rooted through the magazines, legislative reports, and other reading matter stacked on the mission-style rung of the end table. The policeman climbed to his feet with the Greater L.A. Yellow Pages, which he flopped on a nearby library table. "Would you take down this address, Agent Mulder? We're going to see a seer."

8:15 a.m.

Laine Tressault residence

Amid a scattering of roses and lillies, Laine sipped the special Kona blend a grateful local coffee entrepreneur/client had regularly supplied her after she had helped him pinpoint the locations of the next eight Southern California Starbuck's franchises. She'd had no sleep, of course -- Laine obviously had never killed a man before, particularly not in cold blood, even if the reasons in this case had seemed justifiable. Harrison already was busy with the day's itinerary; his cheery attitude, no doubt linked to some romantic conquest the night before, had spurred an irritable response. Laine's assistant merely returned a few catty remarks about feminine pain relief products and went on his way, humming.

"Laine, babe?" Harrison said, his head appearing in the sunroom doorway. "We've got guests, and, honey, you gotta see this group!"

They were, indeed, a motley trio. A loose-limbed, handsome young man, a strikingly pretty redhead, and, well, the other man…

"I've seen you," the troglydyte in the raincoat exclaimed, slapping his forehead. "Yeah, sure, I've seen you on TV. On one of the talk shows or something…"

"I did Leno last week," Laine offered in her fan voice.

"Yeah, that was it," Columbo nodded exuberantly. "Y'know, that stuff you did with the audience was amazing, really, but I had no idea psychics had a, well, I mean, um…"

"A sense of humor?" Laine asked cheerfully. "I must, mustn't I? That's why I've stood out here this long without asking who in the world you are."

Columbo rapped his forehead. "Where's my brain today? I'm sorry, ma'am; I'm Lt. Columbo with L.A.P.D. Homicide, and these are Special Agents Fox Mulder and Dana Scully with the FBI. I'm afraid we have some very unpleasant news for you. Was Thom Huykendall a friend of yours, a client?"

Laine fell back against the doorjam -- it seemed the right move. "My god, Thom? Homicide? How did it happen?"

"He was shot, ma'am, at fairly close range."

"My god." Okay, she thought, you've used your quota of "My gods." "Please, all of you, come in. Coffee?"

"No thank you," Scully answered for them all as she inspected Laine's Spanish-style foyer. In the corner of her eye, she saw Mulder retrieve something from the red tile floor

"So I take it Sen. Huykendall was a client?"

"A client, a friend," Laine said, waving a hand and leading the trio to the sunroom. "Thom and I served on a number of local boards together, and we've leant our names to several charity events."

"No public cloak of mystery, huh?" Mulder posed politely. "I mean, you don't seem to try to project an aura of otherworldliness?"

Laine peered at the agent, the smile still rigid on her face.

"Otherworldliness is overrated, Fox, is it? I never felt I needed that in either my private or public lives. I let my record of accuracy and client satisfaction speak for itself."

The cops and the psychic settled into cushioned rattan chairs. Laine lifted her cup and sipped carefully. "So, what's up, gang? Why the fortune-teller lady?"

"Well," Columbo said. "By the way, Madame Tressault, I don't suppose I could have my cigar…?"

Laine laughed. "Why, absolutely not, Lieutenant. And I'm a Ms., not a Madame."

"Ah, that's fine. See, Ms. Tressault, I gotta admit we don't really know where to start with this case. Usually, you think of a public official being murdered in a, well, a public way, ma'am. Assassination, bombs, stuff like that. This was so, if you'll pardon me, private."

"Privacy is a dying concept, Lieutenant," Laine suggested. "The Internet, the bureaucracy, even the prospect of genetic screening -- people like myself may be out of business soon, with everyone's life such a goldfish bowl. I don't find it so odd to believe some psychotic or disgruntled activist with an axe to grind would stalk poor Thom on his home turf."

"You don't have any idea who might have killed the senator?" Mulder posed. "I mean, he was your client. You had no vision or perception that he might be murdered?"

"Agent," the psychic responded patiently. "I don't pretend toward omniscience. I don't see everything, and often, I don't see the big picture. Right now, I might be able to predict you'll have a flat tire on Santa Monica Boulevard at 4:23 October 21, 2006, but not that you someday will be director of the FBI.

