Columbo: The Hoffa Connection Read online

  “Mr. Newcastle, what time was this?” Columbo asked.

  Mickey shook his head. “I don’t know. There’s no clock in the room, and I don’t wear a watch.”

  “Did anybody else hear anything?” Columbo asked.

  No one answered.

  Columbo reached into his raincoat pocket and pulled out a steno pad. “I oughta be makin’ some notes,” he said. He patted his jacket pockets. “Pencil… I don’t know where my pencils go. Mrs. Columbo always makes sure every morning before I leave the house that I’ve got a nice yellow pencil.”

  “I’m taking notes, Lieutenant,” said Martha.

  He glanced at her. “So y’ are. I appreciate it. Y’know, I always wonder about those Sherlock Holmes TV shows. He never takes any notes. I can’t see how he remembers everything. Anyway—”

  “How much more of our time are you going to need. Lieutenant?” Joshua asked.

  “Not much, not much. One other thing I need to ask about. The medical examiner found bruises on Regina’s wrists and arms. Also an abrasion, like the skin scraped off. I wonder if anybody noticed those bruises or that abrasion? I mean, when she was alive.”

  They all shook their heads.

  “Well, then. We’ve got your names and addresses, don’t we? We may have to talk again, a little. But for now, thank you all very much.”

  The group rose and left the room, and went upstairs to get their things from their rooms. Martha went back outside to supervise a photographer who had just arrived.

  “Mr. Corleone,” said Columbo. “I do need to ask you another question. Has the grandfather been notified?” Johnny nodded. “I went in and told him before the police arrived.”

  “Aahh. How’d he take it?”

  “He cried.”

  “Poor old fella. I wonder what he’ll do. Go back to Italy? I’m going to have to talk to him.”

  “He’s not easy to talk to,” said Johnny. “He’s a grumpy old man.”

  Columbo smiled. “I’ll talk Italian with him.”

  Johnny frowned. “I’m not sure you can. Regina told me he speaks an odd dialect of some kind. Actually, he can speak a little English.”

  “He must be worried about what will happen to him. I mean, she was providing him with a home.”

  “I think he’s got a little money.”

  “Hope so. What about you?”

  Johnny shrugged. “A job’s a job. I’ll be around here for a while, I expect. Her business manager will want somebody to look after the house. Then I’ll have to find something else.”

  Columbo rubbed his cheek. “Odd,” he said. “Except for the old man upstairs, nobody’s shedding any tears. It’s gonna cost all the rest of you money, I guess. Is anybody gonna weep over her?”

  “Yeah,” said Johnny. “Millions of fans.”

  “Strangers,” said Columbo. “Her friends—”

  “Lieutenant Columbo,” Johnny Corleone interrupted. “As you investigate this case, you’re going to find out that Regina didn’t have any friends. She didn’t give a damn about anybody, and nobody gives a damn about her. Except for the money it’s going to cost a lot of people.”

  Columbo nodded. “Too bad. Well, here’re two of the people cornin’ down. Oh, Miss Monroe, I need to speak with you just a moment. Alone, if you two gentlemen don’t mind.”

  Christie sat down on a couch facing Columbo, who sat on another one, leaning forward. That flared little skirt showed off a pair of gorgeous legs, for sure, and maintaining a professional demeanor did not forbid him from taking notice.

  “Uh… just one little thing, Miss Monroe. I find a little discrepancy in your statement. Nothing big. Just one of those things I gotta clear up in my mind. I’m peculiar, I guess, but when I hear an inconsistency, I just have to clear it up.”

  “What is the inconsistency, Lieutenant?” she asked, a little impatiently.

  “Well… y’ see, you said you’d drunk so much last night you had to crawl up the stairs.”

  “They tell me I did. I don’t even remember. I’m ashamed, but that’s what I did, apparently.”

  “Maybe you can explain somethin’. You took out your contact lenses. You couldn’t see very well this morning and wanted to go back upstairs and put them in. And you did put them in, right?”

  “Yes, they’re in now.”

