Columbo: The Game Show Killer Read online

  Copyright © 1996 by MCA Publishing Rights, a Division of MCA, Inc.

  COLUMBO: THE GAME SHOW KILLER A novel by William Harrington Based on the Universal Television series COLUMBO Created by Richard Levinson & William Link

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

  This book is printed on acid-free paper.

  A Forge Book

  Published by Tom Doherty Associates, Inc 175 Fifth Avenue New York, NY 10010

  Forge® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, Inc.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Harrington, William

  Columbo : the game show killer by William Harrington.— 1st ed.

  p. cm.

  “A Tom Doherty Associates book.”

  ISBN 0-312-86178-8 (acid-free paper)

  1. Columbo, Lieutenant (Fictitious character)—Fiction.

  2. Television personalities—California—Los Angeles— Fiction. 3. Police—California—Los Angeles—Fiction.

  4. Los Angeles (Calif.)—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3558.A63C63 199695-53097

  813'.54—dc20CIP

  First Edition: August 1996

  Printed in the United States of America

  0987654321

  Note to Reader

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters

  and events portrayed in this novel are

  fictitious or are used fictitiously.

  I affectionately dedicate this book to my sister Jane,

  her husband, Tom,

  and their children and grandchildren.

  “Well, Sir, we do like to find

  out who kills people and why.”

  I

  1

  TUESDAY, APRIL 4—7:58 A.M.

  The stools in the dimly lit bar of the Pacific Club were upholstered in tan leather. They had arms and thickly padded seats. When Grant Kellogg lifted himself onto one of them just before eight o’clock he was emotionally drained and physically exhausted. He was acutely conscious of his fatigue. He told himself he could not remember a time when he had been so tired.

  “Congratulations, Mr. Kellogg.”

  Emily, the petite topless barmaid, put in front of him a Beefeater martini on the rocks with a twist. She didn’t have to be told that was what he wanted.

  The sight of the girl was enough to lift a man’s spirits. She was delicately, youthfully beautiful, with dark-brown hair neatly brushed back, and with an innocent, open face dominated by wide blue eyes. It was a strict rule of the club that a girl who worked there would be fired if she accepted any sort of proposition from a member—and that he would lose his membership. It had happened. It was the only reason he did not offer her a thousand dollars. Well… five hundred.

  “There’s been nothing but you on television all evening,” she said.

  He nodded. “Price and I,” he sighed.

  “I knew he wasn’t guilty. I just knew he wasn’t. And when he got you to defend him— Well, the poor DA never had a chance, did he?”

  “I wouldn’t say that, Emily. I was never sure we’d get Price off. When that jury came back—” He shook his head. “You can’t imagine the tension.”

  “I can imagine. I was watching. And, hey, when I said to some friends of mine that I’d probably be serving drinks to Grant Kellogg tonight— Hey! Anyway, congratulations, Mr. Kellogg.”

  “Thank you. You’re very kind—besides being a lovely girl.”

  It was said that Grant Kellogg’s appearance, presence, and manner were major elements of his success as a trial lawyer. He was a big man with broad shoulders. His hair had turned white before he was thirty-five, but it had never thinned. His complexion "was ruddy—the result maybe of his consumption of thousands of bottles of Beefeater gin. His eyes, peering out from narrow slits, were pale blue and focused in a hypnotic stare. He wore perfectly tailored suits with white shirts and striped ties. He favored French cuffs and heavy gold cuff links.

  Lawyers who thought his success was dependent on his rhetorical flamboyance in the courtroom were the lawyers he most often overpowered. The truth was that Grant Kellogg was a hardworking lawyer who came into the courtroom thoroughly prepared to try his cases. He came prepared with meticulously researched law and with total mastery of the facts. Besides having an almost photographic memory, he came to court with a laptop computer, which one of his associates used to check law and facts as the trial progressed.