"Further, the senator's last appointment was four days ago. I've come to believe that until an event is destined to happen, it cannot be predicted. A string of historical, social, or natural events may demand centuries before the fact that a war eventually will start or a major earthquake will occur. But perhaps Sen. Huykendall's death was not destined to happen until three days ago, perhaps yesterday morning. That may be a clue in and of itself. All I can tell you otherwise is a few of the senator's major bills will pass within the next months, and that he will have a severe relapse of a periodic rectal discomfort."

Columbo leaned forward in his chair. "By the way, ma'am -- you said Sen. Huykendall was killed on his home turf. I mean, you're right, he was murdered at home. But how would you know that, if I may ask?"

Laine smiled cryptically and took another sip. "Otherworldly powers, Lieutenant. No, actually, Thom called me a couple of days ago, and I knew Congress was in recess for the week. Satisfied?"

"Oh. Well, that makes perfect sense. Anyway, I'm not here just to ask you questions. I would like to request your help on this case."

Laine's eyebrows rose. "My help? In what capacity?"

Columbo blushed, she thought. "Well, you have helped out on several cases for the L.A.P.D., and the wife is always telling me I gotta keep an open mind to things I don't understand. Tell you what, I ate at this Chinese place last week, and my fortune -- the one I got with the cookie, you know? -- well, it's just amazing what happened…"

"My help?" Laine prompted. "You want me to assist on this case?"

"Maybe just come out to the senator's house, look around, see if you pick up any 'vibes' or anything?" Columbo invited. "It would be a real help to me, ma'am."

"Well, how can I turn down those imploring K-9 puppy eyes? Harrison," she called.

Her assistant appeared immediately in the doorway. It was constantly unnerving as well as reassuring. "Yeah, babe?"

Laine smiled poisonously at Harrison's lack of decorum. "What time I have to be at the studio?"

"They said 2:30."

"Appointments?"

"You said keep it clear before the taping."

Laine turned to the cops. "Let's take separate cars. I'll see you there in about 45?"

Columbo grinned. "That's wonderful, ma'am. I really appreciate it. We'll see you at the senator's place."

He began to file out of the sunroom with Mulder and Scully.

"Oh, Lieutenant," Laine called, sweetly. Columbo turned. "Aren't you going to tell me where the house is?"

The lieutenant looked at her for a second, then smiled somewhat sheepishly.

"Of course, I know where it is. He has been my client for years, and I do the occasional housecall."

"Yes, ma'am," Columbo murmured, exiting.

After they'd left, Harrison began to clear Laine's coffee paraphernalia. "You better watch that one, babe. He's a tricky little Neanderthal, and so's Foxie the Fed."

"Oh, the lieutenant's smarter than he lets on, but maybe not as perceptive as he believes."

"By the by," Harrison said. "What do you know about automatic writing? Astral projection?"

Laine's blood temperature plunged a few degrees.

"Weirdest thing," her assistant continued. "On my way out last night, I forgot my pager, so I popped back. And you know what? It was like something out of Poltergeist. You were chatting, but your corporeal presence wasn't present."

Laine stared at him.

"Oh, and I got a call yesterday from some barroom-type character. Wouldn't talk to me, but said if you didn't like 'the merchandise,' you should let him know. OK, well, you go on off on your picnic, and don't forget the taping. We'll talk more at my next salary review."

Laine's lips formed a tight smile. She grabbed Harrison's forearm; her eyes seemed unfocused for a second, but then she was back. "Harrison, sweetie? Hope you don't have any long-term hopes for that corporate attorney you met last week. He'll tire of your self-absorbed flamboyance quickly, and you'll be back alone with your Siamese. Which, by the way, will asphyxiate on a hairball next Wednesday while you're dissecting a chicken Caesar salad. You yourself will expire on the grill of a semi-tractor trailer hauling cabbage and avocados. Want to know when?"

"Meow," Harrison countered. "As Doris said, 'Que sera sera.' I'll pick up some kittie medicine on the way home, cross at the lights, and, if worse comes to pass, hope I leave a nice body behind. Pull in those little clairvoyant claws, Lainie. We're on the same team. I just got a dental plan and another week or two of vacation. Maybe on St. Maarten's?"

