Her fingers caressed the cold metal of the pistol before she dropped it back into her special desk drawer.   Well, she'd known for a while that it might come to this.  Carpe diem, her father had always told her, because if you miss, you might miss forever. She ran her perfectly manicured nails through her hair, trying to calm the whirlwind of thoughts pushing through her brain.   She could almost physically feel the chance of a lifetime slipping through her fingers.   Her spacious corner office, overlooking the heart of downtown San Francisco , had begun to stifle her.

            She wasn't sure if her thoughts should surprise or disgust her.   Whenever she stared down into the drawer, with the pistol and the printouts from the Internet café and the neatly folded costume and everything else she so carefully prepared, she expected to feel something.   Nervousness, fear, pride, it didn't matter what, but SOMETHING.   Instead, a numbness came over her, with a distant sullen weariness; why couldn't she just shoot the son-of-a-bitch now and get it over with?  It wasn't a murder she was planning, it was a chore.

            She wasn't sure how to feel about that, either.

            She shook her head to clear the cobwebs (not entirely succeeding) and slammed the drawer shut once more, locking it tight with one firm twist of her wrist.   In the end, there was one simple truth that stood above all else: it was either him or her.

            And it was obvious which she had to choose.

 

***

 

            The annual awards ceremony of the San Francisco Society of Friends would never draw any sort of media attention, despite the glittering jewels and famous faces that filled the hotel ballroom.   Though the cream of the crop and the heights of stardom attended each affair, the topics were just too boring for the evening news.   Historic preservation, feeding the poor, reading to the children...   It was all just too mundane for the flashy, five-second violence, sound bite world of the average American attention span.

            But the average San Franciscan would have been astonished to learn how many wheels had turned, laws built, and plans put into motion in each meeting.   Though the state halls in Sacramento certainly held power, the meetings of the San Francisco Society of Friends arguably wielded even more.

            "And now, the presentation of Citizen of the Year."   Society Chairman and millionaire Nicholas Van Orton smiled as he gripped the shining gold-plated trophy.   It had been a fine evening: the Society's most prominent members had all attended, and all opened their purses and wallets to contribute to the lately ailing general fund.  Even the minor unpleasantness that sprang up with one of the members' guests, a nervous little man with curly black hair and a stammer, failed to dampen the flush of success.  "At the tender age of 22, he began one of San Francisco 's most prominent small businesses, now flourishing into a national force.   He has been a champion of individual and civil rights for years, highlighted in his speech at the 2000 Democratic National Convention.   The time, money, and voice he has given to issues ranging from the environment to his focus, homosexual rights, has been an unrecognized credit to this Society for too long.  This year, we correct that error, and give this man the spotlight, and the thanks, he deserves.

            "Ladies and gentlemen, I give you 2003's Citizen of the Year, founder, owner, and CEO of Wise Men Publishing, Curtis Marshak ."

            He stepped aside as the room erupted in applause and one or two wolf whistles.   The handsome young man with the close cropped, spiked blonde hair and neatly trimmed beard and moustache that rose hardly looked the role of business owner and political activist; he seemed more at home on a beach in the Rivera, or a bodybuilding magazine.   He certainly didn't look his 35 years.   Most of all, his humble smile and almost shy wave didn't speak of a man who realized, or cared, about any of that.   He took Van Orton's place behind the oak podium, adjusting the mike and straightening the lapels of his bright white tuxedo.

            "Thanks, Nick...   Thank you all.  Umm, well, I have to say I'm kind of speechless.   Which is pretty ironic for those of you who know me.  Sure, I'm articulate when I have to talk about laws and rights and other people, but when it comes to me, well, that's another story."   Light laughter.  "I'm honored.  That's all I'm really feeling right now.  It's so hard sometimes to keep going.  You look at all the opposition we're facing, the politicians and the power we're up against, and I have to admit that even I wonder sometimes whether it's worth it, whether any of us really makes a difference."   He gripped the trophy in his hands.   "I like to take this as a sign.   To keep fighting.   You've all given me the strength to do that much.

            "But I'm not the only one whose name should be on this trophy.   There's everyone at the National Freedom Foundation, at Wise Men, my friends...  They all deserve credit for helping me accomplish what little I have, and what more I will in the future.  But most of all, I have to thank the person who made all this possible.   Kat, would you stand up?  C'mon, let the good people of San Francisco see you!"  Reluctantly, a tall, lithe young woman with long blonde hair rose from one of the front tables.   "They say behind every great man is a great woman, and I guess that's true even for us queers.  Without her, Wise Men would never have existed, and I would never have been able to spread my voice all the way to Washington .  Oh, and by the way, fellows, she's single and straight."   The woman tried to smile at the light laughter.   "Give a hand to my second-in-command, and one of the greatest forces behind my success, Kathryn Foster."   Applause all around once more.   The woman, now as red as her sparkling evening gown, gave one small wave before she sat back down.

 

***

 

            "Did you really have to do that, Curt?  God, I'm still blushing."  Kathryn Foster drummed her elegantly painted nails on the cover of the binder in her lap.

            "Yes, I did," Curt replied, patting her knee in a gesture that failed to be either patronizing or sexual.  "I meant what I said last night.  I still do."

            She snorted.  "If you really thought that highly of my business acumen, you would have changed your mind by now."

            Curt sighed.  "I keep telling you, Kat, it has nothing to do with you or your opinion."

            "Then why won't you let this happen?  Are you really that blind to..."

            The secretary's soft cough interrupted them.   "Sir Harry will see you now."

            Curt Marshak rose, brushing a stray speck of lint off his suit jacket.  "I'm not blind, Kat, and I'd appreciate it if you didn't question my decisions in front of Sir Harry this time, all right?   We have to present a united front.   Even if we don't really have it."   She didn't get a chance to reply before they were both herded into the office.

 

            "My boy, you're stubborn.  I do like that, no matter what you may think."   Sir Harry Matthews leaned back in his stuffed leather chair and chuckled, every inch the bluff, likeable Englishman.   "I know that without that quality, you wouldn't be where you are today.  But really, I do have to try to not take offense at what I gather to be a distinct lack of trust on your part."

            "It's no offense to you, Sir Harry," Curt replied calmly.   "It's just a matter of life.   Your media conglomerate is one of the largest in the world.   It reaches practically every major international market, including those in countries and cultures that have a history of frowning on... people like myself."

            "And I reassure you again that should you agree to this merger," (Kathryn noticed his astute avoidance of the word "buyout,") "Wise Men will retain its name and full autonomy under your personal direction, just as it is now.   All I would provide is opportunity, to publish a wider range of material, to access my worldwide distribution resources, to put the Wise Men logo in every major bookstore in the world.   Think about it, lad!  Think of the people you can reach!   And if you should ever want to turn the reins over to Miss Foster and advance in my organization, which I can assure you that you are more than talented enough to do, imagine the good you could do with my sort of reach at your fingertips!"

            "I have, Sir Harry.  I've thought about it a lot since you approached us.  But for all your assurances otherwise, in the end, you have to put the stockholders first.  And don't think I don't understand that - you run a business, not a charity.   Considering what I do, and who I am, and what I believe in, it's inevitable that I'll cause controversy.   While you may not want to step in, your stockholders or your board certainly will want to protect their position."

            "Oh, hang them!" Sir Harry rumbled, standing up and pacing about his office.   "I came to California because I saw your work, I looked over your business, and I admire your knack for business and your passion.  You fill a gap in my little empire that I have been wanting to fill for quite a long time.   They have nothing to do with this.   They listen to me, Mr. Marshak , not the other way around."

            "I'm sorry, but you know my priorities. "   Curt rose.  "I don't think we have anything more to discuss."

            "Well, I'm sorry, then," Sir Harry replied, shaking Curt's hand.  "I'll be in California for another week, so even if you don't change your mind, perhaps we could discuss other matters.  Future publication rights, perhaps?"

            "I don't see why not.  It's good to see you again, Sir Harry.  I'm sorry you made the trip for nothing."

            "It's quite all right.  I'm hardly here for nothing.  Speaking of which, if I could borrow your Ms. Foster for a moment, I want to discuss a few things about the San Diego meetings before she goes."

            Curt nodded.  "Of course.  Kat, I'll see you back at the office, okay?"

            "Sure."  She waited for the office door to close behind him before turning towards Sir Harry.   "I'm sorry.  I tried..."

            "Oh, don't worry about it, Ms. Foster.  This isn't a matter of life and death, you know."   Sir Harry returned to his seat, rolling a cigar around in his hands.  "But having Wise Men Publishing under my aegis would do so much good, for him and for me.   My company's public image took a minor blow with that Bachelor's World unpleasantness, and I've been told that thanks to you and your Mr. Marshak, the markets and contacts that you could help us access could be invaluable."   He smiled.  "A big deal, yes, but hardly the end of the world."

            "But, er, about your offer..."

            "What offer?  Oh, that!   Yes, yes, it's still open, of course, but I'm afraid that if you didn't join my company as part of Wise Man Publishing, I really couldn't give you a very high position.  I'm sure you'd rather stay with Mr. Marshak anyway."

            "Yes, of course," Kathryn replied through gritted teeth.

            Sir Harry sucked on his now-lit cigar, sending plumes of smoke through his nose.  "Of course, while I'd appreciate any help you could give me, I'll understand if you don't want to put any undue influence on Mr. Marshak .   He is your friend, after all."

            "A friend.  Yes.   Right."   Her faraway tone of voice did not escape Sir Harry, and he frowned.  But any thought that came into his mind quickly dissipated as Kathryn rose.   "I really should get back to work.   I'm sorry."

            "Oh, not at all, my dear.  We can discuss business in San Diego .  I look forward to seeing you at the conference."

            She gave the media mogul a light smile.  "Likewise.   Thank you."

 

***

 

            When Kathryn Foster walked into her boss's office, he was already at his desk, reading a letter and shaking his head.   The afternoon sun streamed through the bay windows, affording both an expansive view of historic downtown and a temperature increase of a good few degrees.  Kathryn loosened her collar, already feeling a bead of perspiration (as the ads stubbornly called it on women, instead of the more manly "sweat") snaking its way down her hairline.  "Anything interesting?" she asked, barely managing to sound sincere.

            "Well, let's see."  He held up one of the small pile in front of him.   "Hate mail, hate mail, unsolicited manuscript, hate mail, excuse from writer who needs to get his butt in gear and get us his book by next Monday, hate mail, letter from Ryan, hate mail.   Pretty much the usual."

            Her ears perked near the end.  "Your brother wrote to you?  What did he say?"

            "Nothing I'd be interested in reading."  He began shoving letters into his desk drawers, as if angry at them personally.

            "You should be happy he wants to have anything to do with you."

            Curt's head snapped up sharply.  "Projecting, are you?  Just because I happen to care about something other than getting ahead..."

            "That's not fair!" she snapped.  "I care a lot about this company!  What Sir Harry's offering is some of the most generous terms I've ever seen!   It'd be good for us..."

            "Good for you, you mean.  It'll give you an automatic leg-up on Sir Harry's corporate ladder.   I thought you knew what this company meant to me.   What my goals mean to me."

            "I do!"

            He shook his head.  "Sometimes I wonder."  He sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose.  "It just seems like so much has changed since we went national.   I mean, we used to talk, actually talk, not just share a couple of stories over a quick cocktail before racing back to the office to meet a new deadline.   Hell, we don't even do Friday night pizza the way we used to."

            "But it's for a good cause.  Look what we've done!"

            "Now that's hard to do.  I'm on the road half the time screaming in the ears of bigots.   And you spend more time working on this company than I do.   I guess I shouldn't be surprised.   I could always see your ambition.   That's why I brought you on board in the first place."

            "Don't forget my ready cash."

            "How can I?  You remind me every chance you get.  I'm not one of our investors.  Remember, you answer to me."

            Kathryn forced a smile.  "Of course I know that, Curt.  But you've trusted me before, why not now?  I think I'm being a little more clear-headed about this than you are."

            Curt played with a pen as he fixed her with a stare that made her want to jump back.  "Actually, I think I'm starting to see things a lot more clearly than I ever have."

            "I don't know what you mean."

            "I'm sure you don't."

            She sprang to her feet, her expression of hurt only half-genuine.   "I'm sorry if I've upset you.   Maybe we both need a little while to calm down.   If you'll excuse me, I have work to do."

            "You always do.  At least I get out of the office sometimes.  You should slow down, Kat, you really should.   You can't force the world work the way you want it to."

            "Like hell I can't," she muttered under her breath as she stormed out.

 

***

 

            Kathryn Foster drummed her fingers on her desk, simmering in her outrage.   The fact that Curt had mostly spoken the truth tempered her emotional boil, but not by much.

            That feeling in the pit of her stomach, as though her pelvis had become a black hole, and her intestines were slowly dripping into the void.   She first got that feeling when she tried to convince Curt to acquire In Scene, an extremely popular teen magazine whose independent publishers were looking to sell out.  The name recognition, the demographic, the nationwide audience, the profit just waiting to be grabbed...  It was all just so perfect that it made Kathryn smile just thinking about it, even four years later.  They could've gotten it, if they'd really pushed, even with the bigger media companies angling for the bait.  But no.   Curt refused to "dilute the message of the company" by printing such an empty teen rag.   Wise Men had to have a meaning, had to support his vision.   Publishing In Scene would be the first step to turning the company into just another uncaring, faceless corporate monolith.  It wasn't that it wasn't a good deal.  It was the principle.

