Stephen Cannell - At First Sight

"Don't go," it whispered softly.

THE NEXT MORNING CHANDLER'S PARENTS AND I SAT IN the handsome wood-paneled dining room in their corporate offices at a beautifully appointed table and picked at our food. Chandler's death was still a wall none of us could get over. After the meal was cleared away, we finally talked about what Peter Ellis called my next life option.

What it came down to was I had to get off my ass and start moving forward again.

The real reason the Ellis's had invited me to breakfast was to propose that I become managing director of Chandler's learning foundation. Peter said he and Sophia would continue to sit on the board as advisers without compensation. I would have full discretion on how to spend the foundation's capital distributions. I could manage the fiscal resources, decide what research equipment to buy, what new projects we would fund and develop.

There was important research being conducted on dyslexia at Yale by Drs. Sally and Bennett Shaywitz using MRIs to determine what part of the brain was activated when reading. Chandler had been excited with Sally and Bennett's work and had invested foundation money to speed their research. Peter said that I was the natural choice to run Chandler's foundation.

I was exhilarated by the challenge but scared to death of the responsibility. I also knew this was just what I needed to kick-start my life.

I was definitely interested but wanted the rest of the weekend to think it over. I told them that I had promised to go to Big Bear with Chick Best to help him clear Evelyn's things out of their cabin and would give them my decision when I returned.

It was noon by the time I left. I got caught in bumper-to-bumper traffic and didn't arrive back at the Langham until after one. I valeted the rental car and walked into the lobby. The concierge stopped me and handed me a fax in a sealed envelope. I was starting to open it when I heard my name.

"Paige?"

I turned, and standing there, dressed in black steel-toed cowboy boots, a blazer, and stretch designer jeans, was Chick.

"Hi… " I said. "Have you been waiting long?"

"Just half an hour, but it's no sweat. I love this place. Evelyn and I used to come here and go dancing when the old Ship Room was still open. That was back at the beginning of time when this was still a Sheraton Hotel:' He smiled.

"I'm sorry I kept you waiting. I got caught in traffic?'

"It's okay. You ready to go?"

"Guess so," I answered hesitantly. He took my arm and led me out to the parking lot, where Evelyn's gold Mercedes SL600 was parked.

I stared at the damn car.

"Everything all right?" he asked.

"Isn't this Evelyn's car?"

"Yes… " He seemed confused.

"The car she was killed in?"

"It's been detailed and cleaned out. I'm getting set to sell it."

I didn't want to ride in a car that, only a week ago, had hosted Evelyn's death.

"It's just… she was killed in this car. I mean, come on, Chick," I stammered.

"Oh yeah, right." Realization finally dawned. "I decided to drive it because the trunk's bigger than the Porsche and we'll be bringing quite a few of Evelyn's things back."

Your wife was murdered in this damn car, I thought. How can you even stand to be in it?

"Another reason I brought it was it has chains in the trunk that fit these tires and the Porsche doesn't. It could be snowing up there and we may need them?'

I couldn't think of anything to say.

"Would you rather we rented something?" he asked, a perplexed look on his face because I was still standing there, glaring at the damn car.

It was a logical explanation, I guess, but I was struggling to understand how Chick could be so insensitive. What I said, dumb-ass that I am, was, "No, it's okay. This car's fine."

"Ready?" he asked. "We'll be back by eight or nine tonight."

I didn't answer, so he came around and opened the door, and I reluctantly got in. Once the door was closed, I was engulfed by the sweet, lilac scent of car shampoo.

Chick got behind the wheel. When he looked over at me he had a wide smile on his face. He started the car and pulled out of the hotel entry.

As we turned onto Oak Knoll Avenue I looked down and saw a dark maroon speck. It was just above the carpet, on the lower kick panel. I didn't have to look long to know what it was. A piece of Evelyn's brains that the car cleaners had somehow missed was stuck in a tiny crack below the radio speaker. A little speck of Chick's dead wife. A little piece of her DNA was going on this mountain trip with us. I grimaced and pulled my eyes away.

"Paige, this is so amazing of you." Chick was still smiling at me. "I can't tell you what it means."

I nodded but didn't answer.

"You'll love Big Bear. It's beautiful up there. I always feel so close to nature in that cabin. The air is like pine perfume."

I nodded again. I was thinking that events had piled up on me too fast and had produced this situation. My own quest to get moving again, the parallel deaths of Chandler and Evelyn. This damn Girl Scout thing that I've been doing since I was nine. All of it had conspired to produce a terrible decision.

I already wanted out of the car, but I couldn't think of a graceful way to accomplish it. So instead of demanding that Chick stop and turn around right then, I started telling myself to calm down and not overreact.

But for the next five miles, I couldn't take my eyes off the little speck of Evelyn's brains that rode the door panel by my right foot.

THE AFTERNOON SKY WAS DARKENING, THREATENING another storm. Chick was chatting about his house up in Big Bear, bragging about what a great real-estate deal it was and how smart he'd been to buy it. I was just trying to keep my eyes off Evelyn's brain spatter. Somewhere past San Bernardino, he moved on to his land speculation and real-estate philosophy.

"When the property market crashed with the junk mortgages last year, all the ribbon clerks panicked and started selling. There was more dirt for sale at low prices in Big Bear than in fucking Baja. All that action drove land prices down even further. Of course, I never' even considered selling. I plan a strategy, think things out carefully in advance. When I buy something, I'm making a long-term investment. It's not about short-term profit or loss, like with these other hit-and-run, get-rich-quick guys. For me, it's about looking for a market opportunity and capitalizing on it. Real estate is where the really great long-term fortunes are made, but you have to have an approach and a long-term philosophy."

I was getting very put off by all this, especially while we were taking this grisly mission to clean out his just-murdered wife's mementos.

Where was the abject grief from yesterday, the terror at the looming prospect of having to sort through Evelyn's belongings? I'd only come along to help him through that trauma, but here he was chatting me up on his long-term business goals.

"The Internet, where I work, has redesigned everything, all aspects of commerce," he was saying. "I predict, for instance, that there won't even be real-estate agents in the future. Everything, all property, will be listed and sold online. Virtual property tours, deals, negotiations in secure chat rooms, all final transactions subject to an actual viewing of the property, set up on the Web by the buyer and the seller. The ten-percenters will all be dust."

He was giving me a headache.

We had left the 210 and were on Highway 18, climbing up toward Running Springs. There were patches of fresh snow on the side of the road, and long mounds of it lay in the center of the highway where the snow plows had left it. Chick kept talking endlessly about money and how good he was at making it. The further out of L. A. we got, the more animated he became. Suddenly, he jerked his thumb at the passing scenery.