10:05 a.m.

Sen. Thom Huykendall residence

Harrison's blithe threat had rattled Laine, but she knew, ultimately, the young man's greed would assure his confidence. Neither did Columbo's hidden wiles unduly concern her -- he was a blue-collar cop who couldn't even imagine why she would have murdered a man she had liked and respected for years. But the feds, especially the young man who asked about her visions as if he were inquiring about lunch specials… As she crunched into Thom Huykendall's drive, she could see Columbo kneeling on the front lawn, deep in conversation with Mulder and Scully.

"Lieutenant, agents," Laine greeted. Columbo scrambled to his feet.

"I really appreciate this, Ms. Tressault," he insisted.

"Civic duty, right? Oh, you've got some grass on your coat, Lieutenant," Laine said with mock concern, brushing the rumpled fabric. "There," she announced, concealing a mixture of anxiety and relief. "Shall we?"

In the house, Laine put on what she hoped was an understated performance, touching an object here, picking up a piece of paper or household item there. No chanting, no channeling, no fluttering of eyebrows. The objects she contacted had little impact on her other than dim images of Huykendall's friends and family and flickering memories of her own homicidal visit the night before. As she passed Mulder in the hallway, Laine pretended to trip on a Navajo throw rug, grabbing his arm for support.

What flowed into Laine Tressault nearly knocked her to the floor -- strange premonitions that simply defied earthly definition. Secrets that would drive a weaker, less resourceful man insane. And a driving current of suspicion that offered her a means of escape from her pursuers.

"Thank you," Laine said, proceeding to the murder scene. When she reached Huykendall's TV room desk, the psychic staggered into a chair.

"My God," Laine breathed. "That was powerful. I saw a man, an older man. He is cancer, a cancer. Smoke concealing every true thought, every deed he commits. You know this man, Agent Mulder."

Scully turned abruptly to Mulder, whose eyes were widening.

"This man," Mulder rasped. "You think he killed the senator?"

Laine shook her head. "He is shrouded in death, but, and maybe you can explain this, I associate him with charity, sweet charity."

"Wow," Columbo interjected enthusiastically, punching a hole through the dark atmosphere that had filled the bright room. "Now, that is something. This is just what I was hoping for -- a real lead."

"I have to make a phone call," Mulder said tonelessly. He hurried out with Scully in pursuit.

"I appear to have upset him," Laine said, rejoicing silently.

"He's a very, very sharp young man, very driven," Columbo concluded.

"This may just be what we need to break this case. Let's just step onto the patio and finish up…"

Laine glanced with trepidation at the lushly flowered patio.

"Lieutenant, I'm sorry to bail out on you, but this has been rather exhausting for me. I'm going to have to excuse myself."

Columbo waved a dismissive arm. "Yes, ma'am, I understand completely. You go home and relax for your, what taping? You doing a talk show? I know my wife would want to know when that's on…"

"No, lieutenant, Fox is putting together a panel of psychics to investigate famous mysteries and crimes, live tonight."

"Wel-l-ll, I certainly will have to see that," Columbo said. "You do a lot of that sort of thing?"

"If it's relatively dignified," Laine responded. "Of course, this is Fox… See, to stay ahead of our pack, I try to reach the public via all media. Leno here, a book tour there. Last night, I did a live Internet chat with fans from across the country."

"Goodness," Columbo exclaimed, resting a palm on his cheek. "Live? When was this?"

Laine knew he suspected her, though for what reason she did not know. This was his clumsy attempt to secure her alibi. "7:30 p.m. to about 10, I guess. A real marathon. I was exhausted. As I am now…"

"Oh, sure," Columbo said. "Hey, thanks again; you were a tremendous help."

As Laine drove back toward town, she felt revived. Columbo would determine that she had a firm alibi, the FBI agents would continue to chase this illusive cigarette-smoking man, who was an evil son of a bitch, anyway, and even if Columbo continued to harbor suspicions, he would not get the opportunity to explore or develop them.

11:45 a.m.