            Principle.  Kathryn's mouth soured at the mere thought of the word.   Curt was all wide-eyed principle.   She could feel him in the room now, holding both her arms in a bitingly painful grasp.  Keeping her in her place.  Curt Marshak and his precious politics, which were just as niche as the glossy magazines with the glossy shirtless men that he chose to publish, as prominent as the early morning political programs he never tired of appearing on, as exciting as his amicus brief to the Supreme Court on Lawrence vs. Texas.

            *Idealists,* she thought.  *May they all rot in hell.*

            The special drawer opened once more.  She let out a breath, startled to realize that she'd been holding it all this time.  She supposed that it would have been safer and smarter to keep her "tools" at home, but somehow she did all her best thinking at the office.   If Curt had known that, he would have chuckled, possibly making some smart comment.  He might not have chuckled at the odd soothing quality the materials within the drawer gave their owner.

            First out were the three letters, neatly typed and folded, nestled in a plastic bag.   Then the brass key, a copy made at a small store somewhere in Sacramento during a business trip three months previous, the original "borrowed" without apparent suspicion.  The pistol, of course, with the silencer.   Then the soft bundle, wrapped in tissue paper and kept in an old Macy's clothing box.   Two pairs of rubber gloves followed.   Finally, a single condom, Trojan, flipped onto the stack as if an afterthought.  But nothing in that stack was an afterthought.

            The first pair of rubber gloves and the letters would never leave the building; the former would be worn while placing the latter into the mess Curt called his filing system.  The rest would be placed into Kathryn's gym bag, then to a suitcase, to drive with her down Pacific Coast Highway , to San Diego , and their final use.

 

***

 

            "Good crowd."

            Curt Marshak grunted as he waited for the milling throng to start to settle.  It was a colorful assortment of people, as usual.   About half were dressed in everyday street clothes, indistinguishable from the curious passers-by who occasionally walked through Griffith Park on their Friday evening constitutionals and came across this unusual assortment.   The other half, though, were the only ones who made the evening news, to Curt's annoyance: the leathermen, the drag queens, the club costumed, the doms, the subs, the fashionable flamers, the ones who lent the rather shocking color to the whole display.

            "You okay, Curt?"  He turned towards the questioner in annoyance.  Luis Alvarez cocked a questioning eyebrow as the crowd finally began to quiet, and the rally chairman, a representative from the local chapter of the ACLU, stepped towards the podium.  "You've been quiet all day.   This is supposed to be a pride rally, not a funeral."

            "I'm fine.  Just... thinking."

            "You've been doing a lot of that lately.   You should stop that."  There was no laugh in response, not even a wisp of a smile.   This wiped Luis' smile off his face, replaced with a frown almost equal to Curt's.   "You wanna talk about it, man?"

            "No.  Especially not now."  His shoes scuffed the stage floor as the chairman droned on, about the latest news from Washington , about the upcoming speakers, and about the huge party that night.

            Luis nodded.  "But he's still your brother."

            Curt shot his friend and fellow agitator a venomous look.   "You keep saying that.  I don't think it means what you think it means."

            "I'm serious.  C'mon, he can't mean that little to you.  He's the only family you've got left."

            "I don't need him, if that's what you mean."   A note of sullenness crept into his voice, one he took deliberate care to suppress before continuing.  "As long as he believes the way he does, we have nothing to say to each other.  What would be the point?"

            "He writes you letters..."

            "He's just trying to convert me," Curt spat.   "Back to the old ways, when my dad would preach at the dinner table and Mom would have to drag us into church to get us confirmed.  No thanks."

            Luis regarded his friend for a moment, rolling his words on his tongue before speaking.  "You're not being fair."

            "Me?  Being fair?   He's the one who wants to change me.   He's the one who's got a problem with me being gay."

            "Sometimes I think you're the one with the problem, not your brother."

            Curt swung towards him, a growl on his lips and a clench on his fists.   The rally chairman chose that moment to announce Curt.   Like the consummate pro he was, the anger fell away from Curt's face like water.   By the time he took the podium, he was all smiles and waves.   Though they saw each other three more times that day, Curt and his brother never came up again, not even at the party.

            Luis Alvarez would regret not broaching the subject again for the rest of his life.

 

***

 

            It was about 8:30 in the evening by the time the last of the symposiums and dinners had let out.  San Diego was, of course, "pleased to host" the 2003 International Publisher's Conference, and had taken out stops they'd never taken out before to greet the participants, all of whom were either well-known or well-connected.

            Kathryn made sure to sit at Sir Harry's table for most of the evening.   She laughed at his jokes, sat fascinated at his stories (most of the time genuinely, even), and indulged in a couple of glasses of wine.   No more, though.  She would need her wits more than ever.

            When Sir Harry's limo took them and a small group of fellow publishing industry professionals back to the hotel, she took pains to point out her own car in the parking lot to the assemblage.   The vintage '58 Plymouth Fury, all perfectly polished with its Christine ambiance, drew the expected oohs and interested questions.  It never failed to draw attention wherever it went.   That quality was once a mild annoyance, but now, Kathryn counted on it.

            It took only fifteen minutes for her to extricate herself from the group, but it was five minutes more than she'd planned on.   The second the hotel room door shut behind her, she was already stripping out of her business casual attire, and into her dress for the evening: sequined pink gown, silk scarf, and full-length white gloves.  The wig and shoes she stuffed into a white leather purse she'd stowed in her suitcase; it was deceptively roomy, and both fit easily, even over the gun.   Shrugging on her long trench coat, she peeked tentatively out into the hallway.  Fortunately, it was quiet.  It was little trouble to slip into the back stairs and into the parking lot.

            Once she stepped out into the cool California night, she crossed the parking lot in only a few easy strides.   Kathryn smiled as she navigated the trees that separated the hotel lot from the one neighboring.  She doubted she would have been able to use her plan had it not been for this neat little coincidence.

            It took two hours for the battered tan Ford Escort to make its way from San Diego into the heart of downtown Los Angeles .  Her only stop along the way was in the back of a nearly deserted rest stop to pin up her hair and apply the make up: heavy eyeshadow and false eyelashes, thick lipstick, rouge that seemed overly heavy, but carefully applied to highlight and heighten her cheekbones, to make them look more severe.   The wig slipped onto her head easily.

            Once downtown, fortune smiled once again: a parking space just half a block from the club.  The doffed trench coat went into the trunk, and Kathryn Foster strode confidently towards the buzzing crowd milling in front of the nightclub.

 

***

 

            Luis Alvarez, as usual, called Curt's reluctance to attend the post-rally party "shy, but sweet."   He practically had to drag his friend along, but Curt finally acquiesced (as certain parties predicted he would).   Dressed in a short-sleeved silk shirt and jeans, Curt would have blended completely into the crowd had every passing partygoer not been able to recognize his face on sight.  Many of the partiers were toting camcorders, focusing on Curt as much as the go-go dancers on the stages that dotted the club floor.   He took this with more amiability than Luis expected, nodding his head absently to the booms of the dance music and sipping at his whiskey.

            "Aren't you gonna dance?" Luis managed to shout over the bumping beat.  The glare shot back at him said, "stupid question."   "Okay, fine.  But all you do at these things is stand there and let guys stare at you."

            Curt shrugged.  "Let ' em."  He gulped the rest of his drink and motioned to the bartender for another.

            "Tease." The word was lighthearted, but failed to crack even a smile as Curt began nursing his third drink.   Luis' eyes skimmed over the crowd, blurred until he focused on one face with serious intent.   He lightly punched his friend's shoulder.   "Hey, check it out.  There's someone who looks seriously interested.   Not looking too bad, either."

            Curt looked up to see a tall drag queen walking towards them, his eyes focused on Curt.  The flashing lights played over his pink gown, and turned his long white gloves and purse into a mess of color.  His hair was a short black bob, and though his long, angular-looking face was a sign of his masculinity, Curt was actually impressed at how much like a woman he looked.   He ignored the nagging, vague feeling of familiarity in the back of his head.

            The drag queen stood beside him and ordered a shot of tequila in a low, throaty voice.  He snapped back his head and downed the drink in one gulp, brushing against Curt's side as he vanished into the crowd.

            "Huh," Luis said, "I could've sworn he was gonna at least talk to you."

            Curt jammed his hands into his pockets.  "So did I..."   He stopped short as his right fingers found the piece of paper that wasn't in his pocket a moment before.   He fished it out and opened the slip.   "Have info on Sen. Carson.   Meet in bathroom."  Curt raised an eyebrow.

            "Curt?  Anything the matter?"

            He quickly stuffed the slip back into his pocket.   "What?  Oh, no, no.  Nothing."   *Just the most interesting thing at this damn party,* he thought.

 

***

 

            Kathryn was so lost in her thoughts that she laid hand on the women's bathroom door before catching herself and turning around towards the men's room.   She knew Curt, and when she looked back at him through the crowd after passing him the note, she could see the glint in his eye even from halfway across the room.  She knew that name would hook him.  She tried not to give the barest glance to the milling men around her, pretending to adjust her makeup as she kept her eyes glued to the reflection of the bathroom door.   The seconds stretched into years before the door creaked open, and Curt walked in.   His eyes flickered over faces before settling on hers.   Casually, he gently shoved his way to the sink next to her.   He held up the note.  "This you?"

            "Yes," she replied in a low whisper, still not sure of her ability to disguise her voice.

            "You wanted to talk?"

            "Not here.  Follow me out to the back alley."  Pursing her lips together to smooth her lipstick, she turned, not seeing Curt crumple up the note and toss it towards the garbage can; it missed, bouncing off the rim and rolling to the floor.  She sauntered out of the room and back onto the dance floor, the air humid with sweat.  Curt appeared a few seconds later.  She could almost feel his eyes on her neck as she made her way to the back of the club, past the bar and stairs to the second level, pushing open a door covered in flyers and leaflets.

            She stepped out into the alley, the cool breeze a blessed relief.   As she expected, it was empty; only a single dumpster and the odd cardboard box interrupted her view from the brick wall to her left to the opening out into the street on her right.   She saw no one.

            Kathryn walked towards the dumpster, opening her purse.   It was only half a minute later that she heard the door behind her creak open, then gently click shut again.   "You know how many people claim to have dirt on Carson ?" his voice rang.  She did not reply, except with her gloved hand around the handle of the pistol.   "Most of them don't pan out.   Some of 'em are even just attempts to get into my pants.  You'd better not be wasting my time."

            "I'm not," she replied in her own clear voice.

            She heard him step towards her.  "Wait a minute..."

            Kathryn spun around, leveling the pistol at his chest.   Curt stopped short, his eyes widening.   She almost laughed at his expression as she pulled the trigger.

            Within two minutes, she was out of the alley and climbing back into the Escort.   An hour later, she tossed a garbage bag into a roadside dumpster near San Clemente .  An hour after that, she slipped into a peaceful sleep.

 

***

 

            The milling crowd at the mouth of the alley was held back only by a couple of rather bewildered looking patrolmen as the crime scene investigators went about their grim business.  Many of the onlookers were partygoers who were being asked, informally, to stay for questioning.  But many more were media, and the patrolmen were constantly dazzled by flashbulbs and TV camera lights.

            Murder is always hot news, murder and politics, more so.   Murder, politics, and sex make for some of the best news of all.

            A single figure managed to make his way through the crowd, a shuffling, grey-headed, ruffled figure in a battered tan coat obviously slapped on in half a stupor.   He clenched the cigar in his teeth as though it were the only thing keeping his eyes open.   Sergeant Kramer waved Lieutenant Columbo over; the latter looked over his shoulder back at the crowd as he approached.

            "Hey, Sergeant.  Did you see that group back there?"

            "Sure did."

            "There are some VERY interesting people there."

            Kramer sighed.  "I guess you could call 'em that."

            "I mean, the things some of ' em are wearing?  Very revealing.  Lucky it's not too cold.  And the women!   I haven't seen outfits like that in a LONG time, not since the days when Mrs. Columbo and I used to go out dancin ', and..."

            "Uh, Lieutenant..."

            "There was this one lady who was dressed up just like Marilyn Monroe, except that..."

            "Lieutenant!" Kramer interrupted, a little more sharply than he'd intended.  "I dunno how to tell you this, but it's a little important in this case."   He swallowed.   "Those..."

            Columbo leaned forward, interested.  "Yes?"

            "Aren't women."

            "Whaddya mean, those aren't...?"   He paused, and looked behind him again.   He turned back with a new dawn in his eyes   " Oooooohhhh.   I get it.   Y'know, they're really quite good - you can hardly tell.   Amazing what you can do with makeup these days."

            "The victim's name is Curtis Marshak," the sergeant replied, forcing the topic along.   He nodded towards the corpse at his feet; a young man with spiked blonde hair lay spread-eagled on the ground, a flower of blood staining his shirt over his heart.  "He's sort of the big spokesman for gays.  One of his, uh, friends got worried when he disappeared for a while and went looking for him.  Found him out here sometime around 11:15 ."

            Columbo kneeled next to the body, his eyes already flickering left and right.   "Anyone touch anything?"

            "Well, the friend said he felt for a pulse, but otherwise, no.   You wanna talk to him?"

