“I never thought Td be in here,” said Erika.
“You’re going to be with us for a while. You’ll stay in this cell for a few days. There’s some orientation. Interviews to decide just where you belong in here. Medical exams and so on. Then you’ll be assigned to a dormitory and a work detail. You can make phone calls to your family or to your lawyer. You have any questions?”
Erika leaned against the bars and sobbed. “What I want to know is, where the hell is my lawyer?”
3
9:37 A.M.
He was where she might have expected him to be. He was twenty miles out to sea, on his boat Excalibur. Though the rain had stopped, the Pacific was still running rough. On another morning he would not have ventured out into this weather. But he was an experienced boatman and had no fear of the seas Excalibur climbed and plunged over.
Visibility was poor from the small boat. Once, from the top of a wave, he spotted a tanker. It was only after he had climbed two more waves that he was able to determine just how to avoid it. It passed a hundred yards from his altered course, so he’d been in no real danger. But he’d had to alter his course. With whatever goodwill, the tanker could not have changed course fast enough to avoid running him over if he had remained in its path.
He was out far enough and out of sight from everything and everyone. He tossed the Colt automatic overboard. He didn’t even bother to handle it with gloves. They’d never find it in a million years. He couldn’t have found it, even if he’d wanted to. He tossed a box of ammunition after it.
The next toss was more difficult. The Van Gogh was worth more than he and Erika would make from this caper. The morning newspapers were saying it was worth
four million dollars at a minimum. But he could not risk keeping it. It had to be the hottest piece of property in the world, right now. No way could he fence it.
Almost as bad as throwing into the sea a property worth that much money was the sense that he made himself a philistine, destroying a work of art the whole world cherished. But there was nothing for it. His life—and Erika's— depended on it.
He had prepared. It was in a canvas bag, chained to a concrete block. He lifted it, shook his head sadly, and heaved it over the side.
4
NOON.
In bed at 4:00 a.m., up at 10:00, Columbo had eaten a couple of hard-boiled eggs with his coffee as he looked over the morning papers.
BELOVED ACTOR KILLED IN ROBBERY!
TIM WYLIE BELIEVED VICTIM OF ART THIEVES,
BUT TV PERSONALITY ARRESTED, JAILED
After a stop at headquarters, Columbo found himself hungry and tense. It wasn't going to be a short or easy day, so he went by Burt’s for lunch: chili and a game or three of nine-ball.
“Do I know Columbo, or do I know Columbo?”
Uh-oh. Adrienne Boswell. Journalist. Smart, tough, and impossible to avoid. She was playing pool with one of Burt's regulars, though not eating a bowl of Burt's chili.
She knew where to find him. A hundred reporters in LA were looking for him, but Adrienne knew where to look.
There was no getting around it, Columbo had to admit. Adrienne was some kind of woman. She was beating the guy at pool. She even beat him sometimes. Right now she was the center of attention at Burt’s. Her worn and faded blue jeans—genuinely faded—were tight. Her gray UCLA sweatshirt was loose. Her flaming red hair lay around her shoulders. Her green eyes laughed as she grinned at Columbo.
“Hiya, Adrienne. You here lookin’ for me?”
“Oh, no. I came in to play pool.” She lowered her voice and muttered, “And get stared at. Hey, Columbo. If there’s a famous case, you get it. How you manage that?”
For once he took off his raincoat and hung it on a hook. “Gimme my choice, I’d do only the obscure ones.”
She kissed him warmly on the cheek. “A thousand reporters wish they knew where to find you. They gotta learn to play pool. Right?”
“And eat the best chili in LA.”
“I wish I could get Dan to try it,” she said. “It might make a better man of him.”
“Does he need to be a better man?”
Adrienne nudged him with an elbow. “Hey, Columbo. You know I love the guy, even if he doesn’t appreciate real chili. So ask me no questions, I’ll tell you no lies.”
“Ask me questions, I’ll tell you all the lies I can think of. I can’t talk about the Wylie case.”