Santa Teresa, California

"Yeah, please, have him call me as soon as possible," Mulder said, ending his discussion with Sen. Matheson's aide and pocketing his cell phone. He hadn't uttered a word to Scully since they parted ways with the L.A. homicide cop. Spender, AKA Cancerman, AKA the Cigarette Smoking Man, had been a sore subject between the agents since he had tricked Scully into deceiving and unwittingly betraying Mulder.

"Mulder," Scully finally ventured, "Do you really think Tressault is precognitive?"

"Don't you?" Mulder challenged. "Remember the Clyde Bruckman case? He used his ability to read potential clients' insurance risks. Why couldn't Laine Tressault be the real thing, maybe with a little more marketing savvy than the average bargain basement mystic. Look, most so-called psychics rely on keen powers of observation and instuition, making generalized statements and predictions. But Tressault was specific, about a man about whom the average person could know nothing. Even that bit about sweet charity. You remember the old Shirley MacLaine musical, Sweet Charity? The breakout tune from the show was 'Hey, Big Spender.'"

"I reasoned that out," Scully said, watching the Pacific Coast Highway scenery rush past the rental car. "Didn't you find that a bit coy, a little too evasive? I thought there was a contrived tone to the whole 'vision.'

"Let's say Tressault is genuinely clairvoyant. Maybe she tapped into your own mental processes, found Spender and your obsession -- I'm sorry, your preoccupation --"

"Much better," Mulder chuckled, breaking the tension. "I see what you're saying. But why would she frame Spender? That would mean either she wants to preserve her psychic image by throwing us a 'lead' or she killed the senator herself, though I can't imagine why. In either case, I want to find out whether she's the goods or not."

Santa Teresa was a shady but apparently healthy Southern California town, small enough for Mulder and Scully to easily locate the Tress-So Salon. The late morning crowd was thin -- an older woman plugged into a dryer and reeking of permanent solution; a young woman with an overblown plume of maroon hair, reading People in a cutting chair; and a blonde woman clearly in her 60s or 70s, but straining to trim a few decades from public perceptions.

"Gloria Tressault?" Scully inquired of the slim senior.

"Yeah, hon," the elder hairdresser coughed, crushing out a Morley Light in a scallop/ashtray. "You don't look to need a touch-up, and I haven't met a husband who comes along for moral support, so you must be well-informed religitroids or cops."

"Have you found Jesus?" Mulder inquired, smiling. Gloria exhaled nicotine smoke. "Uh, I'm Agent Mulder, this is Agent Scully with the FBI. We're investigating a murder in L.A., and your daughter is, well, a sort of witness."

Gloria rolled her yellowed eyes. "Sort of witness. Yeah, well, come in the back."

**

"She grew up perfectly normal, maybe a little bit of a mouth on her," Gloria explained, a fresh Morley attached to her fingers. "We're a big family, just like my family growing up and my mom's, and Laine kinda was lost in the crowd.

"It was when she was 15 she started to get spooky. Or at least, that's how it came off to others. We went to the annual town festival over at the municipal park, and she went into like a seizure. Oh, what'd they call it? Prophylactic, no, anaphylactic shock. We thought we were gonna lose Laine, but they gave her some shit, and she pulled out. But it left her with this weird crap.

"At first, people thought it was cute Laine could tell you the scores on local ballgames before they were played, predict what kind of grade you were gonna get on a test. Then she started telling folks stuff they didn't want to know, you know? It was about that time my no-good louse ex started shtupping my cousin, so he was no use. I was relieved when Laine decided to get a cosmetology degree and join the business. That's her sister out there, lazy little sow.

"So everything was all peachy -- customers liked Laine, she worked hard, and didn't complain about hours. But then she started up again. She'd shampoo somebody, then tell them their husband was screwing around. Manicure somebody, and beg them to see a cancer doctor. It all came to a head when she gave the assistant principal at the high school a frost job and told her she was gonna blow her brains out. It was then I told her she oughtta look for a job in L.A., that she and I would be happier and she wouldn't stand out with the other Southern California crazies. Luckily, she'd cleared out a half-year before Yvonne -- the assistant principal -- put a shotgun in her mouth over some basketball player she'd been boinking. And, as it turned out, I was right. She found herself, as the women's libbers say, and now she does parlor tricks on Oprah and Letterman."