            "Not yet."  Columbo rubbed his chin.  "Hey, Sarge, you notice that his pants are undone?"

            "Yeah, and the condom in his hand."   Columbo nodded as he examined the condom, a latex Trojan according to the torn open wrapper, resting in the victim's right hand.   "Looks like he came out here to mess around with someone, and got shot for his troubles.   Seemed the guy only wanted some easy money."   Kramer's foot jerked in the direction of a slim leather wallet lying in the street near the body.

            Columbo pulled on a pair of rubber gloves and picked it up.   "No cash, no credit cards.   ID is still here, and..."   He stopped.  "Huh."

            "What is it, Lieutenant?"

            "Condoms."  He plucked a pair out of one of the innermost pockets.   "Odd."

            "What's so odd 'bout that?  With AIDS and everything, he'd be an idiot not to have ' em ."

            "But they're not the same brand as the one in his hand."   Columbo scratched his head as he handed the wallet to a passing CSI officer.  "Why would he be using a different brand as the one he had on hand?"

            Kramer shrugged.  "Maybe it belonged to the perp."

            "Maybe.  But then why would the victim be holding it?   Why would the killer hand it to him?"

            "The victim wanted to put it on himself.   I dunno."

            Columbo shook his head.  "Maybe."

            "Look, Lieutenant, these people do things pretty differently from the rest of us.  You can't just assume..."

            "What people do you mean, Sergeant?"  The question was perfectly calm; indeed, Columbo was still examining the ground around the victim as he said it.   But a slight chill came over the air that even Kramer could feel.

            "You know who I mean...  I mean...   Nothing, Lieutenant."   He cleared his throat uncomfortably.

            "Don't you think it's strange," Columbo continued in his normal tone, as if nothing had happened, "that someone who intended to rob this man would put on a charade like this, especially if he was gonna shoot him anyway?  Why not just demand the money?  Why let it get to the point where he got out a condom, and, uh, unzipped pants?"

            "Lover's spat, maybe?"

            "Maybe," Columbo said for the third time, with the same doubtful tone.   "You said the friend was still here?"

            "Yeah.  Mr. Alvarez?   Could you come here, please?"   He waved over a Hispanic man with a haunted look in his eyes.

            "I'm very sorry about your friend, sir."

            The other man nodded.  "Thanks."

            "I'm Lieutenant Columbo.  I'm with Homicide.  I know this may not be the best time, but it would really help if you could answer a few questions."

            He nodded.  "I'll help any way I can."

            "Do you have any idea who could have done this?"

            "No.  Everyone in the community loved Curt.  He..."

            "Community?  You mean here in Los Angeles ?"

            "What?  Oh, no, no.   He was based in San Francisco .  I meant the gay community, Lieutenant."

            "Ah.  I'm sorry, please, continue."

            Alvarez coughed.  "Well, like I told the Sergeant here, we were together at the party for most of the evening."

            "Were you two... uh..."   Columbo turned a little red.

            "No, we weren't involved, Lieutenant.  Just friends.   We met in college."

            "I see.  Go on, please."

            "Anyway, this was supposed to celebrate the pride rally that was held today.   Curt and I arrived around 10 or so.   We were mostly drinking and people-watching, really.   Then Curt excused himself, said he'd be back.   After a while, I got tired of waiting by myself, so I went looking for him, but he wasn't anywhere in the building.   I thought he might've tried to go back to the hotel early, so I decided to check to see if his car was still here.   It's parked near here, so I came through the back exit.   That's when I saw..."  A choke rose in his throat, and it took a couple of moments of closed eyes and breathing to calm him.  Columbo waited patiently.  "I felt for a pulse, but there wasn't any.   I went inside and called the police, and that's about it until you arrived."  He shuddered.  

Columbo easily and casually laid a comforting hand on his shoulder.   "It's all right.  Take your time.  I know this is a tough question to answer, but... Was Mr. Marshak involved with anyone?  Or could he have met someone and come out here to...?"

            Alvarez laughed bitterly.  "Was he one of those promiscuous queers you hear about all the time?   Was that what you meant?"

            "No, no, not at all..."

            He shook his head.  "You wouldn't be asking that question if you knew Curt.   You know, men are men, no matter who they like to sleep with.   Some of them are just pigs.   Curt was about the furthest thing from a pig that you can imagine.   Hell, I might've been interested in dating him if he wasn't so much like a brother to me.   But casual sex?   Never."

            "Did you see or hear anything that you think might have something to do with his murder?"

            "Let me think.  There was one thing.  This drag queen passed by us not long before we separated..."

            "Drag queen.  That's one of those fellas who dresses up like a woman, right?"

            "Right.  I'm not sure if it's the same person, but when I was asking around, trying to find Curt, a couple of the guys I asked thought they saw him follow a drag queen towards the back of the club.  I don't remember much about him; I didn't really take a close look.   He actually looked pretty convincing as a woman, though.   You should ask his stalkers."

            Columbo's head perked up.  "Stalkers, sir?"

            "Yeah.  Curt's a pretty prominent figure in the community, like I said.   Most of the people at this part would know him on sight.   A few even brought video cameras to the party, hoping to catch Curt or some other hot guy on tape.   God knows what they do with the tapes; I think some of them show up on the Internet..."

            "Excuse me.  Officer!"  Columbo beckoned to one of the nearby policemen, who stepped forward.   "Find everyone who's still here who brought a video camera.   Ask 'em for their tape.   I know we can't take 'em without permission, but appeal to their sense of civic duty or something.   If anyone makes a statement to the press, try to get the word out that we want any kind of picture that was taken inside that club.   Got it?"

            Kramer stepped forward.  "Lieutenant, the club also has security cameras.   They've had some trouble with gay bashing in the past, so they installed a few near the major entrances."

            "You hear that?" Columbo called out.  "Get those too!"  The officer nodded and hurried off.

            Columbo turned back to Alvarez and barely opened his mouth before he heard some shouts and excitement behind him.  He turned, and saw a pair of officers lightly shoving a teenager in handcuffs into the alley.  The teen was the model urban Californian, a light-skinned boy dressed in a Raiders jersey and jeans, with his baseball cap on backwards.   His face was flat and sullen, the only break being a flicker of fear and surprise when he passed by the corpse, which was just being taken away by the morgue boys.

            "We caught what happened over the radio," said one of the officers, the one who was pushing the teen forward.  "We were on our way to the station to book this kid, but we turned right back around.  I think we may have your killer."

            "Or at least someone who knows something," her partner added.

            "Why?" Columbo asked, an eyebrow raised.

            "We were on routine patrol when we came across this kid, about a block from here.  We think he'd been breaking into cars up and down this whole area, not to mention carving some pretty bad language into a lot of them.  I think you can guess what kind."

            "Yeah," the partner chimed in, "we get the idea that this guy don't like them fairies.  Do you, kid?"

            "Go to hell," the teen muttered.

            "Anyway, when we arrested him, we found property we're pretty sure was stolen."

            "Any weapons?" Columbo asked.

            "Aside from the knife he used to carve up the cars, which is so dull you couldn't cut a good steak with it?  No."

            Columbo nodded and approached the teen.  "What's your name, son?"

            "What's it to you?"

            "I'm not sure if you realize how serious your situation is right now.   You're a potential suspect in a murder."

            The teenager blanched.  "I didn't do it!  I swear!"

            "I don't think you did.  But I think you know something, and I can't help you unless you tell us everything."

            "How the fuck would you know?"

            Columbo smiled in an almost grandfatherly way.   Imperceptibly, the boy seemed to relax.   "Call it intuition.  Now, what's your name?"

            "Eddie.  Eddie Desmond."

            "Well, good to meet ya, Eddie."   Columbo extended a hand; the teen stared at it for a minute, as if it were a newly arrived extra-terrestrial, before finally taking it in a shake.  "You saw something, didn't ya?"  Eddie swallowed and nodded.  "If you tell us about it now, I promise I'll do whatever I can to help."

            "Really?"

            "Really."

            The young boy's eyes flickered, as if searching for a hint of deception, before finally sucking in a breath.  "I was just hangin' around, minding my own business, y'know?"

            "And the cars?" Columbo asked gently.

            "Well...  I mean, there are a lot of 'em here.   And they don't need all that stuff, you know?"

            "What about the vandalism?"

            "What about it?  It just ain't natural, y'know?   I mean, look at 'em!"   He gestured towards the crowd at the end of the alley.   "They're freaks!"

            "So that's why you vandalized their cars."   It was a flat statement, not a question, honed to a point that almost hurt.

            It seemed to strike Eddie more than anyone thought.   "Y-yeah.   Sure, why not?  Uh, anyway, I was down the block over there when I saw this guy come out of this alley, get into one of the cars, and drive off."

            "What did it look like?"  This question was even sharper, and the kid jumped.

            "I-I dunno!  I don't remember, I swear!  Right after he took off, I happened to look down the alley, and there was this guy, lying on the ground.  I figured, hey, he's passed out, maybe he has something on him.  But when I came closer...  I saw that he was bleeding.  I knew he was dead.   I panicked.   I ran.  Then I got caught a couple of blocks away.  That's it."

            "Can you describe this man you saw?"

            "Yeah, he was one of those guys dressed up as a girl.   Pink dress, short hair, white gloves.   Really gay, if you ask me."   He didn't seem to get the irony.

            "When did this happen?"

            "Dunno.  It was around eleven or something.   Yeah.  I remember looking at my watch right before I saw the drag queen.   I had to get home by midnight , or my parents would know I'd snuck out."

            "And you didn't hear anything before you saw this man?   Like a shot?"  Eddie shook his head.  Columbo thought for a while, then nodded.   "Okay.  Officers, take his statement.  Hold him for theft and vandalism 'til his parents come to pick him up."   The kid was hustled away.

            "That's like what that drag queen was wearing," Alvarez broke in.   "Sounds like it, anyway."  He turned to Columbo.  "But I can't believe someone in the community could've killed Curt.   Everybody loved him."

            "Sir, if there's one thing I've learned as a cop, it's that even love can lead to murder.   But I promise you that I'll do everything possible to capture Mr. Marshak's killer."

            Alvarez cocked his head, looking the Lieutenant up and down.   "You know what, Lieutenant?   I've heard a lot of empty promises in my day.   From politicians, from the media, even from policemen like yourself.  But you, I actually believe.  I think you will find this guy."   His face hardened.  "But we'll be watching, every step of the way.   If this guy gets away..."

            "He won't," Columbo replied, with a flatness that surprised even him, a little.   "He won't."

 

***

 

            The empty club floor resembled nothing so much as a recently vacated battlefield.   Trash and scuff marks littered the wooden dance floor, their owners vanished into some other world, one that was right outside the club walls, where a dead body lay and hard questions were being asked.

            Columbo paced through the abandoned floor, hands clasped behind his back.   "So according to the victim's friend, he left the bar and crossed the dance floor."  He stopped, his shoe crunching down on an empty plastic cup.   "But he obviously didn't want to dance, because he left out the back a couple of minutes later.  So where did he go?"  He tapped his chin in thought.  "Where did he meet his killer?"

            Kramer walked up behind the Lieutenant.  "Did he have to meet the killer somewhere?   Couldn't they have just met in the alley?"

            "They could have, but I think that drag queen the victim met in here is involved somehow.  And they had to have talked somewhere."  Columbo continued his pacing around the dance floor.   "Dance floor was pretty crowded.   Pretty noisy, too.   And no one we've talked to so far actually saw ' em together."  He looked around.   "The bathroom, maybe?"   He stalked straight into the men's room, with Kramer having to run to catch up.

            The smell that permeated the room didn't even tickle either man's nose; both had been immersed in enough grisly crime scenes and sites of debauchery both drunken and sober.  Carefully donning another pair of gloves, Columbo poked around the used paper towels and various other detritus.  "Not much in here," he muttered to himself.   "Not likely to be any usable prints, either.   I wonder if...  Say, here we go."  He picked up a crumpled piece of yellow notepaper and straightened it out.

            Kramer craned his neck.  "What's it say?"

            "'Have info on Sen. Carson.  Meet in bathroom.'"  He handed the note to Kramer, who slipped it into an evidence bag.   "Looks like this could be something."

            "I'll have it dusted for prints."  Kramer looked about the room and shuddered.

            "Something wrong, Sergeant?"

            "Just thinking about the stuff that's gone on in here.   Gives me the creeps."

            "Why?"

            "Because you know what goes on in those stalls?   They..."  Before he could continue, Kramer caught Columbo's look, and suddenly realized that he'd completely misinterpreted the Lieutenant's question.  He cleared his throat; he'd worked with Columbo for two years, and, in his deepest thoughts, had little doubt that he'd be promoted over his present superior in about three.   Yet being here, now, not seeing any visible change in the Lieutenant's demeanor or face, chilled him a little.   "I-I'll go get this dusted."

            "You do that, Sergeant."  He waited until Kramer left, looked about, and nodded to himself.

 

***

 

            "You gonna take me outside, already, or what?" Nathan Foster demanded, his bony fist pounding the armrest of his wheelchair.   The nursing home attendant sighed a weary sigh, and his daughter smiled a practiced smile.

            "Of course, Daddy.  Let's go outside together."

