“I’ll make a few minutes, uh—”
“You call me ‘ma’am,’ the invite is off,” she said.
“Kim…” he said. “Okay. A nice cool drink. I think a beer would go good right now.”
It was true that in this dark, cool bar no one noticed women in bikinis or men in slingshot swim trunks. The man in the rumpled raincoat drew the stares.
As he drank a cold, foamy beer and she sipped from a daiquiri, Columbo asked Kimberly Dana a question. “Mr. Khoury is reporting the theft of a valuable piece of jewelry. Do you know anything about that?”
“He bought her a Harry Winston choker early in the summer. I suppose it was worth ten or twenty thousand dollars. Wouldn’t be surprised, anyway. I, uh… don’t know whether she demanded it of him or if he bought it for her as some kind of compensation, if you know what I mean.”
“Did you ever see it?”
“No. She never wore it. Actually, I mean, of course she wouldn’t. Not where I would see her. It was the kind of thing a woman would wear to some kind of fancy affair, not to the office, not to the country club. You’d wear it to the Academy Awards, you know—if you got to go.”
“I never saw a piece of jewelry worth that much money,” said Columbo.
“Neither have I, Lieutenant, I promise you. If I had that kind of money, you wouldn’t find me in a bikini, playing volleyball for television cameras.” When they left the little bar they had to stand just outside for a minute or so, letting their eyes adjust to the bright sunlight. They walked back toward the volleyball court.
“My car,” she said, stopping beside her green MG.
“My, that’s a nice car,” said Columbo. “English, isn’t it? I’m very interested in foreign cars. Y’ see, my car’s a French car.”
Kimberly Dana reached into her car and picked up a ribbed-knit white shirt. She pulled it on over her bikini top. Then she stepped into a pair of purple-and-white-striped denim shorts and pulled them up her legs.
“So long, Lieutenant,” she said as she sat down behind the wheel of the MG. “Good luck to you.”
“And to you, Miss Dana. And to you,” said Columbo, reaching up with his left hand to scratch the top of his head as he walked away.
2
Columbo had one more call to make that afternoon. He went back to headquarters and stopped in at the office of Sergeant Fred Beers.
“Hi-ya, Fred. You got that tape for me?”
“I got it,” said Beers. “Wanta hear it?”
“Yeah, if it’s not too much trouble.”
Sergeant Beers was in charge of the 911 system— that is, in charge of the service that received emergency calls. All 911 calls were taped.
“Wednesday, August 6, 12:36 a.m.,” he said as he put the reel of tape on a player and rolled it forward. He pressed the play button.
* * *
Police emergency.
I work a party, Mulholland Drive. Just leave. Go past Khoury house. Yussef Khoury house.
Something wrong there. Strange peoples there. Running around house. Not kind peoples Khourys invite their house.
What’s your name, ma’am? And where are you calling from?
Call from phone boot’. No name. Don’t want get mixed up.
* * *
“Spanish accent,” said Columbo.
“Sounds like it,” said Beers.
“But maybe not,” said Columbo. “Could ya—”
“I’m ahead of you, Lieutenant. Here’s two tape cartridges. I had the call copied. There’s a little other garbage on there, enough to give you a lead-in.”
“I thank ya, Fred. I thank ya kindly.”
Seventeen
1
It would have been inappropriate—un-Khouryish, Yussef thought—to hold the reception after the funeral in the house where Arlene had been murdered, found dead indeed in bed with her paramour. To hold it in a hotel would have been unseemly too, as if the occasion were some sort of celebration. Finally, he settled on the store. It was closed for the weekend, in memory of Arlene, and he arranged for a caterer to serve food and wine in the art department toward the rear of the first floor. Limousines brought family and friends from the cemetery to Khoury’s, and there in the first floor, among reproductions of statues and paintings, the mourners gathered to nibble and sip and talk about Arlene Khoury and her tragic, untimely death.
. Though he was always reluctant to do it and never failed to feel he was intruding, Columbo had attended the funeral service and had gone to the cemetery. More than once he had observed something in the interactions among mourners that suggested a line of inquiry. Once, a murderer had shown up at a funeral and was quietly arrested outside. He had told Columbo he absolutely had to see the corpse, to make sure the man was really dead and that he, the murderer, was not going to be the victim of some complicated deception.
