Stephen Cannell - At First Sight

"You can call me anytime. We could even have a set time, a phone schedule, and talk every day."

"I was hoping… What I wanted is… I wanted to see you." "You mean you want me to come out there?" Thinking, My God, is he serious? Fly out to L. A.?

"I shouldn't ask you to do that, should I?" His voice seemed to recoil, as if I had just physically hurt him. Suddenly my response seemed horribly selfish. And then a strange thing happened. I got angry at myself. I had just spent seven months trying to muddle through Chandler's death. I had relied heavily on my friends to get me through.

Chick had even flown back here for Chan's funeral. Why was I looking for a way to duck this?

"If you want me there, I'll come:" I finally offered.

"That's stupid, isn't it?" he said. "It's too much to ask."

"Nonsense." This time I put a little more oomph into it.

"I… the police are still investigating," he said. "They found her car up in the mountains last night. They say the killer stripped it, took the radio-the air bags-stuff like that. I think they found the gun, too. At least, that's what they said on the news. It's strange… The police lab people did some tests here Friday night, but they haven't talked to me since."

"Tests?"

"They said it was a formality. A Gunshot Residue Test to see if I'd fired a gun recently."

"Oh my God, Chick, that's horrible. You mean they're treating you like a suspect?"

"They told me it's routine-that they always try and eliminate the immediate family first. But I passed and Melissa was with me during the time of the killing so I don't think they really suspect me. It's just hard to go through it, is all. I was hardly in a mood for any of that last night… Last night I just wanted to curl up and die."

"That's absolutely unbelievable that they would treat you that way on the night she was killed:' I said. But then I remembered the meeting at the station the day after Chandler died, when Bob Butler had asked me about any possible trouble in our marriage-if Chandler had any girlfriends or affairs. I remembered how furious I'd become, asking him for a lie detector test after telling him to go fuck himself. So the fact is, Bob Butler had checked me out just like the L. A. cops were checking out Chick. Bob had said he owed it to Chandler. Speaking for the dead, he'd called it.

"Anyway, I don't know when the funeral is going to be:' Chick continued. "The police haven't released her body. I'll call you and let you know:' he said softly. "Maybe, if it's not too much trouble, you could come for a day or so. It would really help to have somebody here who understands."

"I'll come:' I said firmly. "I'll be there, Chick."

Then we lapsed into a prolonged silence. I wondered what on earth I could tell him beyond what I'd already said. Maybe just having someone who had gone through it and was still standing would give him a reason to hang on.

"Want to hear something really silly?" he finally asked. "If you want to tell me, yes, of course."

"Sometimes, when we were dressing to go out, we'd be getting ready in separate dressing rooms and we'd meet in the hallway and when we came out we'd be wearing the exact same colors. I'd have on a black suit and a purple tie-she'd come out of her bathroom in a purple dress with a black belt and scarf. Happened all the time. We used to laugh about it."

"You guys were on each other's wavelength. Sharing moods. It's the sign of a good marriage," I said. But it was obviously the wrong thing to say because I heard him start to sob.

"Oh Chick," I said, "I'm so sorry."

"I've got to go:" he said, "I'm coming apart here."

"You'll get through it, Chick. I'll come out there and help you!" "Okay, bye." And he was gone.

I decided right then, if I was going to help him, I should go out to Los Angeles now. Now was when he needed me, not later. I decided to try and do for him what myfriends had done for me.

Then a very strange thing happened. I heard a voice in my sub-conscious.

"Don't go," the voice said. It sounded like Chandler, and it startled me. "Don't go to Los Angeles," the voice repeated.

But how could I not go? I'd just given Chick my word.

SERGEANT APOLLO DEMETRIUS SHOWED UP AT CHICK'S house again on the Monday following Evelyn's murder. It was a day after the glorious phone call with Paige where she promised to come to L. A.

"Do you know anybody named Delroy Washington?" Demetrius asked. He was sitting in Chick's beautifully furnished living room, leaking his Aqua Velva scent and masculine vibe all over the place. The cold-eyed, ordinary-looking Charlie Watts wasn't there.

"Delroy Washington…? No, I don't think so," Chick said, going for puzzled confusion.

Then Sergeant Ain't-I-Hot-Looking Demetrius took some photographs out of his briefcase and laid them out on the coffee table. Six mug shots of glowering, black teenage assholes. They all had Afro-hip haircuts-fades with Zs cut into the sides. One or two had cornrows or dreads. Ghetto styles that screamed "Fuck you, Whitey." They all wore sullen expressions with angry eyes. Of course, Delroy Washington was right there in the mix, top row, far right side.

"This is what we call a six-pack," Demetrius said. "Not abspictures. We use them for eyewitness identifications. All these guys have been chosen because they are about the same age and build. One of them is a possible perp. Take your time and look them over, sir. See if one looks familiar."

Chick noted that he'd gone from "Chick" to "Sir"-a definite step in the right direction. He was no longer at the top of Demetrius's suspect list.

"He could be a guy who came to the door, selling something, or maybe he worked at some garage where you or your wife park your cars, a valet service. You might not know his name. Could be a vendor you use. Guy at the corner market. Anyone there look familiar?"

Of course, Chick wasn't about to claim Delroy Washington. The last thing he needed was for that angry asshole to say, "Yeah, I know this guy, too. He had a.45 stashed under the seat of a gold Mercedes I detailed at the wash."

Chick needed to keep his distance from Delroy until the angry gangster lawyered up. With all the physical evidence Chick had planted, he was pretty sure the lawyer would go for a plea bargain and agree to a nice second-degree murder, rather than take a chance on murder one with special circumstance. A plea bargain would be neat and quick. It would clear the case without ever involving Chick.

"Should I know him?" Chick said after pretending to study each picture carefully.

"If it was a random jacking, then no, but sometimes these gangsters steal on demand. Somebody orders a gold Mercedes like your wife's, and they target the vehicle in advance. That might have produced a contact?'

"None of these guys look familiar," Chick said, straightening back up.

Apollo Demetrius gathered up the pictures and returned them to his worn leather briefcase. "Okay, good enough." He got to his feet.

"Do you think one of those guys did it?" Chick asked. "They look very young."

"In the ghetto, youth is not necessarily a condition of innocence," Demetrius said, sounding for a minute more like a criminology professor than a cop. "I've got Pee-Wee G's in my gang book who are barely out of puberty and they've already skagged two or three rival homeboys… We got adolescent killers standing ten deep at Juvenile Hall. The juvie-rancho up in Saugus is a cesspool of homicidal, preteen violence. You wouldn't believe what's being raised in the inner city and getting passed off as human."

The detective started toward the door and Chick hurried to follow.

"So one of these guys did it?" he persisted, hoping to hear more.

"Yep. Think so… got the murder weapon. It's an old forty-five. It's what we call a street gun. Serial number was filed. A cold piece. I can't get an ownership trail. One thing it does have is Delroy Washington's prints all over it. We also found his prints inside your wife's car, on the back of the rearview mirror. Got a ten-point match-Delroy left more ridges and swirls on that crime scene than they got on the jewelry counter at Macy's."