            "Too good a day to waste inside, with all those milksops!" the old man spat.   Even as the bright morning sunshine played over his liver-spotted, bald pate, his mood did not seem to improve.   "I'm getting blinded here, Kathryn!   Put me into some shade!  Don't you notice anything?!"

            "I'm sorry, Daddy.  Here."   She wheeled him under the cool shade of a spreading tree.   "There.  How's that?"

            "Hmph.   Good enough, I suppose."   The two now faced the main road, watching as various faceless San Diego citizens roared by in their coupes and SUVs.   "About time you came to visit me.   You never even call.  It's not like I'm not in the same state, but you never think about anyone other than yourself, do you?  Typical."

            "I do the best I can.  I told you that when I came down to San Diego on business, I'd come visit.  And I did."

            "Speaking of business, you still running it into the ground with that faggot friend of yours?"

            Kathryn couldn't help but smile a little.   "Actually, I think business is going to get better."

            "Excuse me."  The rough, gravelly voice behind her caught her off guard.  She turned to see an older gent, dressed in a rumpled coat, approaching her, his already squinty eyes squinting even more against the sun.   "Are you Kathryn Foster?  The nurse told me I might find you out here."

            "Yes?  Are you a friend of my father's?"

            "What?  Oh, no, no.   I'm Lieutenant Columbo."  He showed her badge.  " L.A. Homicide."

            Kathryn's face fell.  "Oh.   You must be here about Curt.   I heard about it on the news this morning.   I... I guess I'm still in shock."

            "Yes, I'm very sorry for your loss.  I've been told that the two of you were very close."

            "We were.  Best friends, in a manner of speaking."

            "Huh?  What's that?   Stop your goddamn whispering, girl!   What's going on?"

            Kathryn beckoned to a nearby nurse.  "Daddy, I have to talk to someone for now.   Could you excuse me for just a little while?   I promise I'll be back, and then we'll go out to lunch like I promised, all right?"

            "Fine!  Go!   Just don't forget, or I'll never let you forget it!"

            She kissed the top of her father's head.   "I won't.  I'll be right back, okay?"  She motioned for Columbo to follow her; the two began a slow walk across the rest home lawn.   "I'm a little surprised to see you, actually.   You're a long way from Los Angeles ."

            "Yes, I know, ma'am, but actually, I was asked down here by someone I think you know.  Sir Harry Matthews?"

            Kathryn stopped abruptly.  "Sir Harry?  Yes, I know him.   Why did he...?"

            "You know he actually sent down one of his private jets to bring me down here?  It was a very nice ride.   I don't know if you've ever been on one of those, but they're very fancy.  Leather seats, bar, and one of the biggest bathrooms I've ever seen on an airplane.   It was really quite comfortable.   I just wish Mrs. Columbo could've come along; it's one of those once-in-a-lifetime things, and I really have to remember to thank him when I can."

            She desperately tried to push the subject back on track.   "Does he have information on Curt's murder?"

            Columbo shook his head.  "Not really.  At least not direct information.  But he said he'd done business with Mr. Marshak , and wanted to talk with me personally.   He thought he might have some leads on people who might want to have seen Mr. Marshak dead."

            "There's no such person, Lieutenant, at least not the type who would've been at that party.  Curt was fighting for all of them, and they knew it."

            "Oh, you know about the party, then?"

            "Yes.  The news mentioned it.   I knew Curt was going to that party after the rally."

            "Really?  Because his friend, Mr..."   He paused to take out a small notebook, flipping through the pages before finding his target.  "Mr. Alvarez, he said that he practically had to drag Mr. Marshak to that party."

            Kathryn smiled tightly.  "I've known Curt for a lot of years, Lieutenant.   He was a very stubborn man.   Kind of shy, even.   He probably would have been content to work in obscurity forever if it weren't for his personal interest in the gay rights movement."

            "So Mr. Marshak wasn't the social type?"

            "God, no.  But I knew Luis would persuade him.  He's been dragging Curt to parties ever since college, or so I'm told."   She paused, thinking, before turning directly towards Columbo.   "Lieutenant, it seems to me you're going to a lot of effort, coming here, when you should be back in Los Angeles trying to find Curt's murderer."

            "Oh, that's exactly what I'm doing, Ms. Foster, make no mistake about it."

            "But the news said it was some kind of back-alley fling gone wrong."

            "And do you believe that?"

            Kathryn shook her head violently.  "Of course not.   That's just the kind of spin the media would love to give this, and it's exactly what I'm going to deny when I get back to L.A.   God, it's not like Curt didn't have enough mud smeared on him."

            "By whom?"

            "Oh, the usual suspects.  Conservative groups, religious fanatics, closeted skinheads.   Even his own brother was..."   She trailed off, very deliberately.   Kathryn quickened her pace, forcing Columbo to jog to catch up.

            "What was that you said about a brother, ma'am?"

            She turned away a little before answering.   "Ryan.  Curt's older brother.   The two of them haven't spoken for years, really."

            "Mr. Alvarez didn't say anything to me about a brother."   Kathryn remained silent.  Columbo frowned.  "And you were about to say something about him.   Even Mr. Marshak's brother was... what?"

            "Nothing!" Kathryn shouted, a little louder than even she intended; she winced at the note of hammy outrage.  She forced calm into her voice.   "I'm sure it's nothing, Lieutenant."   She turned back to the policeman.   "By the way, how did you know I was here?"

            "Actually, that was Sir Harry's doing also, in a way.   His car was taking me to your hotel from the airport.   Very nice limousine, by the way, almost as nice as the jet.  Very smooth ride.  Anyway, we were passing by here, and I couldn't help but notice a Plymouth Fury pull into the lot.   Very eye-catching car, ma'am, the kind you can't help but remember.   Especially since I think it was that model used in that horror movie from a few years ago, you remember it?   Anyway, after I talked with Sir Harry - did you know that your hotel is on the property adjacent to this building, ma'am? - I asked him where you were, since I knew you were both staying there.   He didn't know, but he did tell me that you drove a bright red Plymouth Fury.  So, I just guessed.  I asked the nurse at the front desk about your name, and here I am."

            Kathryn nodded.  "Very nice, Lieutenant.  I'm impressed."

            "Well, ma'am, detective work is just as much luck as it is skill and knowledge.   I spoke to a college class once, and I told ' em just that: a little luck never hurt.   I guess I had some today."

            "Look, Lieutenant, I... I'm still in a little bit of shock, like I said.   And I came here to see my father, forget about Curt for just a little while.  After that, I really have to get back to work; hell must be breaking out about now.   If you could come up to our... my offices in San Francisco after you're done here, I'd be happy to help you in whatever way I can."

            "That would be terrific.  I'll probably be up there sometime tomorrow; there's just a few things I need to wrap up at the crime scene."

            "Good.  Then it's a date, I suppose."   She shook Columbo's hand.   "We'll talk more then, I promise.   But I really have to go."

            "Of course."

            A few minutes later, Kathryn wheeled her father out of the front entrance.   "You certainly took long enough!"

            "I came back, didn't I?"

            "Not soon enough!  And who's that yelling?"

            "Ms. Foster?  Ms. Foster!"   Lieutenant Columbo came running out of the nursing home, catching both in the middle of the parking lot.   He panted for a moment before speaking.   "I'm sorry to bother you, Ms. Foster, but I just had one more question..."

            "Who're you?" Nathan Foster demanded.  "And what do you want with my worthless daughter anyway?"

            Columbo seemed a little stricken by the question, but Kathryn quickly laughed and rubbed her father's hand.  "This is the policeman, Daddy.  Lieutenant Columbo."

            "Police, eh?"  The old man rubbed his chin.  "You mind pushing my wheelchair to my car?  Girl never could have the muscle to do this sorta thing fast enough."

            "Your car?" Kathryn cut in.  "Daddy, you aren't going to drive."

            "No, I suppose not.  You'd just whine 'til I gave in.  But I'll be damned if I ride in that flashy, gaudy thing you call a car!"   He turned towards Columbo.   "So how about it?   Gonna make yourself useful, or what?"

            "I'd be happy to help, sir," Columbo said easily as he took the handles of the wheelchair.

            "Really, Lieutenant.  You don't have to..."

            "Oh, it's no problem at all, Ms. Foster.   It'll give me the chance to ask that question while we walked."

            Kathryn cleared her throat as the three started down the lot.   "Of course.   Thank you.  What did you want to ask me, Lieutenant?"

            "Well, several people at the party where Mr. Marshak was killed gave us the description of a drag queen who was seen with him just before he was shot.   You know, one of those fellas who dress up like Barbra Streisand or..."

            "I know what a drag queen is, Lieutenant."

            "Yes, of course.  Anyway, this drag queen was seen leaving the scene of the crime."   Kathryn nearly stumbled.  "Are you all right, ma'am?"

            "Yes.  I'm sorry, I wasn't watching where I was stepping.   You were saying?"

            "Anyway, we got a pretty good description of the guy, but, of course, it's pretty hard to tell what he'd look like without all the makeup and clothes."

            "So you really think that someone in the community killed Curt?   I still say it's absurd."

            Columbo nodded.  "That's what I was hoping you'd tell me, Ms. Foster."

            "Well, sorry to disappoint you, Lieutenant, but I don't know anyone of the sort who'd want to kill Curt.  How do you know that this... this person has anything to do with Curt's death?"

            "Very good question, I'd considered that.   But the fact is, we have several witnesses inside the club who saw this person, including Mr. Marshak's friend, Mr. Alvarez.  They were very careful not to be seen too close together, but everyone I talked to got the impression that they knew each other somehow.   Or at least were together in some fashion."

            "And so you're pursuing this ridiculous notion of Curt being killed because of a casual encounter?" Kathryn sniffed.

            "Oh, no, not at all.  Everything I've heard of Mr. Marshak contradicts that.   But I do think this fella has something to do with the murder.   I'd bet my badge on it."

            "Hey, hey!" Nathan Foster interrupted.   "You idiot, you passed it!"

            "Oh, I'm very sorry, sir."  He backed up.  "This one, sir?  This Escort?"

            "Yes, yes.  It's a good car.   An American car.   Don't make them like this anymore.   Now put me in!"

            "Pardon?"

            "Put me in!  I'm not that heavy, and..."

            "Daddy!"  Kathryn sighed.   "Don't worry about it, Lieutenant.   I'll put my father into the car."

            "Are you sure?  Because I can..."

            "Yes, Lieutenant.  Let me open the car first."  She dug into her purse, took out her keys, and stuck one into the driver's side door.

            "If you say so, ma'am.  I'll just wheel him to the other side, here..."   As he did so, he spoke again.   "You know, Ms. Foster, this witness I mentioned before, the one who saw the drag queen, had a coupla interesting things to say.  Like the fact that..."   As he came to the other side of the car, Kathryn saw the Lieutenant's head suddenly bob down.   "Oh.   Oh my."

            "What is it, Lieutenant?"  She walked rapidly around the car towards him.

            "That's very nasty, Ms. Foster.  Very nasty indeed."  As she came to the Lieutenant's side, she gasped, a genuine gasp of surprise and fright.  There, carved into the passenger door of the Escort, were six crudely drawn capital letters: FAGGOT.

            "What?  What is it?"   Nathan Foster leaned forward, squinting.   "I don't see anything!"

            "I... I've never seen that there before!" Kathryn blurted out.

            "Probably some teenager getting his kicks out of vandalism," Columbo said gently.  "Real shame."

            "Y-yes.  Yes, it is."   Kathryn pulled open the door and worked her arms under her father to lift him into the car.  "I'll get that taken care of as soon as I can."

            "I'm sure you will, ma'am."

            "Now, if you'll excuse me..."  She grunted as she transferred her father into the car.   "I really need to go."

            "Of course.  I'll see you in San Francisco ."  Columbo stood there and waved as the car roared away.  He waited until it disappeared from view, nodded to himself , and walked back inside.  A rather involved phone call to the San Diego PD, then a casual stroll around the parking lot, and he was on his way.

 

***

 

            "No, I haven't written the statement yet!"   Vince Emery rubbed his forehead as the offices of the San Francisco chapter of the National Freedom Foundation bustled with activity, activity punctuated by the occasional rolling tear.   His hand tightened around the phone receiver, almost ready to crack it.  A weathered, weary man approaching middle age, he loosened his tie as sweat began to crawl around his shirt collar.  "Yes, I know the press is breathing down your neck.   But they're here too!  They're already making Curt out to be the modern Harvey Milk, and I don't know if they're wrong!"   He paused, listening to the frantic voice on the other end.   "I've already called the guys in D.C.   They'll hit Capitol Hill first thing Monday morning.   I know this sounds rotten, but we have to take advantage of the public sympathy while we still can, but we aren't going to get any if everyone thinks Curt was killed by some one night stand!"   A heavy knock fell on his office door; he cupped his hand over the receiver.  "Just a minute!"  He returned to the phone.  "Look, Lynn , just get the lawyers and PR guys on this; we don't want to fall down now, not when the whole gay community is going to be looking our way.   I'll keep up pressure on the police, and I'll get back to you once the lobbyists get back to me?  All right?   Fine.   Fine.   Bye."   He slammed down the phone.  "Who is it?"

            A rumpled older man entered.  Emery sighed.  "Okay, if you're a reporter, beat it; we'll have a statement later.   If you're a volunteer, we have a lot of copies to make and a lot of phone numbers to call.  If you're anyone else..."