"You must be proud," Mulder said with veiled irony.

"Oh, oodles," Gloria said sourly before she started hacking on blue smoke.

11:32 a.m.

Parker Center, Los Angeles

Thanks to the miracles of modern technology, Futura.com was able to e-mail Columbo the transcript of Laine Tressault's Internet chat within an hour, and the lieutenant was squinting at the electronic document on his recently installed PC when Kramer came into the Homicide squadroom.

"Marvelous thing, the Internet, Sergeant," Columbo murmured as he scrolled down the transcript. The chat manager at Futura.com had verified that the nationwide discussion of psychic phenomena had indeed last from 7:30 p.m. to 10 p.m., with only a 10-minute break for the sake of the eyes and bladders of the participants.

"Yeah, wonderful," Kramer grunted. "We got the Internet last fall for the boy, 14? Hoped he'd use it to look at pyramids and Abe Lincoln and shit. Spent his evenings 'chatting' with a global network of tramps and downloading naked pictures. I made him go back to Encyclopedia Brittanica."

"Marvelous," Columbo repeated, oblivious to the sergeant's lament. "All these people, all over the country, all over the world, maybe, they jump on their computers and talk to this famous lady like she was in their living room. Marvelous. Hmmm… Wait a minute. Sergeant, would you do me a favor and read this section right here?"

Kramer waited for Columbo to vacate his chair, then sighed when it became clear he would not. He bent behind Columbo's shoulder and began to read:

"ESPR320: When you first realize you had the gift? LT: 15. i had been deathly ill, and after i had pulled through, i discovered i had gained a universe of new insights. Clrvynt3: Do yr psychic visions come to you like a movie or something? LT: At first, they were unformed, disconnected images. As i got older, i was able to tune them in and get in touch with what i called the connective tissue that made sense of them. damn it. Ghstflyr: Can you read anybody's thots? LT: Most, but not everyone. Children often set up more confusing signals, because of their underdeveloped thought processes. Moondg221: Why don't you play the Lotto or bet on the Super Bowl and get rich? LT: that would be unprofessional whbegshsll i don't gamble or use my expertise to advise others on sporting events not only would i be misusing my personal gift but i'd actually be influencing the future by potentially changing the betting odds on the event Clrvynt3: Do u believe we cn change the future if we know whats 2 come? LT: Yes. i feel one definitely can alter the future."

"Stop right there," Columbo commanded. "Now, Sarge, what was strange about that whole passage there?"

"What wasn't?" Kramer snorted.

"Nooo, not the conversation itself, but the writing. LT's writing, to be specific?"

"Well, I guess she did get a little sloppy," Kramer considered. "Forgot her punctuation, capitalization. And her eyes."

"Her eyes?" Columbo asked, looking back at his associate.

"Her 'I's," Kramer stressed impatiently, doing finger brackets. "She didn't capitalize her I's. That's not a common writing error, I wouldn't think."

"You get an 'A'," the lieutenant said thoughtfully, digitally bracketing the letter.

**

When Columbo had promised his new law enforcement colleagues some "five-star chili," Scully had expected some nuevo-style Mexican or Tex-Mex blend. As the retired Irish cop, a buddy of Columbo's, set three finely cracked bowls of meat and beans before the trio, she smiled politely and began to explore the bottom of the concoction with a spoon.

"You first," Mulder said. "What about that item I picked up in Tressault's house?"

"Ponderosa pine, coated with a very specific residual pesticide," Columbo said, holding his notebook two feet before his face. "You realize that wouldn't stand up in any L.A. court?"

Mulder shrugged. "Enough to know we're on the right track. That and the fact I think Laine Tressault is trying to give us a red herring with this smoking man stuff." He told him about the conversation with Gloria Tressault. "Laine seemingly can only predict someone's future or read their thoughts if she comes into contact with them. Or maybe something that belongs to them. I think she contrived to touch me at the senator's house so she could see what I was thinking and play into it."

Columbo stopped splurting Tabasco sauce into his chili. "You actually believe Ms. Tressault has psychic powers?"

"Yeah, I do."

