Columbo: The Hoffa Connection Read online

  “Of course I resent her. But you should understand how much the money soothes my hurt feelings.” Christie tipped her glass and finished her Scotch. “You know, she really flashed it tonight. She wasn’t wearing the little black patch under her panties.”

  Bob shrugged. “She could appear starkers and get away with it,” he said. “The place was swarming with cops. If they’d wanted to raise hell about her, they could have done it.” He grinned. “They enjoyed it just as much as anybody.”

  Regina climbed out of the pool again, where Joshua and Barbara Gwynne were standing. Johnny did not appear with her robe, but she didn’t care. She accepted a cigarette from Barbara and a light from Joshua.

  The Gwynnes were owners of Joshua Records, the company that recorded and sold discs of Regina performances. In their fifties, they were probably the oldest people at the party. Joshua was a nondescript, balding man who kept his remaining hair dark with Grecian Formula. Barbara was a polished, elegant woman— made so by the careful attentions of cosmeticians and coiffeurs.

  “Couple of good tracks in the new show,” Joshua said.

  Regina nodded. “Hey, is that a nice fresh martini you’ve got there? Would you mind letting me drink that one?”

  “Gonna cut those tracks with us?” Barbara asked as her husband handed the star his drink.

  Regina smiled and slapped Barbara’s arm. “Sure,” she said airily. She shrugged. “I’m not sure how well that new sound of Bob’s will play on discs, are you? I guess that’s a problem for Joshua Records, huh?” She turned. “Hey, Johnny. Thought you’d never catch up with me.” She reached for the white terry robe.

  “It isn’t easy,” said Johnny.

  Regina laughed. She took Johnny by the arm and walked off. Over her shoulder, she said, “Hey, thanks for the drink.” Then she spoke to Johnny, but the Gwynnes could hear it—“Hell, I’m thanking Josh for my own gin!”

  “Whatta you wanta bet he’s something more than a houseboy?” Barbara said to Joshua.

  “Never mind,” Joshua said grimly. “What I’d like to know is if she really means she’ll cut those new tracks with us.”

  “You can’t trust her. You know that.”

  “I will never understand what the public sees in her,” said Joshua quietly. “She can’t sing. She can’t dance. She’s a no-talent vulgar whore.”

  “And how many millions of discs have we sold?” asked Barbara. “Look at this crowd. How many people are here who don’t live off her? No talent? She’s possessed of a hell of a talent: the greatest talent for self-promotion that either of us has ever seen. And something else. Name me somebody with a greater talent for manipulating people. What Regina wants, Regina gets— from everybody.”

  “Yeah. Poor Maude Ahem—”

  “Are you kidding? ‘Poor’ Maude? She got a million-dollar advance for an ‘authorized’ biography of Regina.”

  “If it’s ‘authorized,’ it will conceal every goddamn fact about her.” Barbara shrugged. “Hell, what are the facts? What do we know about her? Even you and me? What do we know?”

  “We know her real name,” said Joshua. “Regina Celestiele Savona.”

  3

  “Who’s staying? Who’s staying?” Regina mumbled. “ ’S after mi’night, and I want—”

  Johnny put an arm around her waist. “Easy, babe, easy,” he said. “Nobody if you don’t want ’em.” Regina was unsteady. She had a glass of gin in hand and continued to sip, but she staggered.

  Johnny wore the white shirt and black bow tie of a houseboy. A well-put-together young man, the features of his face were so fine as to give him a charm verging on the effeminate. His brown eyes could have been the eyes of a pretty girl, but the bulge in the crotch of his tight black pants dissipated any suspicion he was anything but male.

  “Who wants to stay?” Regina asked.

  “Well—Mickey does. He’s a little… you know. Couldn’t find his way home.”

  “Shit. Never could.”

  “The Gwynnes asked if they could. They’re in no shape to drive. Same thing with Bob and Christie. I told them it would be okay, and Christie crawled up the stairs.”

  “My bes’ frien’s, huh? Gonna stay for breakfas’. Tell ’em I want them to come for a swim with me, ’fore they check out.”