            "Ah, I would be anyone else."  The man brought out a badge.  "Lieutenant Columbo, LAPD."

            Some of the redness retreated from Emery's face.   "Oh.  Sorry about that, Lieutenant.  It's just been madness around here since Curt was killed."   He slumped back into his office chair.   "He was like a father figure to the younger men; he showed them that they could speak out for what they believe in, and be themselves.   I know a lot of gay men found him a little too mainstream for their tastes, but even they were won over once they saw how hard he was fighting for us.  He was one of our loudest voices.  And some bastard's taken that away from us." He rubbed his forehead.   "The NFF was founded to support the rights of everyone.   We'll do it without Curt, but it'll be a lot harder."

            "I know how you feel, sir.  Everyone I've talked to has said so many good things about Mr. Marshak.  But I need some information about him..."

            "Like whether he was given to sex in dark alleys, you mean?" Emery asked coldly.

            "Oh, no, I didn't mean that at all, sir..."

            "Maybe, maybe not."  Emery rose and began pacing his office; his mind really didn't feel like it, but his legs felt twitchy and out of control.   "I've been involved in politics for a long time, Lieutenant.   I was barely into my teens when I heard about Stonewall; that one event inspired me to plunge in.  Since then, I've faced every hostility and indifference the world has to offer.   I've been sneered at, held at arm's length, and outright spat on.  I've seen investigations like yours drag on, stall, out and just ignored."   He turned towards Columbo.   "I don't often ask this, Lieutenant, but for something as big as this, I'd like to know, honestly, where we stand.   Just how are you going to treat this investigation?   Why should I believe that you're going to help us?"

            There was a dead silence for a long minute.   Neither man moved.  Finally, Columbo began to rub his chin.  "I have a nephew who lives back in New York .  He's a talented kid, always was.  Could whip up a chicken cacciatore that could make my uncle Gene, the family gourmet, just cry with joy.  He was always really well-dressed, too, better than his dad any day.   He even redecorated my apartment for me and my wife, back when I still lived there.  Back then, no one really thought of those things as signs of anything.   Even if they did, they certainly didn't talk about it.   My sister-in-law, Marie, was always trying to set him up with daughters of friends and all.  I kept telling her that it wouldn't help, but you know some moms.

            "Anyway, one night I get a call.  This was after I moved to California , back in '73 or so.  It was my sister-in-law, frantic.  He'd run away, vanished almost completely.  I went back and helped track him down.   Took almost a week.   Found him living with some guy he knew in Tribeca.  He came home, and things were rough for a while, but they went back to normal, or something close to it.  My sister-in-law, though, she was mad.  Not because he ran away, but because he was afraid of his own mother, afraid to talk to her.  She was kinda offended that he thought she'd stop loving him for something like that.  My brother - he'd kill me if he knew I told someone this - he cried almost all night the night my nephew came home.  After that, they were almost inseparable; heck, my brother even marched in one of those gay pride parades.  Guess it was the way we were raised when we were kids."

            Columbo paused, his eyes growing thoughtful.   "My nephew lives in Florida now.  Met this really nice guy, I think he's a scuba instructor or something.   Been together for something like nine years now.  In fact, my wife's visiting them right now.  She loves beaches, so seeing 'em is something she's been looking forward to for a long time."   The Lieutenant smiled a little.   "Wouldn't be surprised if they were all out scuba diving right about now."

            Another silence passed.  Emery leaned against a wall, his arms crossed, regarding Columbo for what seemed like hours.  Finally, he spoke.   "What can I do for you, Lieutenant?"

            Columbo's grin grew wider.  "I'm glad you asked."  He patted his pockets, finally producing a small yellow note.   "This note was found on the bathroom floor at the club where Mr. Marshak was murdered.   It has his prints on it, and I was wondering if you knew what it meant."

            Emery took the note and read it.  "That's easy enough, at least for me.  'Sen. Carson' is Senator Vince Carson, one of the most anti-gay Congressmen in office today.  He and Curt butted heads in Washington more times than I care to remember.  If someone were offering dirt on him, Curt would've followed him to the ends of the earth.  In fact, it got him into trouble a couple of times in the past."   He coughed.  "That was one of Curt's little blind spots.   He was getting a little cynical, thought that it was his duty to get as dirty as our opponents."  He tossed the note back to Columbo.   "Why, do you think this has something to do with his murder?   Does this mean you have some kind of lead?"

            "Well, I think it's premature to say that right now, sir.   But we're looking at every possible angle."

            "I think it's pretty clear who didn't kill Curt, though," Emery replied pointedly.   "Hell, I wouldn't be surprised if some skinhead shot him, just for kicks."

            "That doesn't look very likely right now..."   Columbo flipped through his notebook for a moment.   "What do you know about Kathryn Foster?"

            "Kathryn?  Well, I don't know her very well, at least not personally, but I've seen quite a bit of her.   She's practically Curt's right hand."  He shook his head.   "Poor girl.   She must be going through hell right about now."

            "So the two of them got along?"

            "I'd say so.  Not to say they weren't different people.  Kathryn is mainly concerned with the business end of things, while with Curt, it was always his principles that mattered.  That's why he was always such a good friend to us.   Kathryn never did really agree with Curt on a lot of things, especially when it came to his intense passion for gay rights, but to her credit, she never let that get in the way of supporting what he did."

            "Didn't agree with him?  I thought that Ms. Foster was... uh, well..."  Columbo turned beet red.

            Emery chuckled.  "It's a reasonable assumption to make, Lieutenant, but no.  Kathryn is quite straight.  They met back when Curt was trying to get his business going.   He needed funding and an expert business mind, she was an expert business mind with money looking for a good idea and a dream.  They were made for each other, if you catch my meaning."

            "I see."

            Emery sat back down behind his decks and steepled his fingers under his chin.  "You were involved in the murder of that Dodgers player a while back, weren't you?"

            Columbo nodded.  "Yes, I had a hand in that case..."

            "Then you understand how politically sensitive these kinds of deaths can be."  Emery leaned forward.   "I don't want this to sound like a threat, Lieutenant, really, I don't.  I hate making threats.   But people are watching.  They're watching me, they're watching L.A. , and they sure as hell will be watching you.   I can't help that, and neither can you.   But I'm going to take a leap of faith, and trust that you'll make the right decisions.  I just hope that trust won't be misplaced."

            "I'll certainly try, sir.  I'll certainly try."

 

***

            Kathryn knocked urgently on the ramshackle apartment door.   "Ryan?  Are you there?"   Nothing.   Of course not.   Where would any good churchgoer be on a Sunday morning?   Adjusting the sunglasses that covered her face, the rest of her body hidden in the same trench coat she'd worn the previous Friday, she quickly took a brass key out of her pocket and stuck it into the apartment lock.  One twist, and the cheap deadbolt clicked open.   She was inside in a moment.

            It was a sparsely decorated apartment, with only a few pieces of important furniture littering the main room.  The only thing interrupting the yellowing white walls was an old black and white photo.  Kathryn's gloved hands caressed the frame; it was a picture of the Marshak clan in olden times: stern, tight-lipped patriarch, beaming, radiant wife, and two teenagers.  Even without the facial resemblances, she could tell that the one with the serious scowl on his face was Curt.

            But that was irrelevant.  She had work to do.   She hurried into the bedroom, sparing a glance at the old electric typewriter sitting on a desk, the same typewriter she'd used on her last visit the previous Sunday.  Kathryn glanced first into the closet, then under the bed.   She stood in the middle of the room, thinking for a moment.   She nodded, drawing a gun and a short brown wig out of her paper shopping bag.  The former she buried under several shirts in a chest of drawers; the latter was stashed in a far corner of the closet's top shelf.   Done.

            Pulling her fedora over her eyes, she left the apartment in quick, easy strides.   A short trolley ride later, she was walking into the offices of Wise Men Publishing, her hair down, sunglasses removed, and the copied key swimming in a sewer somewhere downtown.   As her hand pressed against her office door, there was a rattling, from somewhere.   She paused, frowning.   Rattle, rattle.   It didn't seem to come from the room in front of her, but from Curt's office next door.   Kathryn turned; the door to his office was slightly ajar.   She gently stepped forward and pushed it open, half expecting to see Curt behind his desk, looking up towards her and complaining about wasting a perfectly good day at the office.   Instead, the man sitting behind Curt's desk was greyer, pudgier, and more familiar, in rolled-up shirtsleeves, carefully reading through papers.

            "Lieutenant?"

            Columbo's head snapped up.  "Oh!  Ms. Foster!   Sorry to startle you."

            "Lieutenant, what are you doing here?"

            "I wasn't sure if I was gonna be able to get in, but I just caught the cleaning crew as they were entering.  I had to tell ' em not to touch this office yet.  I hope you don't mind."

            Kathryn removed her coat, tossing it across one of the visitor's chairs.   "No, not at all.   It's just that... I'm a little surprised to see you here."

            "Well, yes, ma'am.  I wanted to come here just as soon as I could, get started on my investigation.   Would you mind helping me out?   I just don't get Mr. Marshak's filing system."

            She laughed as she sat.  "Curt didn't have a filing system per se, Lieutenant.   But I think I can help."

            "I'd really appreciate it."  He looked about the spacious, oak-paneled office and whistled.   "This is a very nice office.   Sorta like a high-priced lawyer's or businessman's."

            "Curt appreciated the effect an office like this would have on people."   She casually flipped through Curt's appointment book, though inside her heart jumped as Columbo opened the largest right-hand desk drawer, the same one that she'd opened when she broke into this very office last Thursday night.   "He knew it would help visitors take him seriously, as a businessman and an activist."

            "You both must be very good at running a business.   I heard that this company is, what, only a few years old?   Yet here you are in surroundings like this.   Not many people have the ability to get ahead so fast.   It's remarkable."

            "Thank you, but we're actually a little older than that.   Our publications are what went national a few years ago."   Silence filled the room.  "Oh, Lieutenant?   I wanted to apologize for the way my father acted yesterday."

            "Oh, it's no problem at all, ma'am.  I've dealt with much rougher customers in my line of work."

            "I just wanted you to know that he's not a bad person, despite the things he said.  My parents had me very late in life.  I guess that's why my mother didn't survive having me.  There was my father, raising me all alone, at his age...   Plus, he never made it a secret that he wanted a boy."   Kathryn smiled a little.  "But really, he's a loving man, once you get to know him like I have."

            The police officer nodded and returned to his search.   A moment later, his gray head popped up again.   "Man, it's hot in here.  Is there an air conditioner, or...?"

            "Sorry.  This room heats up really fast, with the large windows letting in all the sun.   Curt actually liked having a greenhouse for an office for some reason."

            He shook his head as he flipped through file folders.   "Mr. Marshak was a very interesting man.  Everyone I've spoken to says that..."  He trailed off; Kathryn half-rose from her seat in unfeigned interest.   "Will you look at this?"  He drew out a small sheaf of paper.   "Letters from Mr. Marshak's brother Ryan, it looks like."  He silently read the top one on the stack, though Kathryn already knew what it said: it was a fanatic, slightly unhinged, religiously-based screed against Curt's "lifestyle," demanding that he either change, or "the will of God would strike him dead."  The two below it, with dates a week before the top letter, then a week before that, were similar, though getting progressively less crazy.   All were neatly typed; Kathryn knew that they would be found to have been written on the same typewriter as the one in Ryan's apartment.   She made sure of that.  Columbo held out the top paper towards Kathryn.   "You recognize this?"

            "Oh, God..."  She slumped back into her chair.  "I didn't know Curt had saved those...  But I guess I should've known, he saved everything ."

            Columbo nodded as he took an evidence bag out of the briefcase sitting on the floor next to him and slipped the letter in.   "I thought you might know something about this.   Why don't you tell me about it. "

            Kathryn made sure he heard her hard swallow.   "I-I'm sorry I didn't tell you about this before.   I just didn't think I should..."   She paused for a moment, then continued.   "Curt never really got along with his brother.   There were plenty of reasons, like the typical sibling rivalry crap, but a lot of it was only in Curt's head."   She gathered her thoughts for a moment before continuing.   "But I have to admit there were a lot of real reasons too.   Curt's parents were very strict Catholics.  Ryan never left the church like Curt did.  That's a big reason why they haven't spoken for so long; Curt always felt pressured by Ryan to change who he was, become straight just by snapping his fingers.   I used to think it was just his imagination..." Which it was.

            "Used to, Ms. Foster?"

            "Until sometime a few weeks ago."   Columbo flipped through the stack, stopping at the third letter down.  "Ryan had written to Curt before, wanting to patch up whatever differences existed between them.   He's even come here a few times, though Curt always made sure to be out when Ryan came.   But then he sent this crazy letter, totally unlike anything he'd said before.   Talked about the Rapture and the last judgment and how Curt needed to change or his soul would burn."  Kathryn forced a shudder.  "He showed me that letter when it first came.   I tried to convince him to confront Ryan, or at least go to the police, but he refused.  Damn stubborn man.  He said he could handle it.  Even getting the next one, and that last one, just a few days ago, didn't change his mind."

            "And even after Mr. Marshak showed you this last letter," Columbo said, waving the clear plastic evidence bag with the paper in it, "you didn't think it was important to the investigation?"