The cop grinned. "Well, you'll have to pardon me, 'cause I don't mean any offense, but you are an FBI agent…"

"From our lips to God's ear," Scully grumbled, satisfied her chili was uninhabited.

Mulder forged on. "Laine Tressault has had documented precognitive abilities since she was 15, when she suffered a severe episode of anaphylactic shock."

"Ana-what?" Columbo inquired.

"Anaphylactic shock is a severe allergic reaction normally resulting from a bee or wasp sting," Scully elaborated. "Death can occur in minutes if epinephrine or other treatment isn't administered."

"In many cases, psychic abilities appear to surface after an individual has suffered major medical traumas," Mulder said. "Diseases like encephalitis affect the brain's functions. Why couldn't other diseases like anaphylactic shock, that release large amounts of chemicals in the system, activate brain functions we don't normally experience?"

Mulder's monologue was lost on Lt. Columbo, who had dropped his fork and was leaning against the booth with a look of pure epiphany.

"Lieutenant, are you all right?" Scully asked.

"Bee or wasp stings," Columbo stated clearly. "Bee or wasp stings. Why, yes, Agent Scully, I believe I'm just fine. Say, you're not eating your chili."

5:42 p.m.

Fox Television Productions

Laine was ready to strangle the make-up girl, who ministered interminably with her face, her hair, her eyebrows. Every stroke and tinkering offered Laine a brief flash into the girl's private life -- a mix of egomaniacal superiors, handsome but stupid men, and more than the daily prescribed requirement of tequila.

"Hey, almost showtime, huh?" a familiar voice piped up, cheerfully. Laine glanced bleakly at the makeup mirror; a beaming Lt. Columbo glanced back from the doorway.

"Ah, my entourage," Laine greeted drily. "Come to the house tomorrow, and we'll talk over old times."

"I know this is a bad time," Columbo began.

"Tomorrow," Laine said firmly. "You can come by and entertain me with a little more of your 'invaluable assistance' schtick. I don't know how in the world you could make such a leap, but I honestly believe you think I murdered Thom."

Columbo's grin turned into something cold and steely. "I'm actually fairly certain you killed Sen. Huykendall. Gimme a couple of days, and I think I can put you at the Huykendall house. The only thing I can't figure out, for the life of me, is the motive. Why did you do it?"

"I'm going on TV live in about an hour, and you're dancing dangerously close to a lawsuit," Laine said pleasantly. "Tomorrow, and we'll fantasize all you want."

Columbo slouched into a director's chair and dug into a raincoat pocket. "I wonder if you could give me a reading on an object."

"If that will send you packing, gladly."

The policeman handed her a glassine evidence envelope with a single, thin green object inside. "That's a needle from a Ponderosa pine, ma'am. Wanna know where it came from?"

"Thom's home, I assume."

"Wanna know where we found it?"

Laine drew up for a second, then smiled. "Let's just skip the drama. My home, right? Well, Lieutenant, am I to assume Thom Huykendall owns the only specimens of Ponderosa pine in the greater L.A. area?"

"Of course not, ma'am," Columbo said, serious now. "But did you notice the flags on the senator's lawn this morning? Those were to warn people that the lawn had been treated with pesticides -- very specific lawn chemicals used by various landscaping/lawn care firms. The senator's yard was treated yesterday afternoon -- I can show you the work order. Now, even if it's not quite a fingerprint, I think we can demonstrate this pine needle is coated with the formulation used by Sen. Huykendall's lawn service."

"Which I would assume services many other lawns, as well," Laine noted. "Maybe a visiting client left that needle in my house. See you tomorrow."

"I'm not done yet," Columbo said. "See, when I first visited the crime scene, there was one thing that really bugged me. Why didn't you take the path?"

"The path? You getting deep on me now, lieutenant?"

"I mean the path of least resistance. I wondered why the killer went to the trouble of entering the locked front door of the senator's house when the side patio door was obviously open. You even pulled the door shut when you left. Why not the patio door? Could it be because of the flowers?"

"The what?" Laine laughed incredulously.

"The flowers, Ms. Tressault. Or should I say the bees? You almost died as a teenager because of a bee sting. With your allergy, you don't dare go near outdoor plants in the summer. I think you're terrified of bees. That's why you took the hard route."

