Murder with a Future

An Original Columbo/X-Files Story

By Martin Ross

(Disclaimer: Columbo is not mine, but the property of Universal and the
brilliant creation of Richard Levinson, William Link, and Peter Falk.
Similarly, the X-Files, Dana Scully, Fox Mulder, and all other X-Files
related characters belong not to me, but to Chris Carter, 20th Century
Fox, and 1013 Productions.)

 
6:48 p.m.
Beverly Hills, California

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

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

 Slouched on the crème silk settee on the other side of the room,
Harrison nearly did a spit take with his iced chai tea. "Mean Streets,
brilliant," he whispered almost inaudibly. Laine threw him a fierce
scowl as a sharp black fingernail depressed the mute button. She
regained her Mona Lisa smile and lifted her finger.

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

 "I see a green aura associated with the Scorsese project," Laine said.
 "Wow, OK, then," the actress breathed. "Thanks so much, Lainey -- you
are the bomb, babe!"

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

 "God, man, you've lost me, Lainey."

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

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

 "I see a bad alignment of cosmic forces."

 "Wow. OK, then. Luv ya, Lainey!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 Harrison had indeed done his usual impeccable job, and everything was
in place for Laine's 7:30 p.m. Internet chat at Futura.com.

 Laine had stayed up with the times, and it had paid off. While others were doing tired Tarot readings for bored and superstitious doctors' wives and
addictive gamblers, Laine was developing a business plan and tapping
into the often-addled eccentricities of the Hollywood community. Others
peddled their prognostications to the grocery tabloids; Laine shunned
the scandal sheets and got herself syndicated by a nationwide newspaper
chain.

 Laine Tressault was one of the first in her profession to hit the
infomercial circuit, her book of humorous observations on the world of
the paranormal was twelve weeks on the New York Times trade paperback
list, and she had taken on a strategic handful of police missing persons
cases with reasonable success and the attendant headlines.

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

 Laine settled in before the keyboard, launching the programs she'd need
for the evening's activities. "Rubber baby buggy bumpers," she recited
slowly into her PDA; she looked at the screen, and smiled broadly.
 As she thumbed the remote to her garage, a black overnight of gear on
the seat next to her, Laine Tressault leaned back, took a small metal
object from her pocket, and revisited the images that had set her on
this path. Nothing had changed, she determined as she grimly steered her
convertible into the California sunset.
**
 U.S. Sen. Thom Huykendall's California residence was located in a
remote reach of East L.A., a late-model one-story of mixed Old West,
Spanish, and Japanese influence, shadowed by Ponderosa pines. Laine
could see Huykendall's SUV in the stone driveway, and lights burning
throughout the house.

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

 Collecting the handheld computer and the .38 she'd had purchased the
week before, Laine Tressault set off up the walk, peering at the
illuminated screen. Absorbed in keeping up with the chat, she nearly
tripped over one of a series of fluorescent orange flags flanking the
walking stones.

 "Capital at first comma they were unformed comma disconnected images period. As I got older comma I was able to tune them in and get in touch with what I called the connective tissue that made sense of them period."

 The side patio, surrounded by a spectrum of professionally-tended
wildflowers and honeysuckles, was open -- drapes rustled in the doorway
as the evening breezes picked up. Laine moved quietly to the front door.
"Capital yes," she hastily addressed the headset. The door was locked.
"Damn it," she cursed before she could catch herself. "Period," Laine
added, sighing.

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

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

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

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

 Laine set the computer on a hall table, aimed the .38 toward the silver head and took a breath.

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

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

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

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

 Her heart was pounding as she checked the screen.

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

**
1:30 a.m.
Sen. Thom Huykendall residence

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

 "S'okay, officer," the elder cop yawned again, working his shield out
of his jacket pocket. The patrolman smiled and moved aside. Columbo
focused on the home's rear hallway, where the impatiently patient Sgt.
Kramer was consulting with a slim young man in a dark suit and a small
redheaded woman with a grave expression and an arched eyebrow.

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

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

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

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

"Uh huh."
"Like a Washington senator?"
"The lawmaking kind, not the baseball team, right."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Lt. Columbo, LAPD Homicide," the cop said, pumping Mulder's hand.

"This is a great pleasure -- I always enjoy watching how you federal boys
work. Oh, sorry, ma'am, I mean guys, um, agents. You two with the
Sacramento Bureau office?"

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

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

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

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

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

Columbo nodded, a finger to his lip. "Ye-e-ess. It's curious, though&ldots;"
"What?" Scully probed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Scully fell silent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "Wait," Mulder said. "Button three."

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

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

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

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

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

"Goats," Columbo mulled.