            "No!  I just can't believe Ryan would snap like that.  He loved Curt.  Besides, the news reports said..."  She shook her head.   "I'm so confused, Lieutenant, I'm sorry..."

            "That's all right.  Really, it is.  Mr. Marshak's brother may have nothing to do with this.   Have you spoken to him at all recently?"

            Kathryn shook her head.  "Like I said, he's stopped by here off and on for months now, but I never did more than say hello.  I haven't seen him since his last visit, which was something like three months ago."

            Columbo nodded.  "Of course.  Look, I know that you can't see Mr. Marshak's brother doing this, but with a death threat that might have led to a murder...   Well, we have to investigate every angle.   You understand that."

            "I understand.  It's just so... hard to even consider."

            "It's always difficult, I know.  I've been on the force for decades and I've never seen it get any easier."   He slipped the other two letters into evidence bags.   "Do you know where Ryan Marshak lives?  I'd just like to talk to him briefly."

            "Not offhand.  Should be somewhere in Curt's address book, maybe...?"

            "Whoop, never mind."  Columbo plunked a wire trash basket onto the desk.   After rummaging for a moment, he pulled out an envelope.   "Looks like the envelope this letter came in."   He turned it over, reading the front.   "Hmm.   PO box.   Ah, well, I'll be able to track him down.   But it looks like he lives right here in San Francisco .  And Mr. Marshak still wouldn't see him?"

            "Like I said, he was the most stubborn man I know."   Kathryn shifted in her chair.   "Any more news about Curt's murder?"

            "Nothing definite, ma'am, but we definitely made progress before I left Los Angeles ."

            "Oh?  What kind of process?"   Kathryn knew she had a legitimate reason to be interested, yet even she winced at the eagerness she heard peeking through her words.

            "Well, I don't know what exactly you've heard in the news, but when Mr. Marshak's body was discovered, his pants were unzipped, and there was an opened condom in his hand.   That's why there was so much news assuming that he'd been killed by someone he'd gone into the alley with to... uh... well, you know."   Columbo reddened.

            "And as I keep telling you, and the other police officers, that's ridiculous."

            "Oh, I quite agree.  Whoever killed Mr. Marshak definitely planned this whole thing way in advance."

            "How do you figure?"

            Columbo licked his lips.  "Well, first of all, we found condoms in Mr. Marshak's wallet.  A totally different brand from the one in his hand.   Now, there could be a dozen other explanations for that, but then the coroner found this."  He began rooting through the briefcase.  "Where is that?  I know it's in here somewhere...  Ah!"   He pulled out a large black-and-white print and handed it to Kathryn.   "You know what this is?"

            She examined the ovular metal disk, stamped with a caduceus.   "Yes, this is a Medic Alert pendant."

            "That's right, ma'am.  Found it hanging around Mr. Marshak's neck.   You know that it's meant to inform medical personnel of allergies, contagious illnesses, things like that, right?"

            "Yes."  She felt a vague sense of panic stirring.

            "That particular one warned of an allergy, and we confirmed it with Mr. Marshak's doctor.   Turns out that Mr. Marshak was allergic to latex."

            It took all of Kathryn's willpower not to gasp.   "I-I didn't know that."

            "Neither did anyone else.  It seems that Mr. Marshak took great pains to keep this to himself."

            "I'm not surprised.  Curt always did have this fear of looking anything less than completely strong and self-sufficient."

            "Yet he knew that if he ever needed to go to a hospital, there'd be latex everywhere: in the gloves, in the tubing, all over.   So he wore this pendant."  Columbo emphasized his last four words with four taps on the photograph.   "He was very mindful of his allergy.   In fact, those condoms we found in his wallet?   They were lambskin.  I had no idea they still made those."

            "And the condom in his hand was latex?"  The words were out of her mouth before she could think for even a moment.

            Columbo's face brightened.  "Very good, Ms. Foster!   Yes, you see what I'm getting at.   The condom was obviously planted by the killer to make everyone THINK he was going out to that alley to do, you know, all that.   Set up a false scenario for the murder.   Also, remember I mentioned to you that there was a witness who saw that drag queen leave the scene of the crime?  There's one very interesting thing about his story: he said he didn't hear a shot."

            "So maybe the murder happened sooner than that.   Or later."

            "No, I don't think so.  The witness says he found Mr. Marshak dead, so it couldn't have been later.  And he found the body not long after Mr. Marshak was last seen.   It couldn't have happened before he entered the area.   No, the only explanation is that the killer used a silencer.   That means premeditation."   He leaned over the desk, toward Kathryn.   "I think the killer lured Mr. Marshak out there with the sole purpose of killing him."

            Kathryn rose.  "I'm sorry, Lieutenant.   I came here to work, to get my mind off Curt, but...   Obviously, that's not going to happen.   I think I'm going to go home."

            Columbo rose with her.  "Of course, Ms. Foster, I'm very sorry to have upset you."

            "No, that's all right.  I know you're just doing your job."

            "Can I walk you to the lobby or something?   Help you find a cab?"

            "Thank you, but no.  My car's in the parking garage."

            She began to leave the office, but was interrupted so suddenly that she almost jumped.  "Oh, Ms. Foster!   That reminds me!  Did you get that nasty word taken care of?"

            Kathryn turned back.  "What nasty...?   Oh!   That!   Uh, yes, yes.  After I had lunch with my father, I took it to an auto body place.   Fixed it right up."

            Columbo nodded approvingly.  "Good, good.  That was fast.   I mean, there you are, you find out your friend has just been murdered, but you still find the time to help out your dad on a minor chore.   You two must be very close."

            She managed to move her suddenly paralyzed neck muscles into a nod.   "Yes, we are.  I would've felt guilty if I'd left that thing on my father's car for God knows how long."

            "I know, and I'm glad that's done.  It's odd, though, that whatever kids or drunks or whoever did that targeted your father's car.  After you left, I checked over the other resident cars in the lot, just to see if there was anything else I needed to report to other residents of the home.   None of the others had any vandalism on ' em."

            "Just unlucky, I guess."  Kathryn smiled tightly.

            Columbo returned the smile.  "Guess so.  Well, I won't keep you anymore.   You go on home; I'll let you know if there are any further developments."

            "Thank you."  Kathryn hurried out, a little faster than she'd intended, her stomach churning.   After a quick stop in the women's bathroom to splash some cold water on her face, she was banging the elevator button when her heart seized once more at shouts behind her.

            "Ms. Foster!  Wait up a moment!"   Columbo ran out of the office.   "Whew, glad I caught you.  I'm really sorry, but I had one more thing I wanted to ask about.   I don't want you to get the wrong idea, this is strictly a routine question in a murder case.   You know all the reports we have to fill out, they have to be very thorough..."

            At that moment, a bell rang, and the elevator doors slid open.   Kathryn entered the elevator and jammed the "Door Open" button.   "It's all right.  But I'd appreciate it if you'd just ask me the question."

            "Oh, right, I'm sorry, ma'am.  Well, my question is, where were you around eleven Friday night?"

            "That's easy, and very inoffensive.  I was in San Diego , in my hotel room.  I think I was asleep by then.  It'd been a long day, and I was very tired."

            Columbo jotted this down in his notepad.   "Right, that's what I thought.   I assume that you were alone?"   Kathryn glared.  "Of course you were, I'm sorry.   One more question: what will happen to this business now that Mr. Marshak is dead?"

            "Well, from what I know of the will, most of his money goes to various charities and special interest groups.  According to an agreement we signed when we first started Wise Men, in the event of Curt's death, I gain control of the company."   She paused, looking Columbo over.   "Is there a reason for these questions, Lieutenant?   You think I drove up to Los Angeles to kill Curt or something?" she asked lightly.

            "Oh, no, of course not; I don't believe for a second that you did that.   Y'see, we have plenty of witnesses who were outside the club around the time Mr. Marshak died, and we questioned them all.  And none of 'em remember seeing your car anywhere near the area.  Your car is very distinct, ma'am, and I'm sure if it had been there, it would've been remembered.   And if you'd parked a long ways away, then walked or took a cab or something, you would've taken a huge risk of being seen.   Besides, with the crowd there that night, I think someone would've noticed you if you'd come.  No, I don't think you were there at all.   Like I said, just a routine question I'm asking of everyone who knew the victim."

            "I told you, it's all right.  I understand."  Kathryn's finger now jabbed the "Door Close" button.  "I'll talk to you later, Lieutenant."

            "Thanks for all your help, Ms. Foster.  Oh, and you forgot your coat."   Kathryn finally noticed the trench coat hanging over Columbo's arm.  She took it from him.

"Thank you.  I guess my head is somewhere else today."

"Oh, I understand completely.  If you ever need to..."  He never finished before the doors slammed shut on him.

 

***

 

            Ryan Marshak's home turned out to be a near-tenement apartment in one of the poorer sections of town.   Columbo knocked rapidly on the door.   A minute of silence, then some shuffling, finally culminated in a sharp click.  The door creaked open.  Standing there was a surprisingly well-dressed young man with dirty blonde hair and a somewhat flabby, pudgy face, staring at Columbo through bloodshot eyes.   "Mr. Marshak?   Mr. Ryan Marshak?"

            "Yes."  His voice was groggy and thick with mucus.  "Who're you?"

            "Lieutenant Columbo , LA Homicide."   He lifted his badge in front of the other man's face.   "I'm investigating your brother's murder."

            Columbo's words might as well have been an "open sesame;" the door swung wide open.  "Please, come in."  Columbo shuffled inside, taking in the entire place in a few glances as Ryan shut and locked the door behind him.  "I've been wondering when someone would be coming by to ask about this.   I was starting to think that no one cared."

            "A lot of people care.  Didn't you hear that...?"  He looked around for a moment, and his question answered itself.   "You don't have a TV set," Columbo observed.

            "Nah.  Too much sex and violence and worthless stuff.   I only heard about Curt when one of your officers called me Saturday morning.  Please, sit down."  Columbo obeyed, easing himself into a ratty recliner.  "I was just making some coffee; want some?"

            "No, I'm fine."  Columbo waited patiently as the younger man sat on a plaid couch, nursing a steaming mug.   "I wanted to start by saying how sorry I was about your brother."

            Ryan sniffled and wiped away tears.  "Thank you.  I just keep telling myself that Curt is in Heaven with our parents, that he's happier now...  But it doesn't help yet."

            "It's hard enough losing family," Columbo agreed.   "But to lose him like this...   As I was telling Ms. Foster just a while ago, I've been a policeman for years, and it never seems to get easier."

            "Foster?  You mean Kathryn?"

            "Yes.  How well do you know her?"

            Ryan shrugged as he sipped his coffee.  "Not very.   I've met her a few times.  Chatted about the weather, things like that, in her office waiting to see if Curt would talk to me.  Never did.  Now I never will."   He sniffled.

            "How well did you get along with your brother?"

            "I won't lie to you, Lieutenant.  Not well."  Ryan sighed.   "We were really close when we were kids.   More like best friends than brothers.   He always went to my Little League games.   When Curt was in the hospital for a week when he was ten, I was at his bedside every night.  Even snuck out of the house to do it.   I guess it all started when our parents died.   They left everything to me.   The way the will read, it was like Curt didn't even exist.   He said it showed just what they always thought of him.   Sometimes I'm afraid that he was right."   He rubbed his eyes with a large, meaty hand.   "We never really talked before then; our lives were too different.   He was already traveling all over the country, and I lived with our parents.  But after that, it just fell apart.  Everything fell apart.  I was having money trouble, real money trouble.  My dad wasn't the best businessman, and he left behind a lot of debts.   I wanted to ask Curt for help, but I couldn't.   Not after the way we parted.

            "The bank foreclosed on the house a couple of months ago, and I couldn't bear to tell Curt.  I had to move into this place; it about all I could afford.   I gained a lot of weight in the past few months, just from being depressed and eating a lot.  Then I twisted my ankle, lost my old job at my church, and I lost my apartment door key.  Can't even afford to replace the lock.   I felt like Job.  But I'm getting by.  Got another job at a bank.  Eventually I'll be able to buy back the house."

            Columbo leaned forward.  "Son, I'm sorry to have to do this, but we're running out of time.   I'm going to have to ask you some very hard questions.   Have you ever threatened your brother's life?"

            The young man's eyes went wide.  "What?  No!   Never!  Why would I ever do that?"

            "Because he was gay?"

            Ryan blinked for a moment, his mouth open.   Then his whole body seemed to collapse.   "I don't know how I felt about that.   Dad kicked Curt out of the house when he first came out, cut off all contact.  Mom and I tried to patch things up, but we never could.   I've heard all my life that it's a mortal sin, but... he's my brother.   He never really changed."

            "So you never wrote letters to him telling him that he would die unless he, uh, converted?"

            "I wrote letters, sure, a lot of them.  But I never threatened him, Lieutenant.   I swear on all that's holy I never did."

            Columbo rubbed his chin.  There was no getting around facts anymore.  "I believe you.  But I'm afraid my superiors, and my friends on the San Francisco PD, don't.   You see, I found letters supposedly written by you in Curt's office, letters that were very menacing in tone..."

            Ryan paled.  "That can't be.   I told you, I never..."

            "And any time now, they'll arriving here with a search warrant.  Don't panic.   I'll stay here with you until they arrive, and I'll stay until they leave.  If that's what you want."