Columbo had not intended to go to the reception, but the producer Antonio Vado had spotted him standing at the rear of the crowd and pushed his way through to him to insist that the lieutenant come to the reception.
For once, Columbo had left his raincoat in the car. Even without it, he was self-conscious in his wrinkled gray suit—in the midst of impeccably tumed-out people in expensive clothes.
Yussef Khoury had shaken his hand and solemnly thanked him for coming.
“My deepest sympathy, sir,” was all Columbo had said.
Eleanor Russell, Khoury’s tall, handsome, darkhaired secretary, had attached herself to Lieutenant Columbo, maybe because she sensed he was ill at ease but maybe because someone had suggested she do it. She and Mrs. Nagako Takeshi, the Khoury housekeeper, both dressed in mourning black, seemed to be the only two people genuinely affected by the death of Arlene Khoury. Even the Khoury children—a grown man and woman with their spouses—kept apart in a little cluster, talking quietly to each other and not much to anyone else, and showed no particular sign of distress.
Adam Brinsley, the accountant, was also there.
“That is Mrs. Khoury’s sister,” said Eleanor Russell, noticing that Columbo’s eyes were on a stocky little woman, dressed in black, her hair wrapped in a white scarf. “She speaks only a little English, but she read the papers and knows what the situation was when Mrs. Khoury was killed. She’s very judgmental about it.”
“I haven’t seen Miss Dana,” said Columbo.
Eleanor Russell smiled weakly. “Mr. Khoury has a strong sense of propriety,” she said.
Antonio Vado approached, leading by the hand a tall, strikingly beautiful woman. “Lieutenant,” he said. “I bet you haven’t met Fairleigh Richmond.”
“No, I sure haven’t. But I’m glad to. I’ve seen some of your pictures, Miss Richmond.”
“Buongiorno, Tenente,” she said.
“Sono molto lieto di fare la sua conoscenza,” said Columbo.
"Ah! Columbo! Noi siamo Italiani! Io sono Anna Maria Tavernelle. Capisce?”
"Capisco. Un piu grazioso nome.”
“Hey, you guys!” Vado interrupted with a grin. “It’s not polite to talk so Miss Russell can’t understand.”
The actress smiled at Eleanor Russell. “Forgeeffa you me,” she said. “I canna no speak… very good.”
“Your English is better than my Italian,” said Eleanor Russell smoothly.
“Ah… Iss eassy learn my language. You try. Learn very fast. Eassy language. Very nice.”
Broad smiles, even quiet laughter, came so easily to them that after a moment they fell silent, concerned that smiles and laughter were not quite suitable for the reception following a funeral.
“Over there is someone else you should meet, Lieutenant Columbo,” said Antonio Vado. “Let me introduce you.”
Columbo took his leave from the Italian actress and Khoury’s secretary and accompanied Vado across the store. “Ben! Let me introduce Lieutenant Columbo of the Los Angeles Police Department. Lieutenant, this is Benjamin Willsberger. He was the director of Lingering Melody, you’ll recall.”
“I
sure do,” said Columbo. “I saw a tape of Lingering Melody just two nights ago. I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Willsberger.”
“Ben,” said the diminutive man. He was small, gray but nearly bald and wore glasses deeply tinted a brownish-red tone. He wore a black double- breasted suit. “You are investigating the death of Arlene Khoury.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I would like to talk to you sometime.”
“I would like to talk with you, sir. When would that be convenient?”
“Say Monday morning,” said Willsberger. “I’m shooting a picture on one of the Culver sound-stages. There are lots of breaks. I’ll have plenty of time to talk to you. I’d leave a pass for you at the gate, but I suppose that won’t be necessary, you being a police lieutenant.”
“No, sir. No, it won’t. I’ll be looking forward to it. I’ll be there as early as I can.”
2
Arlene’s sister, whom Yussef had met only once before, had arrived from Beirut. A devout Muslim, she did not take wine, and using only her face and not a word she made Yussef understand she did not approve of his drinking it either.