  Jim Price was a film producer, a handsome man, a notorious womanizer, a gossip-column-and-tabloid celebrity, and a Hollywood iconoclast. More than a few in the community had been amused and pleased when he was charged with the murder of his wife. The whole nation had been obsessively fascinated with every detail of his case. Acquitted at four this afternoon, he would be in bed with Bonnie by now, laboring to make up for eleven months in jail. He had signed a contract to produce a book about his experience. It would be a tissue of lies. It had better be. Whatever he wrote—or had written for him—he’d make a fortune from it.

  Emily had served a man and woman down the bar, and now she returned. “If I ever get accused of anything…,” she said with a wide smile.

  “Don’t ever get accused of anything, Emily. But if you do, I’ll defend you.”

  “I couldn’t afford you, Mr. Kellogg.”

  “Gratis.”

  “Would you, really?”

  “Of course.”

  “Another martini?”

  He nodded. He hadn’t finished the first one, but he knew he’d want another. And maybe a third. Then he’d go downstairs for dinner.

  “Hello, Grant!”

  Now he knew he’d want a third drink. If there was anyone he didn’t need to see, it was Chalmers Willoughby.

  “Congratulations, Grant. Another brilliant performance.”

  “Thank you. Pull up a stool.” There was no point in not welcoming Chalmers; he was going to sit down anyway. “I think I lost ten pounds trying that case. Do my clothes look funny?”

  ieYour clothes never look funny. You always have about you that certain je ne sais quoi. Style, I guess it’s called.”

  “I try.”

  “Black Label, Mr. Willoughby?”

  Willoughby nodded at Emily. “On the rocks. You’re looking beautiful, as usual.”

  “Thank you.”

  No matter if he tried or didn’t, and no matter how hard he tried, Chalmers Willoughby could not appeal to a girl like Emily or put her at ease. In her case, he stared too hard. With other women, he spoke with too much intense sincerity and said clumsy things. He was dull. He had no elan. Fifty years old, with thinning black hair but big bushy eyebrows, he was not an unattractive man, but his want of grace put him in distinct contrast to Grant Kellogg.

  Emily put his drink in front of Willoughby, then moved down the bar to allow the two men'to talk privately. Willoughby watched her. His appraising eyes chilled her.

  “I suppose she wants to get into show business,” he said to Grant.

  “Don’t they all? I’d say she’s already in show business.”

  “Yes. She surely is. Well… congratulations again.”

  Willoughby stared at his drink for a moment, then stared at Emily again, and finally looked at Grant. “I don’t suppose this is the best time or place to mention it, but sometime we’re going to have to talk about your notes.”

  “I have no doubt,” Grant said dryly.

  “I think you’ll agree that the bank has not been demanding.”

  “No. The bank has been very fair.”

  “You must have gotten a tremendous fee from Price!”

  “Do you want to know?
You're my banker; you're entitled to know. He has paid me a million dollars.”

  “My god, then—”

  Grant nodded. “ ‘My god' is right. I’d be glad to have you go through my books and see where that money went. To start with, I paid Duke $4,000 a day to sit with me as cocounsel at trial—also to spend his evenings with me, going over the testimony and all the rulings, which is not an unreasonable amount for a lawyer who can make $400 an hour with no trouble. And he was worth it. We were in trial for fifty-eight days, which cost me $232,000. Besides that, he billed me for eight days of trial preparation—another $32,000. Lila, my young associate, gets $85,000 a year, and her time was wholly devoted to the case for eight months. There's $56,000.I had to hire a law student to do research and write memoranda of law for me. She cost me $12,000. I had the court reporter delivering tapes to us at the end of every day of trial, which tapes we put in computer memory so we could review testimony. For fifty-eight days, that process cost me something like $40,000. LEXIS and NEXIS computer research is invaluable, but not cheap. I paid artists to make charts, messengers to run documents back and forth, and so on. I had more than $382,000 in expenses.”