Laine nodded thoughtfully. "You got me. Let's go downtown together and lay all this out for the city prosecutor. The pine needles, the flowers, the bees... That should be enough to put me away for awhile, especially if the prosecutor's Martha Stewart."

"It's weak," Columbo admitted. "But I think it's enough to get a judge to issue me a search warrant."

"For what?"

"Your computer, ma'am."

"And what do expect to find?" Laine said.

"Probably traces of the programs you tried to delete from your hard drive today," Mulder said from the doorway. "My guess is some sort of voice recognition program, an interface with a handheld computer — I'm betting a PDA with cellular capabilities, probably at the bottom of the Pacific by now — and maybe a PC remote control program. Everything you needed to chat on the run."

Laine considered the pair. "OK, Bill Gates. How'd you come up with this little plotline?"

"You want to see a little act of prognostication?" Columbo asked, pulling an envelope from his raincoat. "I think you'll find it pretty interesting."

"Please, proceed."

"This is the hard copy version of last night's Internet chat. Every word, just exactly the way they were typed." Columbo held the sheaf of paper aloft, then held it to his forehead. "I will now tell you precisely when you killed Thom Huykendall."

"Fascinating."

"Right here," the lieutenant murmured, leafing through the pages. "Ah, here we are. Right here, where you're asked whether you bet on the Lotto or the Superbowl. Agent Mulder, you wanna explain?"

"Voice recognition software requires you to ‘train' the program, and in some programs, to capitalize a word or name, you have to speak the word ‘capital' at the beginning of a sentence or before a name or place. To insert a comma in a sentence, you have to say ‘comma'; to end a sentence with a period, you must say ‘period.'"

"But at the point you shot the senator, in the stress of the moment, you forgot your training," Columbo charged. "You forgot to capitalize words, you left out punctuation. And this alphabet soup, this garble in the middle of your answer?" Columbo leaned toward Laine. "I think that was the senator, asking why his old friend was going to kill him, maybe even begging for his life. But the recognition program didn't recognize his voice -- it wasn't trained for it."

"Bullshit," Laine stated, only her lips moving. "I grabbed a little snack during the chat, and I was trying to type one-handed. I finally just gave up and waited until the chat was over."

Columbo nodded. "Nice try. But you made one other mistake. You forgot to capitalize your ‘I's throughout the whole chat. Every single one. That's not a typing error; that's a verbal error. Now, we got guys in the department can take a computer apart and track almost every file you've ever created or installed, and I'm hoping by tomorrow morning they can take a peek inside yours."

"And maybe we can track down where you bought the software and the handheld unit," Mulder suggested. "Unless Mr. Feld did the legwork for you."

At the mention of her assistant's name, Laine felt a chilled spike in her gut.

A tall man in a network T-shirt and jeans knocked on the doorframe. "Ms. Tressault, Greg wants to do some blocking. You ready?"

"Right there." Laine rose and regarded the cop and the agent with a bemused expression.

"Showtime, fellas. See you in court. I'll listen for the laughter."

The psychic swept from the room. Columbo looked at Mulder,who shrugged. "Even I find it a little wacky," the agent confessed.

10:32 p.m.

Laine Tressault residence

The evening was an almost complete disaster: The crazy asshole with the mask kept trying to run the show with his World Wrestling Federation-style dramatics, and the third member of the psychic panel had placed Craig Stevens on a death list to which the actor already had been enrolled. And the JFK fiasco. Laine Tressault's shot at some real headlines, some real controversy. Who was to know that cigarette-smoking demon in Mulder's head was the guy who did it? Of course, Laine couldn't risk making that connection on nationwide TV, so she'd added just a tinge of doubt to the Warren Commission report, and moved on. As she turned the corner near her home, the psychic reminded herself to drop an anonymous line to the Washington Post or the FBI once this all settled down. But not to the spooky agent and his girlfriend.

Columbo, of course, was waiting for her, his rattletrap little tuna can sitting at the curb. Within minutes, Laine knew, her troubles would be over. Columbo's wild theorizing would be abandoned by his more provincial colleagues. Given what she had found out about Thom Huykendall's recent and chilling covert activities, she was convinced Mulder would be told firmly by his superiors to move on to new business.