            By this time, the younger man seemed to rein in whatever emotions were running rampant over his face.  "Sure.   You seem to be the only person who believes me.   I could use the support."  He smiled, just a little.  "Thanks."

            Columbo returned the grin.  "I think you're innocent.  And I'll prove it."  He was about to say more, but the heavy knocks on the door interrupted him.

 

***

 

            Kathryn Foster had to get away.  All day, a constant deluge of phone calls flooded into the office.   Condolences, questions, worries, funeral arrangements, demands.  She could almost hear Curt somewhere laughing.   Finally, she had to get away.

            Golden Gate Park suited the purpose just fine.  She lounged on the bench, drinking in the warmth of the sun.   The air was crisp and clear, the view of the famous bridge postcard-perfect.  She realized that she should have been happy: Curt's will left the business to her, as she expected.   She would wait to make overtures to Sir Harry, but knew that he would be receptive eventually.   And everyone she talked to told her about how sorry they were about Curt, nursing her hands as if they were afraid she'd collapse in her grief.   She had everything now.  Everything.

            But one face always returned to her memory: worn, graying, with a smile that seemed to speak of something more, darker, than friendliness.   She tried to shake it out of her brain, but that face remained.

            Why, she couldn't say.  There was certainly no evidence she could think of to connect her to Curt's murder; indeed, it all seemed to point in another direction entirely.  Sure, there was that damn carving on Daddy's car, but Columbo didn't seem to make the connection; even if he did, what proof was there that it was made in Los Angeles ?  Still, that nagging discomfort remained.  A shadow had passed over her thoughts, even as an actual shadow passed over her face.   She looked up and gasped.  "Lieutenant Columbo?!"

            "Ms. Foster!  Isn't this a coincidence!   I was taking a lunch break, and thought I'd see a little of San Francisco .  You know, make this at least a little bit of a vacation."  He waved towards the harbor and bridge below.   "Now isn't that beautiful?   With my workload and all, I almost never get to travel.   Been to Mexico , been to England twice, been on a cruise, but that sort of opportunity never seems to come that often.  And here it never occurs to me to go somewhere closer to home!"   He motioned to the empty spot next to Kathryn.   "Mind if I sit down?  I've got my lunch here," he said, waving a somewhat grease-spotted paper bag, "and I'd really like to rest.  Been on my feet practically all day."

            "No, of course not.  Please, sit."  She scooted to her left a little to allow room for Columbo to flop down.   She wanted to make some excuse, to get up and run, but she held her ground.  "So you're enjoying San Francisco , then?"

            "It's just a wonderful place.  You're very lucky to live here."

            Kathryn smiled a little.  "I suppose I am."

            "You lived here most of your life?"

            "Yeah.  Californian, born and bred.  My father is from here; this is where we came after my mother died.   He struggled for so long just to make ends meet.   I started working when I was ten, odd jobs after school wherever and whenever I could.   Imagine my surprise when I found out I was actually good at it."

            Columbo nodded.  "I've heard so many good things about the way you've run Mr. Marshak's business."

            "Yeah.  It was rough going, the first year.  But we worked hard and pulled through.  Lots of sleepless nights paid off."  The words flowed out of her, ignoring her will.    "It's not so hard, not if you want it.   If you really want it, you'll work for it.   You won't let anything get in your way."

            "That something your father taught you?" Columbo asked gently.

            "Why do you ask?"

            "Well, you two seemed very close.  I'm sure he raised you to be a very strong woman.   I can see he succeeded."

            Kathryn shifted in her seat, a little uncomfortably.   "So how's the investigation going?"

            "It's going pretty well, actually," was the reply, as Columbo fished a sandwich wrapped in white butcher's paper out of the bag.   "Made a lot of progress."   He unwrapped the sandwich and bit into it.  "Mmm!   I found this deli not far from here; I haven't tasted pastrami like this since I lived in New York .  Wonderful stuff."  He waved the sandwich towards Kathryn's face.  " Wanna bite?"

            "No, no, I'm fine."  Kathryn swallowed, and forced her gaze back at the Golden Gate .  "What sort of progress?"

            "The local detectives are investigating Mr. Marshak's brother."

            Kathryn gasped.  "Ryan?   They can't possibly believe that..."

            "I'm afraid they do, ma'am.  Those letters you helped me find in Mr. Marshak's office were very compelling to them.  We found an electric typewriter in Ryan Marshak's apartment.  The experts - and they have experts for everything these days in the police department; you'd be amazed at what some of these guys know - say for sure that the letters were typed on that typewriter.   Besides, he had his name on them and everything."

            Kathryn cocked her head.  "I sense there's more to it than just that."

            Columbo nodded grimly.  "A wig, similar to the style worn by that drag queen, was found in his closet."   He sighed.  "And the gun."

            "Gun?  The one Curt was killed with?"

            "Yes.  Also found in his apartment."   Columbo crumpled up the paper and dropped it into the bag, drawing out a small bowl of wedge-cut French fries in its stead.   "Ballistics confirm that it's the murder weapon.  And he doesn't have much of an alibi for the night his brother was killed."

            "Wow."  Kathryn's shoulders slumped.   "That's it, then.   I can't believe it..."

            "Oh, neither can I.   And neither do the local detectives, not fully."

            Kathryn stared.  "But I thought you said..."

            "I'm sorry to have given you that impression, Ms. Foster.   I just said that the local detectives were investigating him.   While the evidence certainly looks bad for him, we agree that there are certain holes that need clearing up."

            "Holes?  Like what?"

            "Well, like the latex allergy.  We checked back with Curt's doctor, and he said that Curt had always had it, since he was a young boy.   Now, his brother had stayed by his bedside for nearly a week when Curt was hospitalized with pneumonia when he was a child.   We tested him, and we're pretty sure he's known about the allergy ever since.  So you see , there was no way he would've made that mistake with the condom."

            Having finished the fries, Columbo tossed the bag into a nearby trashcan, and returned his attention to Kathryn.  "Then there's the evidence we found in Ryan Marshak's apartment.  It both casts suspicion on him and makes him less likely a suspect at the same time."

            "What do you mean?"

            Columbo sipped at a can of soda and licked his lips.   "Nothing like a cold drink on a warm day likes this.   Especially with good company and a good view."  He looked out over the Bay and smiled a little.  Kathryn's fingers began to unconsciously tap at the bench slats before Columbo finally continued.  "There were a few things about the scene that nagged at me, just little loose ends that wouldn't get tied.  I discussed it with the local officers in charge, and they agreed with me.   It took a while, but they agreed."   Another pause as Columbo took another drink.   "First there's the wig.  That says that Ryan was that drag queen in the club, and that doesn't make any sense.  If he wrote those letters, then he is practically a religious fanatic.   Why would he create a plan so complex, especially one that would require him to dress up like a woman, be near the people he hates so much?  Then there's the silencer."

            "You found a silencer?"

            "No, and that's the troubling part.  Why would he get rid of the silencer, which we know he must've had, and all the other parts of his costume, but keep the wig and the gun?   And those letters...  Those are very troubling."   He paused for another drink.   "Those letters were dusted for prints.   The only ones on them were mine.   You see the problem there, Ms. Foster?"

            "So he wore gloves.  That doesn't seem like a big deal."

            "Ah, but WHY would he wear gloves?   He put his name right on the letters!   I'm sure you can see my point: if he wanted to not leave behind evidence, then it'd be very stupid to send his intended victim threatening letters, yet worry about fingerprints.   You see what I'm getting at?"

            Kathryn shook her head.  "I'm not sure I do, Lieutenant.  Are you saying that someone's trying to frame Ryan?"

            "That's exactly what I'm saying.  I think the real killer planted that evidence in Mr. Marshak's apartment to make us think he did it.   He mentioned to me that he'd lost the key to his apartment; anyone could have stolen it from him, made a copy, and used it to gain access to plant evidence."

            "Any idea who this criminal mastermind might be?" Kathryn asked, rubbing a few strands of hair between her fingers, a leftover habit from her childhood.

            "I think we're closing in, ma'am.  I have every confidence that we'll have a suspect in custody soon."   He rose.   "It was very nice talking to you, Ms. Foster, but I really should get back to work.   You have a good day, now, okay?"

            "You too, Lieutenant."  She watched him shuffle off, then returned her gaze to the bridge and distant waters.

 

***

 

            Lieutenant Columbo rubbed his eyes wearily.   The young San Francisco police lieutenant who'd been assigned to keep him company had an equally glazed face.  Outside was the typical hum of activity at any major metropolitan police station.   The young lieutenant's superior, a captain with a bristling moustache and even more bristling temper, had allowed them to take up an entire conference room for their video tour of the crime scene, but even Columbo could sense that time was beginning to weigh on them both.   "Maybe we should look through them again."

            "Again?!" the younger man burst out, nearly sending a stack of video tapes flying.

            "There's something there.  I know it."  Columbo clasped his hands together as he stared at the screen, watching the kaleidoscopic lights and bumping bodies.  "Four people there with video cameras for various reasons, all over the floor the entire night.  Five security cameras by the major entrances and over the floor.   Someone must have caught something important."

            The younger lieutenant sighed.  "You remind me of someone I know.  Look, we've been through all of them, what, six times already?   I think we would've seen something by now."

            "We're missing something.  I'm positive we're missing something.  Do you still have that list of times where the drag queen was on-screen?"   Without taking his eyes off the TV, he took a piece of paper from the other lieutenant.  After a quick read, he leaned forward, fast forwarding the tape in the machine until the counter reached 11 PM .  He watched as the camera took its regular scan from the dance floor to the alcove where the public phones and bathroom doors were.  There was the drag queen again.  He approached the bathrooms and entered.  A few seconds later, the victim did the same.   Curt Marshak was definitely following his killer.  The note proved that.   But...

            Columbo rocked forward, coming to his feet at once.   "Lieutenant Columbo?" the other man asked warily.   He watched as Columbo rewound the tape a few seconds, then hit play again.  Then repeated the action, twice.  "You got something?"

            He turned to the younger man and smiled.   "Lieutenant, what do you think of Julie Andrews movies?"

            The answer was a mystified and helpless shrug.   "I've seen The Sound of Music a couple of times, but that's it.  Why?"

            Columbo paused the tape and tapped on the screen.   "I think we've got it."

 

***

 

            Dresses were everywhere.  Sequined gowns, summer outfits of all sorts, and more hats and wigs than Columbo had ever seen lined the walls of the store.   The only differences between this store and every other women's clothing boutique he'd seen were the generally larger sizes, and the distinctly male bent in the clientele.   But then, Columbo knew what he was doing when he asked for directions to this place.

            A young man, sharply dressed in women's business attire, approached Columbo, walking effortlessly on his high heels.  The nametag read "Didi."   "Well, hello!  Welcome to my little establishment!"  He gestured towards the racks of clothes with a flourish and immediately began sizing up his new customer.   "Hmm.   A little older than my usual customer, but I think I know what you need."

            "Er, sir?"

            "Oh, none of that formal stuff.  Didi will do.   First thing I think you need is a pair of good shoes, boost your height a little.   Then..."  He was finally stopped by the flashing of a badge.   "Oh."

            "That's very kind of you, but I'm not here for clothes."

            "I see."  Didi's voice had suddenly become a little colder.

            "My name is Lieutenant Columbo, and I'm investigating the murder of Curt Marshak, and I need some expert information."

            Didi's face brightened.  "You're investigating Curt's murder?   Well, then, that's different."   He began to lead Columbo towards the back of the store.   "Sorry for the misunderstanding.   I used to get a lot of harassment from your fellow cops for a while.  Before they learned it wasn't worth it."  He smiled, a feral grin.  "You don't want to know how."

            "Wow," Columbo breathed.  "I haven't ever seen clothes like this in my life!   They're so... so..."

            "Elegant?  Chic?  Radiant?  Oh, they're all that.  You see, Lieutenant, the men who come to a place like this want to look good, and I take that very seriously."  He turned towards the older man.  "You know why men dress up in women's clothing?  And then go out in public that way?"

            "I have to admit, it's not something I understand very well."

            "It's because they want to.  What other reason or justification do they need?   It's not hurting anyone, except maybe the sensibilities of the more uptight among us, so why not come to a place where your patronage is welcomed, your tastes understood, and your amateur mistakes corrected?   I just don't sell clothes, Lieutenant.   I sell experience and understanding.   Actually, you'd be surprised at how many of my customers are as straight as they come."  He slipped behind the sales counter and leaned forward earnestly, every inch the practical saleswoman.  "So what do you need?"

            "I'd like to know about makeup techniques.   What makes a man look like a woman. "

            Didi smiled.  "Ah, one of my more beloved subjects.   Actually, as you might guess, not many men have the face or the body to actually fool people into thinking they're women.   There are plenty of very masculine facial and body structures that you can't really hide without surgery.   Usually, what I recommend is just whatever it takes for the individual to look good with what they have."

            "How about someone like this?"  Columbo slid a photo over the counter.   Didi picked it up and examined it.

            "Hmm.  Kinda cute.   I'd have to look at this guy in person, of course, but I think I have a few tips that could help him on his way."

            "And could he look like a woman?"

            Didi shook his head.  "Like I said, I try to emphasize what people actually have.   Would he look stunning?  Yes.  Could he stroll into a women's bathroom and expect not to be booted out on his sweet little butt?  I seriously doubt it."

