Stephen Cannell - At First Sight

I found a spot up the street where I was out of sight but could see the parking lot and Evelyn's car. I opened the backpack and put on my leather gloves, then pulled the baseball cap low. I opened the bag and took out the plastic raincoat. The clothes I was wearing were old, and even though I had the raincoat, I was planning on dumping everything after the shooting to defeat paraffin tests and blood splatter evidence.

Then I settled down out of sight in some heavy bushes and watched the back of the hair salon. Salono Bello was a little too far out on Van Nuys Boulevard for its upscale clientele. Liquor stores and rundown apartment complexes were closing in on the strip mall, surrounding it like graffiti-painted savages.

Mr. Eddy had told Evelyn he was giving up his lease and moving to a shop on Lankershim. I was glad he hadn't gotten around to it yet. This area was a perfect setting for a carjack murder. The politically correct way to describe the block would be to say it was "mixed." A better description would be to say it was being totally overrun by ethnic assholes.

I continued to watch the parking lot behind the hair salon. It was late in the afternoon and there were only three or four cars there. The sun sets early in November. My guess was around five o'clock. I figured that since Evelyn was getting her two-month dye-job, she wouldn't be out until after dark-around six. The parking lot should be empty by then. I kept telling myself, Relax, Chick, this will work out fine.

Only trouble was, my hands wouldn't stop shaking. My palms were sweating in the leather gloves. My heart was beating too fast, and I kept pulling on the bottle of scotch I'd brought, looking for relaxation and courage. Time oozed.

Finally, at five-fifty-five, Evelyn came out with Mr. Eddy and stood at the back door of the salon. They paused to talk.

After they finished their chat, she gave him a peck on the cheek. He tittered, cooed, and waggled his fingers at her as he made a graceful pirouette and went back inside to close up. Evelyn hurried to her Mercedes.

From here on, my recollection of the event gets kind of hazy. I mean, I remember what happened, but it's sort of surrealistic. Time became abstract. I was more than a little hammered on scotch, and remember thinking it's probably not such a good idea to try and commit a first-degree murder while half in the bag. But I was already too far into this to abort. I waited until Evelyn was inside her Mercedes with the motor running, then I walked up to the car.

She was starting to pull out of her parking space when she saw me. She stopped the car and frowned, her expression pinched and mean. I walked toward her, holding the gun low and out of sight behind my leg. I swear I still didn't know if I could do it. My mouth was suddenly bone dry. But to gain resolve as I closed the distance, I was concentrating on all the things I hated about her. Standing naked on the hotel balcony, screwing Mickey D, wasting more money than a Hollywood charity, taking all my dot-com profits and blowing them on jewelry she never even wore, hiring a forensic accountant to get me arrested for fraud-the whole depressing array of complaints I had built up over the past two years.

As I got closer, she started rolling down the window. "What the fuck are you doing here?" she growled. "You look ridiculous in that getup."

"I came to give you this," I said theatrically as I pulled the gun out from behind my leg and pointed it at her.

You won't believe this, but she actually started laughing at me. No kidding… she sat there and just laughed.

"Who do you think you're kidding with that?" she said, glancing at the automatic. "What a fucking moron you are, Chick."

That did it. I'm pointing a gun at her about to take her shitty life and she laughs and calls me a moron?

I pulled the trigger.

I wasn't at all prepared for what happened. To begin with, the.45 roared, reverberating with deafening impact in the enclosed concrete strip mall. Blood spewed, blowing back all over me as Evelyn flew sideways, all the way across the seat of the car toward the passenger door, taking the unrolling seat belt with her. It finally snapped to the end of its length. She hung there in the belt. With half of her head gone, she was undoubtedly dead, but then the seat belt slowly retracted, pulling her toward me. She came relentlessly back across the seat, like the murderous corpse in a mummy movie. As she neared, I could see the hole I'd put in her forehead, which was about the size of a nickel, but the bullet had exited, taking the back of her head with it and breaking the far window. She finally settled back into the driver's seat, where she sat dripping blood and cerebral fluid. It was gruesome and horrible.

"Holy shit," is what I think I said. But I couldn't stop now. I couldn't freeze up. The gunshot would bring people. They would see me. I opened the door, reached in, unhooked the seat belt, and dragged her out of the car. I threw her onto the pavement. Then I jumped into the idling Mercedes and roared away.

I couldn't believe how much blood and brain tissue was in there. I didn't count on there being such a terrible mess in the front seat. When I had imagined it, there wasn't any blood or cerebral tissue at all, but now, the whole dash and seat were oozing with gore.

I drove up into the hills and parked in a deserted spot I'd picked out earlier. I had chained my BMX Black Mountain trail bike to a tree well off the road almost a week ago.

Here's the story on the BMX bike: It had been Evelyn's gift to me two Christmases ago. She wanted me to ride it, get back into shape-more grief about my body. That was back when we were still occasionally bumping boots together. She once told me after sex that she was repulsed by my flab. As I remembered this, I had a moment of pure joy that she was out of my life forever. Now, all I had to do was finish the job.

I didn't have to wipe down the car, because I'd been wearing gloves, and even if a print of mine miraculously survived, so what? After all, it was our Mercedes.

I went to work stripping the car using the small Mercedes toolkit in the trunk. I pulled out the radio and the CD player. I took the airbags and the phone. I'm not much with tools, as I'm sure you've already guessed, but most of this stuff was easy to remove, except for the radio, which I accidentally broke when I pulled it out of the dash.

I stripped off the bloody raincoat and all my clothes and changed into the fresh duds I'd brought. Then I rolled everything up and put it in the backpack. I put on the pack, dropped the.45 near the car, climbed on my bike, and rode down out of the mountains.

I peddled for at least fifteen minutes. I was peddling like mad and I thought my lungs would explode. Finally I made it to a gas station that I'd picked earlier because it seemed like nobody in the place spoke much English. Using my fractured Spanish, I asked one of the Mexicans who worked there to watch my bike.

"Mira esta bicicleta," or something. He nodded and I called a cab. I went to an address in the Valley about a quarter mile from the murder scene, paid the cabbie, and walked the rest of the way to the hair salon.

When I got to Salono Bello, it was six forty-five. There was a coroner's van there, and cops all over the place. Looky-loos were ringing the crime scene. I had parked my Porsche a block away, in an alley. The cops were still working by Evelyn's body and hadn't gotten around to canvasing the neighborhood yet. I got into my car and drove back to where I'd hidden the radio and the airbags. I threw them into the trunk and drove to the gas station, then threw my trail bike in the back of the Porsche along with everything else. Then I drove up to the Hollywood Reservoir, and after I made sure nobody was around, slung the radio, phone, and airbags out into the water and watched them sink. I grabbed the backpack full of clothes, walked up into the woods above Lake Hollywood, and set fire to everything using a can of lighter fluid I'd brought with me. Then I buried the ashes. I got back into the car and was home well before eight.