  “I’m afraid they’ve checked out already, babe,” said Johnny. “The Gwynnes might, but—”

  “Chickenshit. Can’t hold their liquor. That’s ’cause they’re Americans. No Americans can… drink.”

  “True.”

  “Johnny… Light me a cigarette. I’m gonna sit here and look at my swimmin’ pool. Get me some more gin.”

  She threw off the white terry robe and sat on a wheeled wood-and-vinyl chaise longue, smoking and staring at her pool. The estate was suddenly silent—suddenly for her; she hadn’t noticed the departure of her guests, few of which had sought her out to thank her for her hospitality.

  Johnny came back from the poolside bar, carrying a water glass full of gin.

  “Siddown,” she said to him.

  He pulled up a chair and sat beside her.

  She swallowed gin. “Who could figure a li’l girl named Regina Celestiele Savona would ever live in a place like this an’ have her own swimming pool?” Speaking with her accent, she did not pronounce “Regina” in the English way, to rhyme with “vagina;” she pronounced it as an Italian speaking to an Italian, and she was Ray na Chay-less-ti-ay-la Sah-voe-nah.

  Johnny glanced up at a window on the second floor, where a light had burned all evening and burned yet. Regina saw the glance and looked up at that window.

  “You’re indebted to him,” said Johnny.

  Regina raised her glass. “To the man upstairs,” she said.

  Johnny nodded. “Why don’t I close the house? Mickey has gone to bed. The Gwynnes have gone. Christie crawled up the stairs, and I don’t think Bob was in much better shape. I don’t think there’s anybody left. I’ll check to see that nobody’s left, lock the gate, lock the door, and turn off the outside lights in front. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Then I’ll come back, and I’ll watch you swim. Okay?”

  “Won’ let me drown?”

  He grinned and shook his head. “Never. But don’t go in the water till I get back.”

  4

  When he returned, Regina was dozing.

  “Hey! You were gonna swim for me!”

  She shook her head. “Worn out. Pooped. Gonna go sleep.”

  “Wanna feel better in the morning?” he asked. “One last swim. Damned good for you, babe. Cool water. A little exercise.”

  She shook her head. “Don’ swim too good, y’ know. You’ll jump in if I start to drown?”

  “Absolutely.”

  She yawned. “Well… does make you feel better. Cool water. Like you said.”

  She looked around, found her glass, and swallowed the last of the gin he had brought her a few minutes ago. She rolled off the chaise longue and staggered to the edge of the pool. She dropped awkwardly into the water and began to flounder, as before.

  Johnny stayed close and watched her thrash and splash. She grinned at him and slapped at the surface, trying to propel herself toward him. She reached him, coughing and laughing. She grabbed the edge of the pool.

  Johnny thrust a knife forward and held it to her right eye.

  “ Johnny!What the hell!”

  He did not cut her. He held the point of the knife to her eye and waited calmly.

  “Johnny… ?”

  Regina threw herself back from the edge of the pool. She turned, and with smooth, powerful strokes, propelled herself rapidly to the other side.

  There she encountered Mickey Newcastle, kneeling on the edge and threatening her with a knife.

  She lunged backward, submerged, and swam underwater to the base of the diving board. When she threw herself upward, Johnny was waiting.

  Regina screamed. As she fell back into the pool, her wrists struck the edge. S
he moaned at the pain and grabbed each wrist with the opposite hand.

  They wouldn’t let her come out. She retreated to the center of the pool and treaded water. She tried one side of the pool, then the other. Each time she found a knife pressed to her eye.

  It was the way terriers sometimes killed rats: by chasing them into the water and not letting them come back to land, chasing them along the edge of the water, yapping and snapping, until they drowned.

  Regina screamed again. “Guys! What the hell? Why… ?”

  Judging Mickey the weaker of the two, and the less resolute, she swam to his side of the pool and lunged up, flailing with her arms to knock him aside. Trying to hold the knife to her eye as she flailed and jerked, he cut a wide gash along her cheekbone. She dropped back into the water.

  “You goddamn hophead idiot!” Johnny screamed at Mickey.