“Hey. You’ve got Erika Björling in jail. You’ve got a Van Gogh worth four million dollars missing. You can’t just say, ‘No, I’m not gonna talk.’ It’s the most famous case in the country!”
“Figure so?”
“Okay. Background, Columbo. Off the record.” She looked at him from the corner of her eye and lifted her chin. “You don’t really think Erika killed Wylie, do you?”
He picked up a cue. The man who had been playing had eased away. “Some stuff about it’s a little too simple,” he said. “Too easy. I don’t like cases that are too easy.”
“Doesn’t give you a chance to be detective. What would be Erika’s motive?”
“Can’t say right now.”
“I mean, she wouldn’t want to steal the Van Gogh, would she?”
Columbo shrugged. “What’s a thief gonna do with a Van Gogh? He couldn’t sell it. It’s the most notorious stolen art in the world right now.”
“And some Arabs and some Japanese don’t give a damn,” Adrienne said. She racked the balls to start a new game of nine-ball. “Private collectors—”
“Mr. Wylie didn’t seem to give a damn, either. He had other paintings worth millions. Imagine keeping stuff that valuable in a house without an alarm system.”
“Pulling the painting off the wall should have set off an alarm.”
“Well, it didn’t. There wasn’t^ny.”
“Then—Columbo, Tim Wylie was about as big a celebrity as there is in this country. But I never heard he was a collector of priceless art. Maybe he figured he didn’t have to protect it because nobody knew he had it.”
“Somebody knew,” Columbo said dryly.
“Right. And maybe that limits the community of suspects,” said Adrienne. She broke the balls. The three went in, but the cue ball was left behind the six. She shot the cue ball down the table to the rail. It bounced back and hit the one gently, leaving Columbo a shot—but nothing easy. “You could almost say it had to be somebody who’d been in the house before. Well— Not actually. But it’s a departure, isn’t it?”
“You missed your callin’, Adrienne. You shoulda been a cop.”
Burt put two bowls of chili and two Dr. Peppers on the shelf behind the pool table. Columbo opened two cellophane-wrapped packages of crackers and crushed them into his chili. He ate a little before he moved up to the table for a shot on the one-ball.
“You missed yours,” said Adrienne. You should’ve been a gourmet chef.”
“I’m an aficionado of chili. But I like a lot of other good stuff. I like anything that comes out of the ocean.”
“So, okay. What do you have against Erika Björling?”
“Can’t discuss. Ask the DA.”
“Columbo—”
“Uhmm?”
“Do you figure he knew the person who killed him?” Columbo studied the array of balls on the table. “Now, that I can’t say, Ma’am. That I can’t say.”
“The chief of police made a statement this morning. He says the house wasn’t broken into.”
“So Mr. Wylie let somebody in, I guess.” Columbo shot at the one-ball. The shot was too tough, and he didn’t make it.
Adrienne banked the one-ball two rails and sank it. Clear now, she ran the table and won the game. She grinned at Columbo. “Damn. We forgot to bet.”
“Dollar a game,” he said, shoving a dollar bill onto the table.
“Columbo… There’s something wrong with this case, isn’t there? I can’t guess what motive Erika Björling had for wanting Wylie dead, but whatever it was, it’s inconsistent with t
he theft of a priceless work of art. It doesn’t fit together, does it?”
Columbo racked the pool balls. “You figured that out already?”
VII
1
FRIDAY, APRIL 14—2:42 P.M.
As Grant Kellogg walked into Sybil Brand, he was besieged by newspeople.
“Will you be representing Erika Björling?”
“She called me. We're going to talk about it. And that's all I can say at this point.”
“One question, Mr. Kellogg. Do you know Miss Björling?''
“I do. We’ve been friends for years. Now—I may have something more to say after I've talked to her.”
