Columbo: The Game Show Killer Page 7

  “Please don’t call me ‘ma’am.’ You’re not my servant.”

  “Habit of mine. I guess I picked it up when I was a beat cop in New York. I worked with a partner who was an older man, and he taught me a policeman always gets more respect when he offers respect.”

  “That’s very admirable. But I doubt it works anymore. Not on the street, anyway.”

  “As a matter of fact, it does. A couple of weeks ago, I was lookin’ into a murder on Florence Avenue. I went in a building, looking for a witness, and all of a sudden I’m facing a kid with a knife. I said to him, ‘Sir, I’m Lieutenant Columbo, LAPD Homicide, and I’d appreciate it if you’d put that knife down.’ And he did. I told him who I was lookin’ for, and he told me where to find him.”

  “He probably figured if he didn’t drop the knife you’d blast him. Uh… Would you have?”

  “Well, no. I didn’t have my gun with me.”

  “You went into that neighborhood without your pistol?”

  “Didn’t think it would help anything. Y’ see, I’m not very good with it, and I figure I’ll shoot myself in the foot. Or worse. Actually, I’m always afraid I’ll miss a bad guy and hit somebody else.”

  “I thought you had to qualify on the police target range periodically.”

  “We do. But they issued me a new gun not so long ago, and I haven’t quite got the hang of it yet.”

  She stared at him quizzically for a moment. “Okay, I asked you here because I have some things to tell you.”

  “In the first place, here’s the album of photographs of the art Dad collected over the years.”

  “Oh. Thank ya.” Columbo opened the album. “This is the Van Gogh that—?”

  “Right. That’s the Van Gogh.”

  “Five million dollars. The man must have been some kind of artist. Mrs. Columbo would know something about that. She took some classes on art appreciation. I gotta do that, too. I really don’t know enough about— Well… sorry. What else?”

  She handed him a packet of letters, four of them, crudely typed on lined notebook paper. He read the first one.

  You figure you got away with it, do you? Well, you didn’t. I know it, and everybody knows it. You stole from me! I wrote that story, as you well know. You stole it and played like you owned it yourself. You didn’t own it. You never owned it, you thieving son of a bitch. Figure on seeing me some night when you don’t expect me. Nobody gets away with stealing from

  JAY JOHNSON

  “This Johnson character bugged Dad for years,” Victoria said. “He was a screenwriter, one of those who got blacklisted in the McCarthy era. Even after the blacklist was dead, he couldn’t get work. He kept submitting scripts. He sent them to studios, producers, directors, and actors. He sent Dad a script. Dad didn’t even read it. You don’t dare. What happened was why you don’t dare. Johnson saw Steel Weed and decided it was the story he’d sent Dad—and that Dad had stolen the story. Hell, Lieutenant, something like four plots cover every western ever made, from Gene Autry to Clint Eastwood. But—”

  “I can take these letters and—”

  “Copy them. Use them. Whatever.”

  “He didn't kill my father,” Victoria said quietly. “That poor old man is pitiful, not vicious.”

  “Yes, Ma'am.”

  “All right.” She stopped and sighed. “Are you going to watch the Grant Kellogg news conference on television?”

  “When?”

  “Today. At one o’clock.”

  “Guess I’d better.”

  “He’s going to make a public statement to the effect that Dad was the father of Erika Björling’s daughter. He said you arrested Erika because you found a letter she wrote. You know what he did? He sent a messenger to Mother and to me, bringing us copies of the statement he’s going to make and a pious little note, saying he didn’t want us to be surprised and shocked to hear it first on television.”

  Columbo shrugged and scratched his head. “That letter’s the best evidence we got.”

  “She accuses Dad of having kidnapped and killed Tammy.” Victoria stopped and pressed fingers to her eyes, squeezing out tears. “Lieutenant… Dad was not a perfect husband to my mother and not a perfect father to me; but he was not capable of killing anyone, particularly not his own daughter.”

  “Was Tammy his daughter?”