            "Do you think you can teach me about makeup?"

            Didi beamed.  "Honey, I'd be honored."

 

***

 

            Kathryn checked her makeup one more time before returning her compact to her small black purse.  The funeral procession would start soon, and she was determined to look good.   The limo seemed more spacious than it ever did, without Curt to occupy the seats and to fill the space with his personality.   Just as she looked down to check her watch, the door opened.   "I'm sorry, I'm not giving any...   YOU?"

            Lieutenant Columbo poked his head inside, a paper bag in hand.   "Wow," he said softly.  "This is even nicer than that other limo I rode in.   Look at this!  Is that a TV and VCR?  And that looks like a bar..."

            "Lieutenant, what the hell are you doing here?" Kathryn spat.

            "I'm really sorry to break in like this, Ms. Foster, but I had to talk to you."

            "This is a funeral car!  We are about to bury one of my best friends, and you have the nerve to burst in and..."

            Columbo waved his hands.  "And I'm really sorry, but this couldn't wait.   That's why I hoped to catch you before the procession started.   Can I come in and talk?"  He put one foot into the limo.  "Really, I promise, this won't take long, and this really is important."

            Kathryn massaged her forehead and sighed.   "All right.   But make it quick."

            In a flash, Columbo had climbed in, slammed the door shut, and sat down in one of the seats near Kathryn.  "Wow," he repeated, bouncing a little on the seat like a boy.   "I could get used to this!   This is like an entire home in a car!"

            "Lieutenant, please.  I'm in mourning."

            Columbo's face turned grim.  "I'm sorry, ma'am, but that's what I'm here to talk about."

            "I'm... not sure I get the connection."

            "I'll be happy to explain it.  Just a second."  He began rummaging in the paper bag.  "I'm glad this thing has a VCR in it...  Ah, here it is."  He pulled out a videotape; he jerked it towards the VCR.   "Do you mind?"

            "Knock yourself out.  Just be quick about it."  Even her ears were surprised by the flatness and bitterness.   Columbo seemed to take no notice of it; he simply popped in the tape, turned on the small TV, and pressed play.   A cacophony of music and dozens of simultaneous conversations began piping out of the speakers.  "What exactly are we seeing?"

            "Just a second...  There!"   Columbo jabbed the pause button.   "See that?"  He pointed towards one portion of the screen.   "There is the drag queen who was seen with Mr. Marshak - and considering what we've discovered so far, I don't think there's much doubt that he was involved in the murder - and there, back there, is Mr. Marshak, following him. For the longest time, I wasn't sure what connection that drag queen had with you.  A hired killer, maybe?  I didn't know how he fit into your plan to kill Mr. Marshak, but then it hit me." 

              "One of the things that's been bothering me ever since I saw a picture of this man is just how much like a woman he looked.   Sure, he had some masculine-type features in his face because of his makeup, but other than that, he actually did look female."   He looked over towards Kathryn.   "Here's a question that I've been thinking about for a while: what difference is there between a drag queen and an actual woman?"

            Kathryn's mouth hung open for a moment, but quickly shut.   "If he looked like a woman, and wanted to pass for one?"

            "Sure."

            "Well...  Nothing, really.  Practically any behavior you can think of can be copied, and someone really determined to imitate a woman would know how to react like one."

            Columbo pumped his fist in a "right on!" gesture.   "That's what I thought too.   But there IS one thing that women will do that most drag queens will never do.  Watch."  He started the tape again, and the two figures wound their way towards the bathrooms.   The drag queen's image in front approached the bottom of the screen, paused, then went upwards, disappearing into a door.  "See that?"

            "I'm not sure..."

            "The one thing most drag queens won't do: go into a women's bathroom."   Columbo ejected the tape and put it back into the bag.   "Whoever the drag queen was, he instinctively started to go into the women's bathroom, and went into the men's bathroom only after a moment's thought.  Why?"

            Her heart pounding, Kathryn shrugged helplessly.   "Maybe he was transsexual?"

            "But then he'd do the opposite; he'd go into the men's bathroom first, then to the women's.  That's not what this drag queen did at all, and it puzzled me for a while.   Why would a man try to enter a women's bathroom?"   He nodded at her sudden twist of facial expression.   "That's right.  Maybe the man wasn't a man at all."  He leaned back in his seat.  "Have you ever seen the movie Victor/Victoria?"   A silent shake of the head answered him.   "It's really a very funny film; it's one of my wife's favorites.   If she catches it on TV, even if it's in the middle, she'll stop and sit and watch it all the way to the end.   The story is about this lounge singer who can't get anywhere.   She needs a gimmick, to get attention.   You know what she does?  She cuts her hair short, and pretends to be a female impersonator.   You see?  She's a woman pretending to be a man pretending to be a woman.   And THAT is what our killer did.

            "I had a very interesting talk with a real drag queen yesterday.   He, uh, she knows a lot about stuff like makeup and dress, and how to take advantage of people's natural faces, things like that.   One of the things he, er, she pointed out is that while makeup can change and disguise a face quite a bit, which is what Mr. Marshak's killer counted on, in the end, there's not much you can do to hide someone's natural face, or try to make it into something it's not.  You know what Ryan Marshak looks like, don't you?  His face is a little, well, it's flabby, large, loose.   He's gained weight the past few months, so you probably didn't know that.  But the way he looks now, there's no way he could've made his face into the face you see on that videotape."  He tapped the blackened TV screen for emphasis.

            "But you know what?" Columbo continued.  "As I told you before, there's a lot of interesting tools the police have these days; you'd be surprised at the technology we can use.   One of them is a computer program that allows you to change or reconstruct faces.  What I did was took the images from that tape of the drag queen's face, and asked the computer guy to strip away the makeup, change the hair, things like that.   And you know what I found?"   He leaned forward.  "I found that if you gave that drag queen long blonde hair, and cleaned up his face, he looked a lot like you."

            A dead silence followed.  "It sounds like you're accusing me of murder," Kathryn finally said.

            "Yes, Ms. Foster, I'm afraid I am.  You told me yourself that you knew Mr. Marshak better than anyone.  You knew his schedule.  You had access to his office to plant those letters.   You were just a couple of hours away by car.   And you inherited his business, and could sell it to Sir Harry Matthews without interference.  That's means, motive, and opportunity."

            "So you say," Kathryn replied coldly.  "You can't prove that I tried to frame Ryan, that I planted those letters, or even that I was anywhere near where Curt was murdered.   You can't prove any of it."

            "Actually, I can.  I can prove you planted those letters, and I can place you at the nightclub on the night Curt Marshak was murdered."   His hand dipped into the bag again, and brought out a familiar piece of paper.  "You remember this?  The letters that were supposedly sent by Mr. Marshak's brother?"

            "Were sent, Lieutenant, and there's nothing to say otherwise."

            "Oh, but there is.  Remember I told you that no fingerprints were found on them, except my own?"   Kathryn nodded.  "That leaves us with a very interesting question.   Where are Mr. Marshak's prints?"   Columbo returned Kathryn's nod.   "I can see you understand, ma'am.   If Mr. Marshak had read those letters, as you claimed, his prints would be on these letters.   But they aren't.  And Mr. Marshak certainly would not have worn gloves in the office, especially not this time of year.   Yet you told me that you personally saw him read these letters.   How could he have?"

            "Nice try, Lieutenant, but I've helped publish a few mystery novels in my day.  As a policeman, you should know that fingerprints aren't always left on paper."

            "But do you know why they are left?  Because of oil on the skin, usually there when people sweat.  And people sweat a lot in Mr. Marshak's office.   I remember you saying that he liked it very warm, and that there was no air conditioning in his office.   He couldn't have helped sweating.   In fact, I had the fingerprint boys dust every other letter in that drawer we could find.  Sure enough, every single other letter had Mr. Marshak's prints on them, except the ones that threatened his life."   He met her gaze with a penetrating stare.   "Kind of odd, isn't it?  Then there's your coat."

            "My...?"

            "The trench coat you were wearing when we met in Mr. Marshak's office on Sunday.  You were in such a hurry to leave, you forgot it there.   Remember?"

            "Yes, I do."

            "Well, I have a confession to make.  Before I returned it, I examined that coat, very closely.   It was sort of a long shot, but as I said before, you need a little luck to get ahead in investigations like these.   And I had it."  He brought out a small glassine bag.  "You see what's inside?"

            Kathryn squinted.  "Hairs."

            "Not just any hairs.  The lab says they're artificial hairs, like the kind they use in wigs.   I found these stuck on one of the buttons of your coat.   The analysis is still going on, but I'll bet that they're from the wig that was found in Ryan Marshak's apartment, the one that looks an awful lot like the one the drag queen wore."

            "Then your lab will have made a mistake.   All this is nice, but it doesn't sound like much in the way of solid evidence, Lieutenant."

            "Not the type that'll necessarily sway a jury, that's true.   But it is enough to get a search warrant."

            "You won't find anything in my apartment, or in my car.   You said yourself that no one saw it there the night Curt was killed, and as you so ably pointed out, it is rather distinctive."

            Columbo looked surprised.  "Oh, no, not your apartment or car, Ms. Foster.   Your father's car.   You know, the Ford Escort with that nasty word written on the side?  I knew you'd have that fixed as soon as you could, so I called my friends on the San Diego PD, and they tracked you down while you were having lunch.   They followed you to the auto body place you used, and the guys there will testify that the word was once there."

            "So what?  I told you, some teenagers must've written it there while it was parked in my father's parking lot."

            "Well, ma'am, you'd have me there, if all the vandal had done was write that word."

            Kathryn frowned.  "Pardon?"

            "I don't remember if I mentioned this, but we caught a teenager near where the nightclub was.  He'd been vandalizing and breaking into cars.  If your car drew his attention enough to write that word on it, I don't think he would've passed up the opportunity to break into it too."   Columbo leaned back in his comfortable seat.   "I questioned him just this morning by phone, and he remembers breaking into a tan Ford Escort parked not far from the alley where Mr. Marshak was killed.   He didn't find anything worth stealing, so he just carved that word on the passenger door."  He glanced at his watch.   "The police in San Diego probably have the warrant by now.  They'll dust the inside of that car very thoroughly for fingerprints.   I'll bet you that they'll find that young man's prints all over the inside of your car.  I think between that word on the door and those prints, that'll prove pretty well that your father's car was near the crime scene the night Mr. Marshak was killed.  And since your father is an invalid, and your hotel was right next door, and you demonstrated that you had keys to that car, that'll prove YOU were there."

            Kathryn exhaled, a long, slow breath.   She regarded Columbo for a long moment.   "That was a lot of luck on your part, Lieutenant," she finally said.

            "Not really, ma'am.  See, I suspected you from the very beginning."

            "How?  You didn't even know me."

            "But Sir Harry Matthews did."

            "Sir Harry?  What did he have to do with...?"

            "Remember when we first met, I told you that he'd brought me down to San Diego to talk?  I don't think I ever got to tell you what we discussed."

            "No, you didn't," she replied quietly.

            "He'd seen news of Mr. Marshak's death on TV, and asked me to come to see him.  Did you know we'd met before?  I was investigating the disappearance of a woman named Diane Hunter.   She was co-owner of a magazine called Bachelor's World that Sir Harry was considering buying.  She and her partner, Sean Brantley, concocted this publicity stunt; I won't get into it right now, it's a very long story.   But Mr. Brantley ended up murdering Ms. Hunter, because he didn't want her to sell the magazine."

            Columbo paused, rolling a cigar around in his fingers.   "I suppose I shouldn't light this in here, not in a nice car like this.  Anyway, Sir Harry told me that he always knew that Mr. Brantley was dangerous.   He saw this look in his eyes, a dangerous look, a look that told him that Mr. Brantley would do anything to keep his hold on the magazine.  Sir Harry is a very smart businessman, very perceptive; I guess that's how he got to be so powerful."  He regarded Kathryn as if she were an interesting piece of artwork.   "Sir Harry told me he saw that same look in your eyes, Ms. Foster.   He called it 'a stare of raw, unthinking ambition.'   He told me about the informal arrangement you two had, and said that as soon as he heard about Mr. Marshak's death, he knew that you'd killed him."  He sucked on the cold cigar.   "I told him there wasn't anything I could do about it, that I didn't even know you, and that a look certainly wasn't any proof that you committed a crime.  But it did make me pay closer attention to you.  And I found that Sir Harry was absolutely right."

            "Yes."  The voice was barely a whisper.  "Lieutenant Columbo?"

            "Yes?"

            "The procession is about to start.  Do you mind letting me attend the funeral?   You can keep me in your sight the entire time.   Oh, I know how it sounds, murderess attending her own victim's funeral, but...  I liked Curt.  I don't care if you don't believe it, but I did.  He was a good man.  I never wanted to kill him.  I had to, to survive.  But I want to be there...  To apologize, I guess."  Despite herself, she began to laugh.  "I know it doesn't sound sincere, but..."

            "You know what, Ms. Foster?  I believe you."

            "Ms. Foster?"  The limo driver's voice buzzed through the intercom.  "The procession is starting.   Are you ready?"

            "Yes, I am!"  Kathryn turned to Columbo.  "Thank you."

            The lieutenant nodded.  The limo slowly parted from the curb and began its long journey down the street, just one in a line stretching for blocks, Curt Marshak's final trip to the end of his life.