  “Grant—”

  “I had to guarantee the fees and travel expenses of the expert witnesses, eleven of them. Price is supposed to pay those fees and expenses, but he hasn't been able to so far, so I'm out more than $150,000 that I may or may not get from him. Besides that, he is supposed to pay for the jury- research outfit we used. That's $30,000 more that I won't get until he gets his book out.”

  “Grant—”

  “To keep my office, just to have my office: building space, secretaries, phones, equipment, insurance, and all the rest— Say, $28,000 a month, minimum. I had the Price case for eleven months, and it averages out that eight months were exclusively devoted to his defense. That makes $224,000 office costs.”

  “Grant—”

  “Attributable to the Price defense: about $786,000. The million doesn’t look like so much now, does it?

  Grant—”

  “I gave eight months of my professional time to the case. So I’ve got, say, a little more than $214,000 left for eight months of my professional life. Out of which I’ve got to pay income taxes. So I’m a fuckin’ millionaire?”

  Emily detected a break in the conversation and approached to ask if either man wanted another drink. Both agreed to another round.

  Willoughby shook his head. “What you’re telling me is that Price paid you a million dollars to defend him, which is going to leave you not very well fixed, but he’s going to sell his story for so much that he'll wind up very well fixed.” Grant tossed back the last of his second martini. “You’ve got it. He killed his wife and—”

  “Grant!”

  “He did. We may as well say it. He’s been acquitted and can’t be tried again. He killed his wife, and he’s going to make more money from the story than he could have made producing films during the months he was in jail. I mean, god almighty, nothing sells better than an accused and acquitted celebrity. Besides the book he’s gonna do, he’ll be appearing on television—not just tabloid TV, but on supposedly respectable news shows—and… Christ! I sometimes think I should kill somebody myself. There’s no better way to make really big money. Of course, I’m not a celebrity in the way Price is. Damn it!”

  “Why don't you write a book on the Price trial?”

  “I'd like to, but Price and his publisher and ghostwriter went to work on it five months ago. You know what? I was approached. But, damn it, Chalmers, you can't prepare and try a case and write a book about it at the same time! Do you have any idea how many witnesses and potential witnesses I had to interview? How many motions I had to prepare and argue? How many preliminary hearings I had to attend? Christ, man! I put in twelve- and fourteen-hour days on the Price defense, before we went to trial—sixteen- hour days when we were in trial. Even if I'd had a ghost, I didn’t have time to put my thoughts together and give the guy something to work on.”

  “I think I understand.”

  “I think you do. Most people think handling big criminal cases is glamorous and lucrative.” Grant paused and sighed noisily. “Try it, my friend.” He shook his head. “It's a trap. I wish I could get out of it and work on accident cases, property cases, and so on. I can't. Before the week is over, somebody with more money than good sense will commit some awful crime and offer me what looks like big money to defend.”

  Chalmers Willoughby sipped Scotch and nodded sympathetically. “I will welcome the opportunity to do anything I can to help you, Grant. But… We must sometime begin working out a payment plan to retire your notes.”

  “I am well aware of that.”

  2

  9:02 P.M.

  He knew his limit. A fourth martini was all right. A fifth would be one too many. Chalmers Willoughby left, and Emily came over to chat.

  “I’d like to become a lawyer,” she said. “I’d really like that.”

  “Why don’t you?”

  She smiled wistfully. “Well, I’m twenty-three, and I’ve only got two years of college. Y’ know, I go to USC. I’d have to finish my degree and then go to law school.” She shook her head. “I don’t think I could afford it.”

  “You must make pretty good money here.”

  She nodded. “That’s why I do it. Even so, I don’t think I could afford law school. I’d have to quit this job.”

  “Why?”

  “Well… Wouldn’t I?”

  “I don’t see why. You can go to school in the daytime and work here at night.”

  “Would you take me into your office as an associate?” He grinned. “You get admitted to the California Bar, you’ve got a job.”

  Emily laughed happily. “Oh,” she said. “Here’s Miss Björling. Your usual, Miss Björling?”