  “Right. Well, I never needed glasses, so I don’t wear contact lenses. Always thought if I ever needed glasses, I’d rather have contacts. But I’ve got some friends who wear them. I’ve watched them take them out and put them in again. And it looks to me like that takes a good deal of what y’ might call manual dexterity. If you were so drunk you couldn’t stand on your feet, how in the world did you take your lenses out?”

  Christie smiled. “I’ve worn contact lenses for eleven years. The routines of putting them in and taking them out become instinctive. You don’t have to think about it, you just do it, the exact same way every time. In eleven years, I suppose I’ve put them in and taken them out four thousand times. I’ve done it sloshed many times. Sometimes I’ve gone in the bathroom in the morning with a roaring hangover and seen my lenses neatly stored in the case, all cleaned and disinfected and ready to wear.”

  “That’s amazin’,” Columbo said.

  “Besides, Lieutenant, you know how it can sometimes be when you’ve poured too much into your stomach. Some things you can’t do, some things you can.”

  “I’ve never been that drunk,” said Columbo. Then he grinned and added, “Well… not for many years. When I was young, I— Yeah, I can understand.”

  “I hope that explains away your inconsistency,” she said pleasantly.

  “It sure does. And thank ya, ma’am. Thank ya. That puts my mind at rest on that little detail.”

  3

  Johnny Corleone knocked respectfully on the door to the grandfather’s suite.

  The old man opened the door.

  “Signor Savona, this is Lieutenant Columbo of the Los Angeles Police Department. He’s investigating Regina’s death.”

  The old man nodded curtly and gestured to Columbo and Johnny to come in. He was a little man, not much more than five feet tall, and somewhat stooped in his posture. Columbo guessed he had once been stocky and probably athletic. His gray hair was bristly short. He wore a houndstooth-checked jacket of dark brown and cream wool, a black polo shirt, and black slacks. He sat down and pointed at a chair for Columbo.

  “La mia condoglianza, signor, ” Columbo began.

  The old man waved his hand. “Speak In-liss,” he said. “Better… understand.”

  Columbo nodded. “I am sorry about the death of your granddaughter.”

  “Much money… bad girl,” Signor Savona said. “ ‘Regina Celestiele,’ ” he sneered. “

  “She, uh, drowned right under your window, sir. They say she screamed. Did you hear her?”

  The old man shook his head firmly. “Sleep,” he said. “Pills. Sleep. T’under…” He put his index fingers to his ears and shook his head. “Not hear.”

  “So, you couldn’t know anything about what happened?”

  “No. No thing. Dead… Bad girl. But dead? Not good. Sorry…”

  Columbo stood. “I’m sorry too, sir. I wish I didn’t have to bother you.”

  4

  Johnny Corleone stood in the doorway to the mansion and watched Columbo walk down the driveway and through the police line that guarded the estate from the horde of reporters and cameramen who continued to insist on access. He saw many of them charge after Columbo. It was as if the detective were running a gauntlet.

  Too damn bad, but not his problem. He closed the door and trotted up the steps.

  He reached Mickey’s room just in time. Mickey sat on the toilet, his arm constricted by a knotted length of rubber tubing, about to inject himself.

  Johnny snatched the needle away from him. “No, by God! For once in your cokehead life you’ve gotta keep a cool head.”

  “Johnny. Just a—”

 
“You get locked up, they’ll make you go cold turkey. And that’s your problem, but I don’t wanta get locked up with ya. The old man wants to talk to us.”

  Mickey drooled. “Well, a drink, anyway,” he said. Johnny poured two fingers of Scotch and handed it to him. “You fucked it up last night,” he said in cold anger. “And what’s this shit story about a guy in a red nylon jacket? You think that cop bought that?”

  Mickey nodded. “He bought it. He’ll buy anything. He’s a dummy.”

  Johnny smiled. “Yeah. I guess if I gotta have a homicide dick on my tail, I couldn’t pick a better one than that idiot Columbo. C’mon. The old man wants us.”

  In his suite, the old man sat down in his reclining chair that overlooked the pool. He regarded the two younger men with scorn. He was still entirely capable of hardness and scorn.