  Victoria nodded. “I didn’t know. Mother called me when she got the statement from Kellogg. She told me. For fourteen years, Dad paid Erika $3,000 a month, child support. It was extortion! Blackmail. His reputation would have been ruined if the story had got out. He’d built his career on being an all-American hero. If it came out that he’d made a twenty-two-year-old girl pregnant—Well, there were times when he could hardly afford it. You know, his career went into eclipse for a while—when he was beyond the virile young stallion roles and not yet ready to do the grand old men with lined faces. It was hard for him to pay $36,000 a year.”

  “That’d be hard for anyone.”

  “Besides… Off the record, Lieutenant?”

  Columbo nodded.

  “Erika wasn’t the only one. Even recently, he had to make some large payments. None as much as hers, but—”

  “I guess I’ll hafta watch the news conference. If I don’t, I’ll sure see it tonight. Mrs. Columbo will insist on having it on every time it’s broadcast. Well… We were thinking about exhuming the body of—”

  “Of my half sister,” Victoria said bitterly.

  “—and getting tissue samples so we could have DNA tests done to establish who the parents were. But if Erika says your father was—”

  “I have something else to tell you, Lieutenant. I should have told you yesterday, but I thought maybe you’d catch the killer by now and it wouldn’t be necessary. I’m still hesitant to say what I’m about to say, but— I guess I have to.”

  Columbo nodded. “ ’Kay.”

  “My ex-husband pays me $15,000 a month alimony. The decree provides that when either or both of my parents die and I inherit something, his payments to me will be reduced by the amount I can make from prudent investment of my inheritance. Mel—that’s his name, Melvin Glassman—thinks I’ll inherit enough from my father to absolve him from all payments entirely. He’s going to be surprised; I will not inherit nearly that much. As I’ve already told you, my father had to pay off some girls and parents.”

  “So what are you telling me?”

  “That Mel might have done it, to save himself $180,000 a year. I don’t know he did, but I can tell you he’s the kind of man who’s capable of it.”

  “I see. Well… you’ve given me a lot to think about. And I better be goin’.”

  “If you want to talk to my mother again on Monday, please call me, either here or at her house.”

  “I’ll do that.” He rose and moved toward the door. “I wanta thank you for your time. I know it’s tough having to talk to a homicide cop at a time like this.”

  She got up and accompanied him into the hallway. “You sure have an elegant place here. Well, I guess you grew up in an elegant place, what with all that beautiful art and all. And— Actually that raises a question, Mrs. Glassman.”

  “Call me Vicky, Lieutenant. Everyone does. I don’t even think of myself as Mrs. Glassman anymore.”

  “Okay. Speaking of the beautiful paintings, something comes to mind. One of those little things, a sort of inconsistency that will stick in my mind till I figure out an answer. Uh— You say your father had some financial difficulties. I mean, you said it was difficult for him to pay the $36,000 a year?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “But he had pictures on his walls worth— Well, they say four or five million for the one that’s missing, and maybe that much more for the other two that were hanging beside it. How— How could he have been in financial trouble?”

  Vicky shook her head. “I don’t know exactly. I suppose it was because he couldn’t bear to part with those paintings. I suppose also he’d have had horrible capital-
gains taxes to pay. Of course, you know, he had them for many years. The prices weren’t that high when he bought them. Art prices have gone out of sight in recent years.”

  “Oh, yeah. That prob’ly explains it. I thank ya. That would’ve bothered me if I couldn’t come up with some explanation. I do thank ya.”

  X

  1

  SATURDAY, APRIL 15—1:00 A.M.

  Grant Kellogg made a point of being prompt, particularly when meeting with the news media. He knew that television stations would interrupt their programming to carry one of his news conferences, and it was only common courtesy to open a session when he had said he would. He had excellent rapport with the news media, which had often been of significant advantage to him, and this was one of the reasons.

  Many lawyers and judges didn’t like it, but public relations was an essential element of criminal defense—at least it was when you were defending a celebrity. The DA would go for his publicity. His problem was that he had no one on his staff with Grant Kellogg’s skills for it.