  Slowly Regina lost strength. She was in excellent physical condition—she had to be to do her shows—but she was exhausted and dehydrated from her performance and weakened by all the gin she had poured down her throat. She couldn’t stay afloat. She sank, then spluttered to the surface, then sank again, then struggled up.

  “Why… ? Oh, Jesus, why?” she spluttered. “Wha’d I ever do to you, but good?”

  She swam to Johnny, to plead, but he touched his blade once more to her eye. “I you could swim like a fish, babe,” he muttered. He pressed the knife against her eye, and she retreated into the pool.

  She fought for her life, but her arms and legs failed. Weeping and screaming weakly as she choked and coughed, the megastar sank for the last time.

  Johnny stood. He looked up at the lighted window on the second floor. The old man was watching. Johnny did not dare to lift an arm, to wave, as if to say, there, by God, it’s done. The old man shook his head angrily. They had botched it. The cut on her cheek would bring a homicide investigation.

  The curtains closed and the window went dark. Johnny stood staring for a moment, wondering what the old man would do. Suddenly his eye caught movement at another window. It was a hallway window on the second floor. Someone was watching, for God knew how long, and now that someone backed away and disappeared inside the house.

  Christ! There was a witness!

  Two

  1

  You’d think somebody had shot the Pope, DiRosario thought. Or the President of the United States. Here he was, Sergeant Tony DiRosario, in command of a unit that had nothing to do but keep reporters and screaming fans and the morbidly curious away from this estate—a hell of a job for an eighteen-year veteran and twenty young officers—and, Jesus, he might have to call for backup!

  They had all kinds of excuses why he should let them in. They represented ABC, CBS, CNN, and NBC. They came from AP, Reuters, or UPI. They loved her. They were her closest friends. Never a day went by that she didn’t call them. They had exactly the same astrological sign. They didn’t believe she was dead. They wanted to prove it was a fake. She wasn’t dead. She couldn’t be! They—

  “Sergeant. My name is Maude Ahern. I’m writing the authorized biography of—”

  “Ma’am, I’m sorry. You may well be doing just that, but you can’t get in here. Not now.”

  “Credentials? I—”

  DiRosario shook his head. “Ma’am, if you showed me credentials proving you were President of the United States, I couldn’t let you in here.”

  “I was here last night. I was one of the last people who saw her, I imagine.”

  “Let me have your name and phone number. When the detectives come and take over the investigation, I’ll give that to them.”

  “Sergeant, I don’t mean to be aggressive or obnoxious—”

  “I don’t want you to be one of those either, ma’am. But I can’t let you in. Positive and final.”

  “Christ! I walked a mile. The streets are—”

  “Crazy. I know. She did a concert just last night. How many were there? A hundred thousand? I guess the Bowl doesn’t hold that many, but—”

  “I was there, too.”

  “Yes, ma’am. You say your name is… ?”

  “Maude Ahem. Here’s my card. I’m sure the detectives will want me to—”

  “Yes, ma’am. So you’ll be where they can get you on this phone line?”

  She shrugged and walked away.

  One after another. And here came another one. “Hiya, Sarge. Ain’t this a mess? You know, I had to walk a mile to get up here. So. Well, anyway, I’m here.”

  “Right,” said Sergeant DiRosario. “You’re here.”

  The man who stood before him had tousled graying hair and a knowing smile that wrinkled the comers of his eyes. The smile was almost enough to make the sergeant let him pass. But he also had a frayed raincoat, a rumpled suit, and a necktie knotted so the narrow end hung below the wide end. He held the stub of a cigar in his left hand.

  “Gotta match?” he asked.

  “Sir, I don’t carry matches.”

  “Most people don’t anymore. I can’t ever seem to find one when I need it. Well—” He dropped the unlighted stub into a pocket of his raincoat.’ “So, it’s up the drive there?”

  “Sir, you can’t go up there,” the sergeant said firmly. “I’m sorry, but nobody can—”

  “How come I can’t? Oh… I guess I— Didn’t realize you didn’t know me. Me, I, uh… I’m Lieutenant Columbo. Homicide. My case, y’ understand. Here’s my, uh, badge and ID.”