  “In my life,” he said, “I’ve had to deal with incompetence, with fuckin’ idiots'. But never two like you.”

  “I can’t help it if she threw herself at me when I had the knife in my hand,” Mickey pleaded. “I didn’t cut her. She cut herself. I didn’t—”

  “Shut up!” the old man yelled. “You need a fix, don’t you? Well, go to your room and have it. But don’t you leave that room, or you’ll be the next one at the bottom of the pool.”

  Johnny led Mickey to the door and stepped out into the hall with him for a moment. “Cool it, man,” he said. “Take your shot and stay in your room, like he says.”

  “You promised me money. I’m runnin’ outta—”

  “I won’t let you run out. I don’t know if the old man’s gonna pay me, all things considered. But I won’t let you go cold turkey. Now, go take care of your problem. We’ll talk later.”

  Back inside, with the door closed and locked, Johnny sat down and faced the old man.

  “That one’s no good,” the old man said. “Got to go.”

  “That was the deal, wasn’t it? Cokeheads sometimes get strange things in their fixes. That was the deal. Mickey gets a little something fatal in his shot. But not today. Not so quick. We got enough trouble.”

  The old man drove his fist into his palm. “Why couldn’t a couple of guys handle drowning the broad? Don’t think you look so good. You let her bang her arms on the edge of the pool. The coroner will probably find bruises.”

  “He already did,” Johnny admitted. “But that’s easy enough to explain. She fell in the pool. But the cut on her face is somethin’ else again.”

  “You picked your helper. I still think you could have done it alone.”

  “Not with a woman that swam like a goddamn fish!” Johnny argued. “It’s a damned good thing you told me she could. I’d bought her story that she couldn’t swim.”

  “Now we got this homicide cop on our hands,” the old man said sullenly.

  “He’s not too bright.”

  “You don’t think so? It’s an act. He’s too goddamn bright.”

  “You suppose he saw through your act?”

  “Of all the homicide detectives in L.A., we get one who speaks Italian,” the old man complained.

  “What about my money?” Johnny asked.

  “Why should I pay you when you screwed it up? But I will. Look at the couch. The red-and-orange cushion. First payment.”

  “A cushion?”

  “Take it to your room and open it up. Some more in a week or so. And some more after. I said you’d get money, so you get money. Now send that maid up here with some lunch. And pour me a bourbon before you go.”

  5

  In his sitting room, Johnny cut open the cushion and sat down to count the money stuffed inside it—$227,500. Okay. And more to come.

  He picked up the telephone and punched in a number. The line rang. It was answered.

  "Pronto. ”

  “Carlo? Johnny. Shit’s in the fan up here.”

  “What?”

  “An L.A. homicide detective was here, named Columbo.”

  “I heard of him.”

  “He insisted on talking to the old man. I don’t think the old boy’s act went over.”

  “You don’t think so? It went over or it didn’t go over. Which is it, Johnny?”

  “I’d have to say it didn’t go over. Columbo didn’t say anything, but I don’t think he bought it. I got a feeling he’s gonna be looking around.”

  "You mean he’s gonna find out?”

  “Not impossible. Even the old man thinks he’s smarter than he acts.”

  “Okay, Johnny. What time’s the maid leave? What time will you be there alone with the old man?”

  “She leaves at four-thirty, but Mickey Newcastle will still be here.”

  “You know what to do about him. Put him to sleep.”

  “Carlo, what are you going to do?”

  “Just open the door when I get there, Johnny.” Carlo hung up the telephone.

  Four

  1

  “Lieutenant! Lieutenant Columbo! What’s happened? What’s the word?”

  “Hey! Millions of people have a right to know!”

  “C’mon, Lieutenant! You can’t hold out on us!” Trying to walk back to his Peugeot, Columbo had managed to work his way through a gauntlet of yelling reporters, starting just outside the gate and continuing down the street, not the mile he’d told Sergeant DiRosario he’d had to walk, but several hundred yards. They yelled questions. Some of them even grabbed at his raincoat. A few had been smart enough to identify his car and hang around it, waiting for him. They had him blocked.