Columbo's car door creaked painfully, and he got out and leaned over the roof. Like a lamb to slaughter, Laine thought. She parked several yards ahead of the cop's car.

"Well, good evening, Lieutenant," she called brightly. "A gentleman caller, oh, my. Where's your partner in crime?"

"We decided Agent Mulder might have more clout with Judge Paterson, getting that warrant to search your computer. Agent Scully went back to D.C. to see what she could find out about the senator. It musta been something pretty awful."

"Whatever do you mean?" Laine asked, as she knew she would. She strained to hear the distant squeal of tires.

"Whatever made a woman like you kill a man in cold-blooded premeditation. I've done my homework on you. Psychics for Cancer Prevention, board memberships with at least five different L.A. charities, even a few guest shots to raise money for Jerry's kids. You put up this sarcastic front for people, but I think you actually care about the futures you see, a lot more than maybe even you think.

"I'll be honest with you, ma'am," Columbo said, slumping against his car. "I don't think we're gonna get that warrant, and you may be right -- the prosecutor may laugh us outta court. But I'm like you -- my job means a lot more to me than just grabbing a check. I'm gonna stick with this, you mark my words. I'd just like to know, as a person, as somebody who knows what kind of person you seem to be, why you killed Sen. Huykendall."

Laine peered at the policeman in the street light, an expression of earnest interest, nearly tortured concern on his face. An engine roared and tires squealed in the distance.

Huykendall had been becoming a monster, at first out of misplaced patriotism and then as a stepping stone to power. He'd fallen in with a group on the fringes of the intelligence community, and, unchecked, would have initiated an unavoidable chain reaction of events affecting or ending millions of lives.

If she let natural events take their course, Thom's death likely would remain a mystery, and he would be remembered as a statesman and philanthropist. All at the cost of one man destined to die in the next few minutes.

"Hey, Columbo," Laine heard herself say, deviating from the script. "Come on in. We'll knock back some wine coolers and you can tell me some more whoppers."

The lieutenant paused, then relaxed into a grin. "Wel-l-ll, I suppose I am kinda off the clock. But make mine a Pepsi, if you got it. I am driving."

No, you're not, Laine sighed mentally as Columbo stepped onto the curb and fate realigned itself. As they reached the front door, the souped-up, jacked-up Ford pickup, driven by the drunk contractor's assistant (Danny something, Laine recalled from her contact with the lieutenant) whose girlfriend had deep-sixed him four hours earlier, screamed around the corner. His turn was too sharp, his motor skills shot, and the truck piled into Columbo's tuna can.

"My car!" Lt. Columbo yelled. "My God -- I just had new mirrors put on! I better see if this guy's OK."

Laine leaned on a porch post as Columbo confirmed the truck driver was just banged up a little, removed his ignition keys, and used her phone to call 911. When he came back outside, Columbo could see the Hollywood psychic was smiling wistfully. Laine grasped his coatsleeve, sighed, and sat down on the porch rail.

"I guess if you want to haul me in, we'll have to use my car," she finally joked.

Lt. Columbo started to say something, and then it hit him. The homicide detective plopped into a cushioned wicker chair and silently rubbed his chin for several seconds.

"I think I know what just happened here," Columbo said mildly. "I think you just made a very tough decision, given the circumstances, and I am grateful. Like I said, I figured you for that kind of person. But I have to tell you this: I take murder -- even if it's done with the best of intentions -- very seriously, ma'am. I'm going to have to keep on this case. I may not get you tomorrow--"

"No, you won't," Laine Tressault agreed. "You'll get me next Wednesday, at about 9:18 a.m., when Harrison finally loses his nerve, tells you about the call from my gun dealer -- ha, MY gun dealer -- and admits I wasn't home during the Internet chat. He always was incredibly overpaid and short on balls. So let's not dance around; ya got me, Lieutenant."

"Can I ask?"

"Why? I think not. Thom doesn't need it, and it won't help me."

Columbo nodded respectfully. He sat peacefully in the cool darkness of the California night, waiting for the paramedics and a wrecker. Gradually, he broke into a broad, somewhat sorrowful grin.

"You couldn't have told me to move the car?" he asked.

*end