Stephen Cannell - At First Sight

For my alibi to hold up I had to be able to prove I was at home from around five-forty-five until now, give or take half an hour. That's where my angry daughter came in. Melissa was still asleep, so I sneaked into her room and reset her clock to six-oh-five. Then I woke her up.

"What the fuck do you want?" she said, typically pissed, as she rolled over and glared at me out of one bloodshot eye.

"You know where your mother went?" I asked.

"Fuck, no." She looked at the darkened window. "What time is it? I'm meeting Big Mac later?'

"I don't know. Is that clock right?" I asked, pointing at it. She turned a bleary eye toward the dial.

"Yeah… five past six?" she said.

I looked at my watch. "Six-oh-five exactly," I confirmed. "Go back to sleep. I'm just getting worried about your mother. When do you want me to wake you up?"

"Eight… nine… I don't know?'

I turned off the light and sat on the floor outside her room until I could hear her steady breathing again, then I sneaked back inside and reset her clock to the right time.

I wasn't sure how long it would be until the cops arrived. I knew I would be their prime suspect until they located and dusted the car and gun and came up with Delroy's prints.

Then I jumped in the shower and lathered up.

While I was washing, a strange thought hit me. I had been completely destroyed when I killed Chandler. It had tortured me for weeks. After I'd run him down, I'd had to pull over and vomit. I couldn't even get an erection. But with Evelyn, I didn't feel a shred of anything-no nausea or guilt. No remorse or sadness. I simply felt free.

Was that a gain or a loss? It felt like a gain, but I was smart enough to realize it was probably a loss.

As I stood under the spray, washing myself clean, I was so happy I couldn't keep from smiling.

You see, I was already looking forward to calling Paige and telling her about my horrible, unexpected tragedy.

I THOUGHT BOB BUTLER HAD AGED TERRIBLY IN THE months since Chandler died. He looked tired and drawn sitting in his car in front of my house. He had lost weight, and I could see new lines framing his mouth, cutting the skin around his eyes. As I looked at him sitting there, smiling, ready to tell me his good news, I wondered if I could go through another meeting where some promising clue he found turned into a disappointing dead end.

"Come inside, I've got some coffee on:" I told him.

"No, no… I wanta get going. Got me two hundred miles t'go, and I want t'get there 'fore it gets too late."

He leaned over and opened the passenger door, so I slid in. The car smelled like fried grease and old socks. Since Althea died, Bob had fewer and fewer nights when he went home. He had turned his car into temporary living quarters. I suspected he was either sleeping in the backseat or on a couch at the precinct house.

"Let's hear the news," I said, trying to keep it upbeat, while not expecting much.

"Remember the sheet I sent to all them tire stores?" he asked. "Well, I got a hit." He pulled out a fax and handed it to me. On the top of the page, in letters that were designed to look like tire treads, it read:

DALE'S TIRE TOWN NEWPORT NEWS, VIRGINIA WHERE THE RUBBER MEETS THE ROAD

I scanned the fax and saw that it was from somebody named Dale Winthrop. He wrote that on April 13th of this year, he had sold four new Firestones to a guy in a blue Taurus with a busted-up right front fender. The fax said that the tires he took off the car still had more than an inch of good rubber left.

"That's wonderful," I said, curbing my emotions as I handed it back.

"This guy sells four tires to a Taurus driver in April," Bob continued. "The thirteenth is the day after Chandler was hit. Takes about four hours to get to Newport News, so let's say our killer does the hit-and-run here between eleven and eleven-thirty that night, drives up there, arrives around four in the morning, waits until eight when the guy opens up, and switches all his rubber. It fits the timetable. Why would this guy with the busted-up blue Taurus change four perfectly good tires? That's my question:'

"It's a wonderful break, Bob," I said. But inside, I was conflicted. This was going to lead where it would lead, but at the end of the day, it wouldn't bring Chandler back. I still wanted the killer caught. I just didn't want to lose myself in the process.

"I'll call you if I get anywhere with this guy Dale," Bob said. "I've already got an artist with the Newport News PD on standby. Gonna try and get Dale to describe this guy in the Taurus so we can get a sketch. I'll call if it jells."

I gave him a hug and held his hand. It felt thin.

"You're not eating. I want you to come in and let me make you a sandwich. You can't drive all the way to Virginia with no food or sleep."

"I'm fine, Mrs. Ellis:" he said, smiling at me. Bright light danced for a moment in his soft gray eyes. "I'm gonna get this bird for ya, just like I promised."

I patted his hand and got out of the car.

"I'll call you tomorrow morning," he said, then started the Crown Vic and pulled away. I watched him leave until his taillights disappeared in the dark mist.

Despite Bob's news, as I walked into the house the Mean Reds were buzzing over me, trying to find a way back in.

I opened the refrigerator and pulled out an ice-cold bottled water, then went out to sit on the back porch. My legs were still quivering from the run. Rubbery, fan-sized leaves on the huge magnolia trees behind my house rattled loudly in a gusting breeze. It was a familiar sound and setting. I was desperately trying to pick a new path, but once I'd stopped running, the same tiresome questions caught up to me. How could I leave Charlotte? This was our house. How could there be life without Chandler? No matter how badly I wanted to move on, the emotions over my husband's death were still raw, and they haunted me.

Snap out of it, girl, I lectured myself. You gotta get on with this. But, as always, every time I stopped moving or sat and contemplated, I was trapped by memories of our past and the enormous realization of what I'd lost. Once that happened, I always started to sink. Self-pity… Longing… Despair.

Then came the anger. Just like always.

HOW LONG WOULD IT TAKE THE FUCKING COPS TO SHOW up? Chick wondered. He had been sitting in his living room waiting for over two anxiety-building hours, cursing LAPD incompetence.

Then, at 10:15 P. M., finally a knock at the front door. He got up and walked past Melissa's room, where she was still on her bed sawing lumber. She'd said she wanted to be awakened at nine, but he hadn't done it because she was part of his timeline and alibi. He knew once she got up, she would fly out of the house without so much as a "See ya later." He took two deep breaths before he opened the front door.

Standing on the porch was one of the most implausibly handsome men Chick had ever seen. He was olive-skinned, dark-haired, with a sculpted jaw, complete with a cleft chin. He had seawater blue eyes and was dressed in a charcoal-gray suit, cinnamon shirt, and maroon tie. He looked like he just stepped out of a fucking Calvin Klein ad. Chick hated him on sight.

"Charles Best?" the man said solemnly.

"I go by Chick and I don't take meetings on my front porch. Call my office?' He'd planned that opening line, thinking it showed the right degree of indifference. The man on the porch ignored this and waved toward a car parked out by the curb. The passenger door opened and a second man, who'd been waiting inside the vehicle talking on a cell phone, got out and joined them. This one had narrow shoulders, dandruff, and male pattern baldness.