  He had summoned the media people to the Hyatt Wilshire Hotel, where he had rented a conference room. When he came into the room, more than fifty reporters were sitting on folding chairs facing the green-covered table where he would speak. Six television cameras pointed at the table. Eight microphones were clustered on the lectern. Some of the reporters had palm-sized tape recorders, which they held up and pointed toward him.

  “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “Thank you for coming.”

  He smiled warmly. This was what he did well, and he knew it. He was wearing a handsome gray double-breasted suit with a light-blue shirt and a regimental-stripe tie. He’d had his face lightly powdered just before he stepped out, so he wouldn’t shine in the television lights.

  “This morning I spent another hour and a half with Erika Björling, in the jail. I hardly need to tell you how difficult it is for her to find herself locked up and charged with murder, but she is bearing up well under her ordeal. She is a brave woman.

  “We talked about the announcement that I am about to make to you. She and I agreed that what I am about to tell you should come from us, not from the DA or LAPD.” He paused. “You will recall, I am sure, that Miss Björling suffered a horrible tragedy six years ago, when her daughter Tammy, who was fourteen, was kidnapped and murdered. Tim Wylie was the father of Tammy Björling. That is a fact to which I can attest, since I represented Miss Björling in negotiating an agreement for child support. There is no question about the matter. I have in my files his written acknowledgment that Tammy was his daughter.”

  Grant paused again. Some in the room gasped. Others began to chatter, as he’d known they would.

  “In February, she thinks it was, Erika received an anonymous telephone call from a man who accused Tim Wylie of the kidnapping and murder of Tammy. He said he had helped Wylie dispose of the body, for which Wylie had paid him $10,000.I need hardly tell you that this call deeply distressed Miss Björling. The call seemed to make some sense, since the death of Tammy relieved Tim Wylie of an obligation to pay $36,000 a year, which obligation would have continued for another eleven years—that is, until Tammy was twenty-five—making the total cost to him over that eleven years almost $400,000. In any event, this telephone call temporarily disordered Miss Björling’s mind, and she wrote a letter to Tim Wylie, accusing him of murdering their daughter and obliquely threatening him. It seems that Wylie kept that letter, and it was found by the police the night of his death. That appears to be the basis on which Miss Björling is charged.”

  Grant reached for a glass of water and took a sip.

  “The fact that a work of art estimated as worth between four and five million dollars was stolen seems to have escaped the attention of the police.” He stopped. “Perhaps I can answer a few questions.”

  “Does this suggest you may enter an insanity plea?”

  “Absolutely not. Miss Björling did not kill Tim Wylie and will not enter any plea that admits she did. What is more, there will be no plea bargaining. We confidently expect her to be acquitted.”

  “What more can you tell us about her romantic relationship with Tim Wylie?”

  Grant smiled. “She was twenty-two years old and just coming on as a television personality. He was a major motion-picture star with an international reputation. He was handsome, suave, experienced… Tammy was conceived in the living room of his home, while his wife was out playing bridge. He tried to duck responsibility, but Miss Björling retained me as her attorney, and we reached a satisfactory settlement.”

  A tall, thin woman stood and demanded his attention. “Isn’t it a fact, Mr. Kellogg, that you yourself once had an intimate relationship with Erika?”

  He nodded. “Later. Briefly.”

  “Others?”

  “I have no idea. But no matter how many, or who, that doesn’t make her guilty of murder, does it, Miss Brinsley?”

  2

  2:11 P.M.

  Sergeant Carol Davidson knew Columbo very well. She knew there was no point in leaving a memo on his desk saying she needed to see him. He avoided his desk as much as he could, and when he did visit it, he didn’t read the accumulated directives and memoranda that made untidy piles.

  To get his attention, you had to do something different. She had rolled her memo around a cigar and taped it.

  Columbo grinned. “Aww… ,” he said to no one in particular. “One of you guys a new father?”

  He unrolled the memo and read it—

  Got something interesting. Get to me when you can.