  Sergeant DiRosario stared at the disheveled man standing before him. Columbo. He’d heard the lieutenant was an eccentric, but this was more than he could have guessed.

  “Sorry, Lieutenant, I just didn’t recognize you.” He shook his head apologetically.

  Columbo nodded. “Time was when everybody on the force knew everybody else, just about. Department’s got too big for that, hasn’t it? So, anyway—”

  “Right up the driveway, sir,” said the sergeant. “I understand they’ve taken the body out of the pool, but of course it’s still here—that is, until you get here.”

  “I was walkin’ my dog on the beach,” said Columbo. “Supposed to be a day off for me.” He shook his head. “I guess I must be wicked.”

  “Sir?”

  “What they say. Y’know. ‘No rest for the wicked.’ ”

  2

  Columbo walked past six black-and-whites and past the emergency-squad ambulance. He wondered how come the paramedics always left the emergency lights flashing, even when they had parked in a driveway like this.

  The front door was not locked. He opened it and walked into the house. All the activity would be out behind, by the swimming pool, and he walked through the house toward a back door. Glancing into the living room, he saw a group of unhappy people sitting on the couches and in chairs. He didn’t stop to ask who they were.

  “Columbo!”

  The friendly greeting came from Detective Sergeant Martha Zimmer. “Martha!” He was glad she was on the case. He had worked with her before, several times, and knew her as an intelligent, effective officer. She was short and a little too heavy—so chubby, in fact, that the department might have insisted she lose weight if the powers that be had not understood that she had gained weight during each of her three pregnancies and had difficulty getting rid of it. She had dark hair cut short, and plump apple cheeks. She wore a navy blazer, her badge displayed on its pocket. Her 9mm Beretta hung in a shoulder holster under her left arm, not much concealed.

  Columbo shook Martha’s hand. “Hell of a mess, huh?” he said, glancing past her at the pool deck, where the body of the megastar lay under a white sheet.

  Martha nodded. “It’s not for sure that she was murdered. But it looks like she was.”

  Columbo spotted the medical examiner sitting at a glass-topped table writing notes.

  “Dr. Culp, huh? I’m glad to see him. He’ll do a good job. You talked to him yet?”

  “Sure. But you should, too.”

  Columbo walked over to the doctor. “Hiya, Doc,” he
said.

  Dr. Harold Culp looked up and grinned. “Hey, Columbo. You ever get that stomach of yours fortified?”

  Columbo grinned and shook his head. “Nah. I’m still goin’ to wanta throw up every time you make me look at another corpse you’ve cut open. Maybe I better look at this one before you go to work on her.”

  The doctor was forty or forty-five years old, but already turning gray and bald. He wore horn-rimmed bifocals. Like Martha, he wore a navy blazer with brass buttons, and gray slacks. “It’s a goddamn tragedy, Columbo,” he said grimly, nodding toward the corpse. “So young…”

  “So famous,” Columbo added. “So rich.”

  Dr. Harold Culp got up and walked over to the body. He pulled off the sheet. Regina had turned pale and bluish. Columbo nodded, and the doctor covered her up again.

  “How long’s she been dead?”

  “Eight hours or so.”

  “Cause of death?”

  “I’ll tell you more about that after the autopsy,” Dr. Culp said. “She’d been under water a long time. Of course, it looks like she drowned. But it may not be that simple. Both her arms are bruised. Also, there’s an abrasion on her right wrist. The bruises and abrasion suggest a struggle. But she may have got the bruises and abrasion earlier—say, during the course of a very energetic performance. And it’s possible that she died of something else—say, an overdose—and somebody threw her body in the pool to make it look like she drowned.”

  “What about that cut on her cheek?” Columbo asked. “She didn’t die of that.”

  “I didn’t figure she did.”

  “It’s six centimeters long. I didn’t probe it much, but I’d judge it’s not even a centimeter deep. The knife hit her cheekbone. That’s not a stab wound, incidentally. That’s a slice.”

  “I’ll be checkin’ in with ya, Doc,” said Columbo.

  3

  “You’ve already figured out, I expect, who found her and how and when,” Columbo said to Martha.