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

"I'm baffled," Scully murmured.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I think a good possibility."

"Yeah, but&ldots;"

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

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

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

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

"No, what?"

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

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

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

8:15 a.m.
Laine Tressault residence

 Amid a scattering of roses and lillies, Laine sipped the special Kona
blend a grateful local coffee entrepreneur/client had regularly supplied
her after she had helped him pinpoint the locations of the next eight
Southern California Starbuck's franchises. She'd had no sleep, of course
-- Laine obviously had never killed a man before, particularly not in
cold blood, even if the reasons in this case had seemed justifiable.

Harrison already was busy with the day's itinerary; his cheery attitude,
no doubt linked to some romantic conquest the night before, had spurred
an irritable response. Laine's assistant merely returned a few catty
remarks about feminine pain relief products and went on his way,
humming.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No thank you," Scully answered for them all as she inspected Laine's
Spanish-style foyer. In the corner of her eye, she saw Mulder retrieve
something from the red tile floor. "So I take it Sen. Huykendall was a
client?"

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

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

Laine peered at the agent, the smile still rigid on her face.
"Otherworldliness is overrated, Fox, is it? I never felt I needed that
in either my private or public lives. I let my record of accuracy and
client satisfaction speak for itself."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"They said 2:30."

"Appointments?"

"You said keep it clear before the taping."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Laine's blood temperature plunged a few degrees.

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

Laine stared at him.

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

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

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

10:05 a.m.
Sen. Thom Huykendall residence

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Thank you," Laine said, proceeding to the murder scene. When she
reached Huykendall's TV room desk, the psychic staggered into a chair.
"My God," Laine breathed. "That was powerful. I saw a man, an older man.
He is cancer, a cancer. Smoke concealing every true thought, every deed
he commits. You know this man, Agent Mulder."

Scully turned abruptly to Mulder, whose eyes were widening.

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

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

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

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

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

"He's a very, very sharp young man, very driven," Columbo concluded.
"This may just be what we need to break this case. Let's just step onto
the patio and finish up&ldots;"

Laine glanced with trepidation at the lushly flowered patio.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

11:45 a.m.
Santa Teresa, California

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

**

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

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

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

"So everything was all peachy -- customers liked Laine, she worked hard,
and didn't complain about hours. But then she started up again. She'd
shampoo somebody, then tell them their husband was screwing around.
Manicure somebody, and beg them to see a cancer doctor. It all came to a
head when she gave the assistant principal at the high school a frost
job and told her she was gonna blow her brains out.

"It was then I told her she oughtta look for a job in L.A., that she and I would be happier and she wouldn't stand out with the other Southern California crazies. Luckily, she'd cleared out a half-year before Yvonne -- the assistant
principal -- put a shotgun in her mouth over some basketball player
she'd been boinking. And, as it turned out, I was right. She found
herself, as the women's libbers say, and now she does parlor tricks on
Oprah and Letterman."

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

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

11:32 a.m.
Parker Center, Los Angeles

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "What wasn't?" Kramer snorted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "Yeah, I do."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

5:42 p.m.
Fox Television Productions

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

 "Hey, almost showtime, huh?" a familiar voice piped up, cheerfully.

Laine glanced bleakly at the makeup mirror; a beaming Lt. Columbo
glanced back from the doorway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "If that will send you packing, gladly."

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

 "Thom's home, I assume."

 "Wanna know where we found it?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The what?" Laine laughed incredulously.

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

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

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

"For what?"

"Your computer, ma'am."

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

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

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

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

"Please, proceed."

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

"Fascinating."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Right there." Laine rose and regarded the cop and the agent with a
bemused expression. "Showtime, fellas. See you in court. I'll listen for
the laughter."

The psychic swept from the room. Columbo looked at Mulder,who shrugged.

"Even I find it a little wacky," the agent confessed.

10:32 p.m.
Laine Tressault residence

 The evening was an almost complete disaster: The idiot with the
mask kept trying to run the show with his World Wrestling
Federation-style dramatics, and the third member of the psychic panel
had placed Craig Stevens on a death list to which the actor already had
been enrolled.

 And the JFK fiasco. Laine Tressault's shot at some real headlines, some real controversy. Who was to know that cigarette-smoking demon in Mulder's head was the guy who did it? Of course, Laine couldn't
risk making that connection on nationwide TV, so she'd added just a
tinge of doubt to the Warren Commission report, and moved on.

 As she turned the corner near her home, the psychic reminded herself to drop an anonymous line to the Washington Post or the FBI once this all settled down. But not to the spooky agent and his girlfriend.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Can I ask?"

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

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

"You couldn't have told me to move the car?"
end

 

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