It would have done no good to remind her that he and Arlene had long since abandoned the faith and lived like Americans. So far as the sister was concerned, the world was divided between the believers and the unbelievers, and she knew where she stood.
“In our village, my sister would have been stoned,” she said to Yussef.
“How fortunate she did not live in your village,” said Yussef coldly.
He had expected the reception to be an ordeal, even more than the funeral and the ceremony at the grave: an impossible mixture of forced cordiality and artificial solemnity. And it was. The situation was irremediable—a wife not just dead but murdered, and scandalously murdered in bed with another man. Their son and daughter were of the new generation of renewed morality, did not accept their parents’ lifestyles, and tended to regard their mother’s death the way her sister regarded it: as the inevitable consequence of living an immoral and frivolous life. He was the subject of genuine compassion here today, but it did not come from his son or daughter.
He endured it all as long as he could, then slipped away. He had come here in a funeral limousine, so the gull-wing Mercedes was not in the lot. They would suppose the strain had become too much and that he had sneaked out and gone home—maybe home, maybe to a hotel. Those in the know might guess he had gone to Kim’s apartment.
In fact, where he went was up to his office. She was there, waiting for him.
She was wearing a pair of shimmery gold nylon stirrup leggings, so tight they might have been painted on, with a sleeveless black cotton-knit top. If she hadn’t been smoking and didn’t stink of it, she would have been perfect.
“You like?” she asked, parading sensuously around the office to give him the best view of herself and her outfit. “I picked it up out of the shop. It seemed to me that, after what you’ve gone through this morning, you ought to have something happier to look at. Of course—If you want me to go downstairs and see people, I have a black dress in the closet.”
He seized her and kissed her ardently. “I want to sleep in your apartment tonight,” he whispered. “That damned detective—”
“It won’t make him any more suspicious,” she said. “I’ve already told him I love you… and that you love me.”
“Damned reporters might—”
“Then Piscina Linda again,” she said. “Columbo knows we go there. The news guys don’t.”
“We can have dinner brought up,” he said. “Go in your car.”
“Sooner or later we have to go public,” said Kimberly.
“Yes, of course. And we will. But not on the night after the funeral.”
“Have you filed the insurance claim?”
“I told Brinsley to do it.”
Kimberly sat down on the couch beside Khoury. “Baby…” she whispered. “Is there anything more we can do to protect ourselves? It would have to be something more to strengthen the case against Cathy, I suppose. But…”
“Are you worried?” Khoury asked.
“Aren’t you? The news people are saying the Manson gang killed Arlene and Steve, but the police haven’t said so yet. Obviously, Columbo doesn’t buy it. Even the arrest of this other girl, who worked at your house, hasn’t settled the matter for Columbo. I tell you, Joe, he’s after us! That sneaky son of a bitch is after us.”
Khoury sighed. “Sooner or later, I have to go back downstairs. Look, uh… You go on to Piscina Linda tonight. Be there about eight. I’ll call right now and reserve our suite. I’ll get there some way. Maybe in a cab.”
“’Kay,” she sighed. “I’ll be there. I need you, Joe.”
“I need you, Kim.”
3
When Columbo left Khoury’s store, he found a man waiting beside his car in the parking lot.
“Lieutenant Columbo,” he said, extending his hand. “Remember me? Earl Schob.”
Columbo did indeed remember Schob, whose name was pronounced “Schobe.” He was one of the most successful criminal lawyers in Los Angeles. A pudgy man who seemed always to be growing out of his suits, he smoked a pipe, which he now knocked on the heel of his shoe, nimbly holding his left foot up against his right leg.
“I have a new client, Lieutenant. Thought I’d check with you. Melissa Mead. I’m afraid she’s better known as Boobs. You can see why.”
Columbo nodded. “Gotta match?” he asked.
Schob lit Columbo’s cigar with the stream of almost invisible blue flame from his pipe lighter. “Her father has retained me to get Melissa out of jail. You’re holding her on a charge of possession of marijuana. Right? But you suspect she’s some way mixed up in the Khoury murders. Right?”