Forty minutes later, when he came out, he did have something more to say. “I spent more than half an hour talking with Miss Björling, and I tell you on her behalf that she is absolutely innocent. She did not murder Tim Wylie, and she has no idea who did, or why. In fact, she is quite confused—as I am, frankly—as to why the police should charge her with this crime when the motive for it is absolutely clear. I hope the police are making every effort to find the missing Van Gogh, which, at last appraisal, is valued at four-point-seven million dollars. Miss Björling has asked me to work with the District Attorney to have this case resolved as quickly as possible. If the case has to go to trial, she is confident, as I am, that she will be acquitted, so we want to get it over with as soon as possible, so she does not have to sit in jail one day longer than necessary.”
“Can you describe her mental state, Mr. Kellogg? Is she upset?”
“Of course, she's upset. She has been accused of a murder she didn't commit. She is in jail, which she has never been before. It's an extremely stressful thing, but I think I can say she is bearing it bravely.”
“Did Erika Björling and Tim Wylie know each other?”
“I'll have something to say about that, maybe, a few days from now.”
“Did you know Tim Wylie?”
“I met him.”
“What will be the basis of the defense?”
“I don’t know yet. It will of course be that she was not near his house last night and could not possibly have killed him. More than that, I can't say.”
2
3:04 P.M.
King’s Court Motel was on Sunset Boulevard. Columbo arrived there shortly after three. He pinched the fire out of his cigar and deposited it in his raincoat pocket.
“Hiya. Your name Logan?”
“I’m Dave Logan,” said the desk clerk. He was a slender young man, probably not more than twenty-five, with narrow eyes and thin white lips. “What can I do for you?”
“Lieutenant Columbo. LAPD Homicide. You called.”
“Oh… yeah, Lieutenant. I sure did. There’s nothing in the papers, nothing on television, but the Wylie murder. The stories are that you arrested Erika Björling. Well— She was here last night. I’m almost sure the woman who was here was Erika Björling. I thought you’d want to know.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Okay. She checked in about seven o’clock, under the name Barbara Collier. Here’s her card. It may have her fingerprints on it. She paid for her room in advance, with cash. A little before nine—say a quarter till—she came down, tossed her key on the desk, and said she was leaving. She said if the guy who was supposed to meet her came in, I should tell him to go to hell.”
“What room did she have?”
“She had 214. For about two hours, or a little less.”
“Was the room cleaned up?”
Logan nodded. “I’m afraid it was. It was vacant, and we could use it, so I told housekeeping to clean it up. In fact, it was taken by other guests about ten.”
'You feel pretty sure it was her?”
“I’ve seen twenty or thirty pictures of her, on television and in the papers. Glamour shots, though. I—”
“Take a look at this,” Columbo said. He handed Logan a mug shot taken last night at Sybil Brand. In that a scowling and deglamorized Erika Björling stared blankly at the camera.
“Oh, yeah! Oh, yeah. That’s her. She had on jeans and a sweatshirt, but that’s the woman who checked in here last night as Barbara Collier. No doubt about it.”
“And left about a quarter to nine?”
“Right. About a quarter till nine. I could be off five minutes or so, but not more.”
“Well, that’s very interesting, Mr. Logan. It could have a big impact on the case. I thank ya.”
3
3:24 P.M.
Columbo noted that it took him eleven minutes to drive from the motel to the Wylie home. He pulled his Peugeot into the driveway and got out to face one of the uniformed officers who were on duty keeping back the crowd that pressed as close as it could to the fence and driveway of the estate.
“Hiya. Don’t think we’ve met. Lieutenant Columbo. Homicide.”
The officer nodded. “We’ve never met formally, Lieutenant, but I’ve seen you around and know who you are.”
“Well, thank ya… uh—” He stared at the officer’s name tag. “Thank ya, Griffin.” He glanced at the crowd. “Enough to make ya sick, isn’t it?”
“Humanity… ,” said Griffin.
Columbo could sympathize with news types; they had a job to do. The morbid didn’t. Some other people with a job to do—hot-dog vendors, vendors of tacky souvenirs of Tim Wylie, hastily made but not cheap, preachers of the awful lesson taught by this death—attracted no sympathy from these two policemen who had seen it all before.