  Carol

  Her desk was in Crime Scene. He picked up two cups of coffee and went there. For once, he was not wearing his raincoat. It was draped over his chair.

  “Hiya, kid. What’s up?”

  “Fingerprint report on the Erika Björling note to Tim Wylie. No prints. None. Nobody’s. Not even Wylie’s.”

  “Well… Paper. Not the best surface for fingerprints.”

  Carol Davidson would have liked milk and sugar in her coffee, but she picked up the black coffee he had brought and took a sip. For some reason, LAPD coffee was always the worst in town. Even the coroner’s office did better. Actually, they even did better for the uniformed types. Something about detectives… “Not even smudges,” she said.

  Columbo frowned. “Now, that is a peculiar thing, isn’t it?”

  “I’d call it that.”

  Columbo sipped coffee. “I know you left on my desk a report about everything that Crime Scene found in the Wylie house. I also know you’d have made sure I read it if there was anything in it more than routine.”

  “Right. I know how you do business, Columbo.”

  He grinned. “Not by the book, exactly. I just can’t discipline myself to have orderly habits. Anyway—”

  “You’re right that there was nothing that settles the case. “Only Wylie’s fingerprints on the glasses. And the alcohol concentration in the Scotch and bourbon does suggest that ice melted in the two drinks.”

  “Burglars…” Columbo shook his head. “Why would he have poured two drinks? And why didn’t somebody drink them? Because he knew the person who killed him. He’d poured drinks, maybe for him and the murderer, maybe for two murderers, and was killed before anybody drank them.”

  “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  “Uh— The note was written with a ballpoint pen. I wonder if the lab can tell how long ago. I mean, does the chemical composition of ballpoint ink change over time? Mr. Kellogg, Miss Björling’s lawyer, says she wrote the note two months ago. It’d be interesting—wouldn’t it?—if the ink hadn’t been on the paper more than a week.”

  “I’ll ask.”

  “Thank ya. And next time for sure I’ll remember your name.”

  “Will you also remember I like milk and sugar in my coffee?”

  Columbo grinned. “Gotcha!”

  3

  3:08 P.M.

  Grant Kellogg was alone in his office. Lila
had worked until three o’clock, when he reminded her it was Saturday afternoon and sent her home. As she went out, he locked the door to be certain that no one would interrupt the telephone call he was about to make. Or overhear it.

  He dialed an area code: 914. Harry Gottsman lived in Scarsdale, New York.

  “Hello. Is Mr. Gottsman in? Grant Kellogg calling from Los Angeles.”

  He heard the woman remind her husband that they were going out to dinner and would have to leave the house in twenty minutes.

  “Grant? Hey, have you got the case!”

  “Haven’t I just? Sorry I didn’t get back to you earlier, but I’m up to my ass in alligators. I saw your gal at the news conference this morning.”

  “Front-page stuff, for sure.”

  “Great! Listen, Harry. You and I have always been able to talk in confidence, right?”

  “Sure. Journalistic ethics, lawyers’ ethics.”

  “Okay. I got a tip for you, but you must not disclose your source.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “About three miles from the Wylie house there’s a motel called King’s Court. The night desk clerk is a young fellow by the name of Dave Logan. He claims Erika checked into the place about seven o’clock on the night Wylie was killed and checked out, say, an hour and a half later. That, of course, would put her in the vicinity of the Wylie house at the pregnant hour. He’ll be a witness for sure—and an important one, I figure. If you lay a little bread on him, I bet you can get an exclusive interview.”

  Harry Gottsman chuckled. “And of course a witness who’s taken money for his story is a much less credible witness. Huh? Right?”

  “You got it. I mean, it taints him so bad they may not be able to use him at all.”

  “Grant, if I ever get in trouble— Listen. What about an interview with Erika?”

  “Jesus, Harry, I’m gonna have to auction that. But I’ll get something for you. Count on it. If somebody else bids in an exclusive interview with her, I’ll still have some hot background stuff for you. The way it goes these days, I figure television will bid highest^ But— Well, it depends on who comes up with what.”