“It’s a possibility,” said Columbo noncommittally.
“I’m gonna apply for bail on the marijuana charge. Monday morning. You gonna charge her with murder, or being an accessory to murder? You gonna oppose my bail application?”
“That’s not up to me,” said Columbo. “Up to the DA.”
“Who tosses it back at you,” said Schob. “I already asked him. His answer is, it depends on what Columbo wants to do.”
“I’ve got no reason to charge Miss Mead with being an accessory to murder. Is that what you wanted to hear?”
Schob nodded. “Then I can get her out. Her parents will be here Monday. They’re gonna take her home.”
“I doubt if she’ll go,” said Columbo, puffing on his cigar and getting into his car. “Anyway, I’d appreciate it if they didn’t. I may need her as a witness. I don’t want to ask to have her held as a material witness.”
4
Mrs. Columbo’s bowling team competed for a league championship on Saturday night. Columbo promised her they would go to the beach on Sunday afternoon—after he went over to Sybil Brand Institute and interviewed Boobs again, before Schob got her bailed out Monday morning.
The young woman was brought to an interview cubicle. She wore the gray uniform dress, which draped awkwardly over the ample figure that gave her her nickname. She was of course bare-legged, but for reasons of her own she had kicked off the canvas-and-rubber shoes that were issued to prisoners and was barefoot too.
“Y’ gotta understand what kind of guy I am,” he said to Boobs-Melissa Mead. “Sometimes I can’t get to sleep. Little things keep cornin’ to mind, and I can’t get rid of ’em.”
“Try checking into a nice hotel, like Sybil Brand,” she sneered. “It’s real quiet here at night. Oh, real quiet, and you can sleep like a baby.”
“You won’t be here tomorrow night,” he said.
She shrugged. “So I hear. You don’t happen to have any cigarettes with you, do you?”
“Sorry. I only smoke cigars. Anyway—” He pointed at the no smoking sign stenciled on the wall of the interview cubicle.
“Rules, rules, rules. They say they’re going to put me in lock because I won’t wear their damned stinky shoes.”
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“Look, uh, Miss Mead… I gotta couple of questions I want to ask you.”
“The little things that are keeping you awake at night?”
“Right. If you—”
“Why should I help you make a case against Puss?” she asked defiantly.
“Maybe you’d like to help me make a case that would help Puss,” said Columbo.
“Help her? I just bet!”
“Lemme ask you what I wanta ask you. You figure whether it will help or hurt. I can’t make you answer.”
“No rubber hose, Lieutenant?”
“No rubber hose. First question: Isn’t it an odd coincidence that the cops should come to the house on Pitillo Road just when you and Squatty were there? You weren’t there when Puss and Kid and Bum were picked up for murder. There were no cops there Wednesday night. But you go to the house Thursday night, and bang, you got a black-and-white. Not only that, you got Detective Jackson, who’s working on the Khoury murders. He IDs you, and Friday morning he collars you.”
“What you trying to say?” she asked, tipping her head to one side and frowning.
“Maybe somebody set you up,” said Columbo.
“Shee! You got a wild imagination. Why would anybody want to set me up? And for what?”
“How’d you come to be on Pitillo Road that night?” Columbo asked bluntly.
Boobs hesitated for a moment, then said, “Squatty got a phone call from Kid. Thursday. Said she was calling from here, from the slammer. Said we should go out to—Well… That’s why we were there. And you’re right. We’d hardly got there when the cops came down on us.”
“How come you took a job at the Khoury mansion?” Columbo asked. “You’re not the housemaid type.”
She sighed. “I needed some bread quick. Real quick. I owed somebody. Puss said she’d ask Mr. Khoury if I could work some way at the store, like in the stockroom or something. Next thing I know, I’m wearing a black dress and a white apron, and I’m a maid in his house. I ran the vacuum cleaner and dusted and polished furniture and washed dishes: all that kinda shit. But I tell you something for sure. I didn’t steal. I didn’t plan on staying long, but I didn’t steal anything from that house!”
Columbo: The Helter Skelter Murders Page 15