Stephen Cannell - At First Sight

Three: In order to find a killer, I'd have to put the word out on the street that I was looking for somebody. More and more, I read that the cops often find out about these things, street rumor being the profitable growth industry that it is. If the police got wind that I was looking for a hitter, they could send in some undercover cop with a shaved head and an eye patch to meet me in a bar. Once I try and hire him, I'm toast. Intent to commit.

I'm sure there are more problems, but these were enough to scare me off the idea of trying to hire professional help. I also realized that I had no friends or family who had the credentials or inclination to go that far out on a limb for me. That meant if I wanted her dead, I had no other choice but to do it myself. I had to kill Evelyn with my own hands.

Over the next week or two I tried to think of the best way to do it. I tried to plot it out, using cold, hard logic, making myself go over it time and again.

I finally came up with the following plan:

I decided I would do a carjacking, and during the crime, I would shoot Evelyn through the driver's side window of the car.

Why did I decide to do it that way? Because carjacking is the new crime du jour in L. A., and during many, the dumb-ass vehicle owner dies fighting for the keys to his Suburban. Also, most if not all car-jacks are stranger crimes, not committed by family or friends.

So here's how I did it.

On Friday morning, the second week of November, I went out to the garage and discovered that the Porsche was gone. Evelyn and Mickey D were off buzzing Malibu with the top down, looking hot and sexy, cruising the strand in matching Lycra. I had been waiting for the right day, a day when they borrowed my car, but a lot of other variables had to also be in place.

I hurried back inside and looked at Evelyn's calendar. Luck was with me, because she had a hair appointment scheduled for four-thirty that afternoon. So far so good. Evelyn can't drive a stick shift, so that meant Mickey would drive her home and switch back to his car. He parks down the street. After he left, she'd drive her Mercedes to her hair appointment.

I went down the hall and checked on Melissa, who kept Brideof-Dracula hours staying out all night and sleeping all day. My angry daughter was cutting Zs in her room, dreaming of biker rallies or crystal meth orgies-whatever. She needed to be here for my plan to work.

Then I put on a pair of driving gloves I had bought for this occasion, went back out to the garage, and wiped down the inside of Evelyn's car.

I had an old army.45 hidden in my closet that I'd found in the weeds of a vacant lot behind our house a few years before. For some reason, when I found it, I didn't turn it in to the police. Why had I kept it? Well, I'm not exactly sure. Maybe I thought there would come a time when I would need an untraceable firearm. Maybe I just liked the way it felt in my hand. Maybe it was something as simple as finder's keepers. Or, here's a big one. Maybe all of this was written down in the big book for me. Maybe my killing Evelyn was part of our preordained personal destinies.

I figured this gun had been ditched by somebody who had a criminal record. It had probably been stolen or used in a crime. At any rate, the important thing was, it couldn't be traced back to me.

Shortly after I found it, I bought a box of.45 ammo, went out to a shooting range and test-fired the thing. It worked fine. I didn't hit much, but in the army I'd learned that.45s were designed for use up close and not as target pistols.

I loaded it, making sure to wear gloves when I put the.45 shells into the clip. I've read my share of Michael Connelly and T. Jefferson Parker crime novels. I'm no dummy, and I understood it's possible for the cops to get a print hit off an ejected cartridge.

Once I had the car prepped, I put the gun, sans the loaded clip, under the seat, wrapped in a bunch of old newspapers. Then I put on jeans, a T-shirt, dark sunglasses, and a ball cap. With this disguise in place, I drove her car back to the car wash on Adams.

Delroy, the eighteen-year-old carjack-felon I'd overheard in the manager's office a month ago, was still working here. He was a finisher, which was perfect. Delroy was standing with another sullen youth, holding a chamois and a bottle of Windex, scowling at the line of cars like they were constipated turds.

I counted cars and timed it so when Evelyn's Mercedes came off the line at the end of the wash, Delroy would be next up and get the car. He opened the door, flopped in behind the wheel, and drove it to a place where he could wipe down the water spots and do the tires and windows.

I walked over and watched him work. Delroy wasn't a happy guy. He was careless and left water spots everywhere. As I neared him, his animal magnetism hit me-his vibe. He was a menacing kid with impressive arms, which he displayed, having ripped the sleeves off of his blue car-wash jumpsuit. He exuded a murderous aura, if there is such a thing.

"Can y'get the dash?" I asked him.

He glared at me. "Say what?"

"There's still a lotta dust on the dash," I said.

He shot me his murder-one stare. "Ain't no fuckin' dust on your dash, Jim?'

"Do I need to get the manager?" I said, hoping this wasn't going to turn into some kind of altercation. He held my gaze for a few seconds, but finally turned with insolent grace, yanked the door open, got in again, and ran the rag carelessly over Evelyn's gold leather dash.

"You didn't clean the rearview mirror," I complained.

"Shee-it," Delroy muttered as he hit it with some Windex, then wiped it dry.

"You moved it," I persisted.

"The fuck?"

"You moved the mirror. I just saw you. Straighten it back. You should leave it like you found it."

"Hey, Mayonnaise, do I look like yo' fuckin' nigger?" he muttered, but he straightened the mirror.

When he finally climbed out of the car, I pointed under the seat. "What about all that?" I said, indicating the edge of the wad of newspapers poking out from under the seat. "Could you get that trash out from under there? I paid to get this car cleaned."

By then, Delroy'd had enough of me. He was sparking anger, wondering how he could take my head off and not go back to prison for it.

"I guess I'll just have to get Juan:" I sniveled, starting toward the manager's office.

Delroy growled something at me that I didn't hear, but as I turned back, he had already begun to fish for the trash under the seat. With elaborate fuck-you slowness, he started to remove the rumpled-up newspapers. As I mentioned, I had hidden the.45 in the middle of the wad, and Delroy quickly found it. He pulled the gun out, held it pointed carelessly in my direction, and grinned as if I'd just signed up to get my asshole stretched.

"Got yourself a strap under here, m'man. You licensed to pack this chunck a chrome? Still wanna talk to Fat Juan?" He kept smiling, the gold-boxed front teeth glinting in bright California sunlight.

"Just put it back:" I ordered.

He held it for a long time, trying to make me think he was about to shoot me right there on the car-wash finishing line. Of course, the, clip wasn't in, so nobody was going to get shot. At least not yet.

"Put it back," I said firmly.

Slowly, Delroy replaced the gun under the seat, smiling at me the entire time, like finding the gun had somehow made me his personal property-his yard bitch.

I pushed past him, got in the car, and drove home.

Once I arrived, I grabbed a pre-packed backpack that contained a plastic raincoat, a change of clothes, shoes, hat, and socks. Then I checked on Melissa again. My angry daughter was still zonked. So far, so good.

I went into the den and poured myself a stiff scotch on the rocks for courage. Then I sat in my upholstered club chair and waited for my adulterous wife to come home.