  Erika Björling climbed onto the bar stool beside Grant. She was a stunning woman who captured the attention of any room she entered. Everyone recognized her. For nineteen years she had appeared on prime-time television every evening as second banana of the game show Try It Once. Hired originally as a model to pull curtains and show off prizes, she had graduated to a more important role: the game-show squealer. Her chief function had been to generate enthusiasm by jumping up and down and squealing in mock delight when a contestant won a prize. Also, she had been straight woman to the host, though occasionally the writers fed her a comic line or two. She had exactly what her role required: a spectacular figure and the blandly gorgeous face of the stereotypical California blond. These assets had not sold well since Try It Once was canceled two years ago, and she was unemployed and unhappy.

  “Congratulations,” she said to Grant. “Another triumph.”

  “Right. Another triumph. For all it’s worth.”

  He could speak to Erika with complete candor. A good many years ago, they had been lovers for a few months, and they had been friends ever since. The tabloids had given their affair only a little attention: a paragraph or two on inside pages. She had been a conspicuous celebrity. He had not been—not then—and a liaison between the glamorous game-show squealer and a coming young lawyer was no big scandal. Tabloid rumors had linked her to such figures as Cary Grant and William Holden. These rumors, unsubstantiated by any facts their reporters ever did discover, had been sensationalized in gushing front-page headlines, while her real affairs were downplayed or entirely missed. The tabloids had failed to discover even a rumor of her most significant affair, with superstar Tim Wylie.

  Anyway, Grant and Erika knew each other’s secrets and concealed nothing much from each other.

  “Don’t play world-weary cynic, Grant. You know you glory in the acquittal you just won. You also know the son of a bitch would likely be on his way to San Quentin if not for you.”

  Emily put his fourth martini in front of Grant and a double shot of Jack Daniel’s Black Label in front of Erika.

  “I missed your show,” he said.

  “Don’t make sick jokes. I do
n’t want you to watch me— don’t want anybody to watch me—sitting there with other has-beens, trying to solve dumb riddles. I don’t want to know the kind of people who watch celebrity panel shows.”

  “You didn’t want to know the kind of people who watched Try It Once/’

  “I’m going to do another dinner-theater play next month. I wouldn’t mind if you came to see me in that. It will run all of two weeks, so you’ll have to amend your schedule to make it.”

  He knew the story. Since Try It Once was cancelled, Erika had appeared a total of four times as a guest on sitcoms, had played dumb-blond roles in half a dozen dinner-theater productions, and was seen regularly only in commercials for local businesses, running only on Los Angeles stations. You could still see her now and then around LA, but in New York she* was history. She was still a striking woman, but she was in her forties and had lost the novelty and freshness she had brought to the early episodes of Try It Once. Her gulps of Tennessee sour mash had become doubles, and she drank more of them.

  “Had a couple of offers,” she said.

  “Yeah?”

  “Uhm-hmm. One was to appear at the opening of a boutique on Rodeo Drive. All I would have had to do was walk around. They had a dress for me. Shall I call it a micromini?”

  “And you said no. Good for you.”

  Erika nodded toward Emily. “I also had an offer to work like that—bare-titted—at Farley’s. Pretty damned good money, too.”

  “And you said no.”

  “Curtly. I haven’t come to that. Maybe I will. Jesús, Grant! I made the cover of People magazine!”

  He put his hand on hers. “You’ll make it again, Erika.”

  She tossed back her drink. “Like hell.”

  II

  1

  FRIDAY, APRIL 7—8:21 P.M.

  Grant and Erika met again in the club bar. She was there a few minutes before him, and Emily had poured her a double shot of Jack Daniel’s Black Label. She’d drunk half of it when he arrived. She was wearing a black minidress trimmed with gold that did not just show her legs but displayed her chest from nipple to nipple. (One envious woman had said, “God, she’ll catch pneumonia!”) “One drink here,” he said. “Then to dinner. I’ve got something to tell you.”