Wherever television cameras went, placards appeared urging people to read John something-or-other. Paparazzi with long lenses prowled the area, looking for the chance to capture some celebrity on film—preferably showing some embarrassing expression or posture or gesture.
Columbo tossed his cigar into the street. “Gotta go in and face the widow,” he said.
“At least you don’t have to tell her the man is dead,” said Griffin.
“Toughest duty that goes with this job.”
Griffin shook his head. “Telling a woman her husband’s dead? Wait till you have to tell a mother her child is dead.”
“Griffin, I’ve been around. I’ve had to do that, too.”
The uniformed officer saluted. Columbo walked toward the house, slapping ash off his raincoat, then pulling on the knot in his tie.
Victoria Glassman answered the door. She was wearing cream-white leggings and a turquoise linen tunic.
“Lieutenant Columbo, Ma’am. LAPD Homicide. We met last night.
“Come in, Lieutenant,” she said quietly.
“I’m sorry to have to bother you, but—”
“We understand. My mother is sitting by the pool.”
It was immediately apparent to Columbo that the woman sitting by the pool was blanked out by something she had swallowed or something her doctor had injected. Her pupils were too big. She stared into the distance. She wore a tailored blue bathrobe.
He disliked making judgments of people, particularly of women; still, it was an essential of his job to be observant, and he observed—Faye had not aged as well as her husband had. Aging was more difficult for women. On men’s faces, wrinkles were called “lines”; on women’s faces, they were called “wrinkles.” When the flesh around men’s jaws slackened, it was said they were developing character. When it happened to women, they were just growing old.
This woman had had her face lifted, maybe more than once, and it was apparent. She’d had her face sandpapered, or whatever it was they did, to make it smooth; and that was altogether too apparent.
“Mother, this is Lieutenant Columbo. He’s the detective in charge of investigating Dad’s death.”
“I can’t tell you how sorry I am to have to be here, Mrs. Wylie. It’d have been better if you’d never had to meet me.” Faye Wylie glanced briefly at Columbo, then resumed her fixed stare. “I want you to find out who did it,” she murmured.
“I’m sure gonna try, Ma’am. All of us are.”
“Do you have any ideas, Lieut
enant?” asked Victoria Glassman.
“I’m afraid not much. We’ve got Miss Björling in jail, but it’s hard to get around the conclusion that Mr. Wylie was attacked by burglars.”
“Why would you want to get around that conclusion?”
“I don’t know. Some way it just seems too easy. And there are some inconsistencies in the case. I’m always bothered by inconsistencies.”
“Like what, Lieutenant?”
“Like that there doesn’t seem to have been a forced entry, as if Mr. Wylie opened the door and let the burglars in. But why would he do that? It’s like he let in somebody he knew.”
“If I follow you, you’re suggesting someone—like maybe Erika Björling—had another motive for killing him and took the painting to make the case look like burglary.”
“Seems possible, Ma’am. That’s one possibility I’ve got to consider.”
A uniformed maid arrived carrying a silver tray. Victoria Glassman poured coffee.
‘I’m sorry to have to ask questions, but I don’t know any other way to find out who killed Mr. Wylie.”
“I can’t think of any way either, Lieutenant,” Victoria said dryly.
“Well… In the first place, was the art insured?”
“Mother?”
Faye shook her head.
“I think the reason is, Dad didn’t want to have the paintings appraised. In the first place, he didn’t want to know how much they were worth. He said it would make him nervous. In the second place, he thought having appraisers and insurance agents see them would cause publicity about them. He supposed the best way to protect them against theft was to have nobody but friends know he had them.”
“When we had the living room painted and the floor refinished, he took them down,” Faye said dully.
“I was expecting to ask an insurance adjuster for this information,” said Columbo, “but since there isn’t going to be one, I have to ask if you have the exact names and maybe dates of the paintings. Also, do you know where he bought them and what he paid for them?”
Columbo: The Game Show Killer Page 5