  The cameras were rolling tape. Whether or not he said anything, he was going to be on every television news broadcast for the rest of the day and night. “Hey, look, guys. You should talk to the chief. I’m sure there’ll be a statement from Regina’s office. I don’t know much more than you do.”

  “Will you at least confirm that she’s dead?” a cameraman shouted.

  Columbo sighed and nodded. “Yeah, she’s dead.”

  “And you’re a homicide detective,” another one yelled. “You wouldn’t be here if it was just an accident.”

  “Not correct.” Columbo pointed a finger at the man who had just spoken. “We look into any death where there’s a possibility of homicide. We do that because if we don’t, the evidence gets mixed up. The fact that you see me here doesn’t mean she was murdered. We don’t know that.”

  “You suspect it?”

  “It’s a possibility,” Columbo conceded.

  “What was the cause of death. Lieutenant?” a woman shouted.

  “Since the bottom of her swimming pool is where they found her, we have to figure she drowned,” Columbo said wryly. “The medical examiner will fix the cause of death.”

  “The cops escorted two cars out of here,” said another reporter. “Who were those people?”

  “I’m not gonna say right now. She had several overnight guests in the house. None of them are suspects.”

  “If you’re talking about suspects, you’re talking about murder,” the woman reporter said.

  Columbo flipped his hands around. “Figure of speech, ma’am. There’s just a possibility of something besides accidental drowning. No point in embarrassing her house-guests, who satisfied me they were all upstairs asleep when she drowned.”

  “Was she drunk?”

  “What about drugs?”

  Columbo shook his head. “The medical examiner will—”

  “Some of the neighbors say there was a wild party here last night. Raucous. Yelling, screaming.”

  “Nobody said that to me. They told me there was a party. Okay, guys? Can I get in my car now?”

  “Lieutenant! Was Mickey Newcastle one of her overnight guests?”

  Columbo looked up the hill. A black-and-white, lights flashing, rolled slowly down the street, sounding its siren now and again to clear the crowd out of its way. It stopped by the Peugeot, and Sergeant DiRosario got out. “Need a little help, Lieutenant?” he asked.

  “A little polite help,” Columbo said. He glanced around him
at the growing, pressing crowd. “Guys doing their jobs.”

  The sergeant spoke to the crowd. “Okay, folks,” he said firmly. “You heard what the lieutenant said. We know you’re just doing your jobs. Now I’m gonna have to do mine. You’ve gotta let the lieutenant drive on. I don’t want to have to radio for backup and have officers start shoving.”

  The media people backed away from the Peugeot.

  “Is that car gonna start?” the woman reporter asked. “Oh, yes, ma’am,” Columbo said. “You take care of a car, it’ll take care of you. I don’t even know how many miles it’s got on it. I mean, the speedometer is on its second go-round, y’ know. Y’ see, my car’s a French car. The French, they really knew how to build them in those years. I can tell you stories about how this car has—”

  “How come there’s newspaper over the window?” she asked.

  “Don’t want the sunshine to fade the upholstery,” he told her. “Like I said, you gotta take good care of a car. I try to park it in the shade, but you can’t always do that.” The woman laughed and shook her head. She and the others gave up on Columbo and turned to Sergeant Di Rosario. “Hey, Sarge! Whatta you know about what happened up there last night?”

  Columbo opened the door and rolled down the window to let air into the car. The newspaper fell away, and only then did he discover that a woman was sitting on the passenger side, smiling broadly and looking pleased with herself.

  She was an exceptionally attractive woman with green eyes and red hair, wearing a green polo shirt and a pair of cream-white stretch pants, stretched to their limit by stirrups. “Hello. I’m Adrienne Boswell,” she said.

  “Ma’am—Miss Boswell… You gotta get out of my car.”

  “All I want is a ride down the hill,” she said. “I walked all the way up here, and… well, it’s hot. Surely you wouldn’t deny me a ride down to my car.”

  Columbo scratched his head. “I bet you’re a reporter,” he said.

  She smiled and nodded. “A girl has to make a living.”

  “I can’t talk to you,” he said. “Not after just refusing to talk to any of the others.”