Stephen Cannell - At First Sight

The statement was so out of line I didn't answer.

Chick smiled. I'd had about a glass and a half of wine, but he'd had at least five. I was standing there, calculating my odds, preparing for battle.

"Yeah. Guys like Chandler really baffle me," he went on, obliviously. "Kind of like a John Kennedy Jr. type, if you ask me. Money, nice to look at, but you gotta admit, these guys pretty much had life handed to them on a platter. John Jr. knew he was hot looking, and the press called him an American prince. But he crashes his plane in a whiteout, which was just plain stupid. I was always thinking why is everybody bawling? What it boiled down to was the guy didn't know what he was doing and he killed himself."

Then he gave me a little smile. "People magazine puts out a special edition. Entertainment Tonight couldn't run enough profiles. If I killed myself flying in zero visibility with no instrument rating, they wouldn't sing my praises; they'd open up a fucking accident investigation. See what I'm saying? Totally outta whack."

"Why are we talking about JFK Jr.? And what the hell does his death have to do with Chandler's?"

He took another sip of wine, then turned and focused his gaze out the window. It was now dark outside and I could hear the wind howling. He was quiet for about thirty seconds before he said, "People magazine was going to do a profile story on me when bestmarket. Com made the Forbes list. But the fucking entertainment editor killed it. Not newsworthy enough:' He turned back to me. "I popularized a whole new form of Internet commerce and they say it's not newsworthy. Instead, we get a story on Cher's plastic surgery. See what I'm saying?"

"Chick, we've cleared out this stuff. I think you've had enough to drink. Let's get it in the car and go."

Chick's eyes were shining. There was sweat on his upper lip. He cleared his throat and then said something so inappropriate it actually staggered me.

"I know you loved Chandler, and hey, there was a lot to love about the guy, I'll grant you that, but giving away his fortune to help L. D. kids? If he'd earned that money himself, I could maybe respect the gesture. But he didn't earn it, he inherited it. Unlike Chandler, I know what it means to earn a dollar. Chandler never had to go out there and struggle to survive:'

"Let's check on those lodge reservations again," I said, a surge of adrenaline hitting my bloodstream.

"They'll call if the rooms are available:' He drained his wineglass in two long swallows and immediately poured himself another. Then, apropos of nothing, he said, "You ever notice that everything in America seems be about nothing or about just getting laid? We don't have dipshit royalty to fawn over like the Brits. We've got Gwyneth Paltrow and Johnny Depp. Who cares if Rosie is gay or who these celebrity airheads are cheating on each other with? Yet there are forests being cut down so we can read this shit?'

My back was flaring up from the long ride in the car and from moving boxes. I figured I'd better do something about it because I wanted to be in top form and pain-free if this got any loonier. I moved away from him. "May I have some water? I need to take a pill for my back?'

He crossed to the refrigerator, talking over his shoulder all the way. "Americans are focused on all the wrong things, Paige. We've made celebrity more important than accomplishment. It's better to be Kevin Federline than Charles Best Jr. You can't get any respect in America ifyou don't own the right stuff. What kind of car do you drive? Isy our house on North Elm? We don't read about the guys who invest in the future-guys like me, who pioneer whole new areas of Internet commerce. Instead, it's all about the lucky sperm club. Guys who were born looking like Calvin Klein models, or who inherited their position and wealth."

"And you're saying Chandler was in that category?" My voice was shaking with anger.

"Chandler?" He stopped and looked at me, then came over and handed me the water.

"No," he replied. "No… " Then the condescending smile appeared again. "Okay, maybe. That's what I was saying about not getting you two as a couple. You don't seem like a woman who would just give it up to some great-looking guy with perfect teeth who never did anything but clip stock coupons. You deserve so much more than that, Paige. It's why I'm glad we finally got a chance to get away and be together?'

I was praying he was drunk, because if he wasn't, then he had to be insane.

I TOOK MY PAIN PILL, WASHED IT DOWN WITH WATER, then turned toward him, subtly giving him my right side and settling into a open-legged, karate-ready stance. A soto-hachiji-dachi. I was trying not to telegraph it, but if Chick went to the next level, if he tried to even so much as lay a finger on me, then I was going to unleash some dojo whup-ass on him. Or at least try.

"… Life should be about more than good times and a great backhand, don't you think?" he rambled on.

"We should get this stuff loaded into the car and get out of here," I repeated firmly.

"I was hoping we could sit and talk."

"Why don't we talk in the car on the ride back to L. A.?"

"There's things I really need to discuss with you," he pressed. "Things we need to sort out. A few conditions for our relationship."

My heart was now slamming inside my chest. Conditions for our relationship? This was totally nuts.

And then, he took a step toward me. I flinched and dropped the bottle of pills. It rolled across the floor and settled between his feet. He stooped and picked it up. Then he squinted at the label. "Percocet?" he said, reading it. "I thought you took Darvocet for your back."

"I need to pee:' I said and picked up my purse. I had to get to the bathroom and collect my thoughts. "Where's the loo?"

"Right through there, off the living room. Or you can use the one upstairs in the master bedroom."

"This one's fine." I crossed to the guest bathroom, and carrying my wineglass, went inside, closed the door, then locked it.

The first thing I did was dump out the wine. Then I looked at myself in the mirror. The eyes staring back at me were frightened and tense.

Of course the new big question was: How had Chick known about the Darvocet? It had only been prescribed once-the night Chandler had gone out to the drugstore to get it for me, the night he was killed. I had never told anybody but Bob Butler about having changed medications. So how did Chick know? How had he found out?

Then a chilling thought hit me. Had Chick been there the night Chandler went to the store to pick up my prescription? Was it Chick who had run my husband down?

Then another thought. Seven months after Chandler was murdered, Evelyn was shot to death in her car. Could Chick have…?

I stopped in mid-thought as the enormity of that possibility overpowered everything else. Was I trapped in this house with a monster? A serial murderer?

I stood in front of the mirror hyperventilating. If you don't calm down, you'll never be able to deal with this. I began to pull myself back together. So far, all of it was just conjecture.

Maybe Detective Butler told Chick about the Darvocet. He said he'd talked to Chick at Chandler's funeral. But would a seasoned cop like Detective Butler reveal information like that to a stranger?

I didn't think so.

Suddenly, I remembered the envelope given to me by the concierge. I'd been so upset by the Mercedes with Evelyn's brains on the kick panel that I'd completely forgotten about it. I put my purse on the counter and frantically searched through it.

"Everything okay in there?" Chick called through the door, jolting me.

"Just fine. Be out in a minute. Pour me another wine, will you?" I said, trying to make my voice sound light and friendly. I found the envelope, tore it open, and sat down on the commode to read. The fax was printed neatly in Bob's hand on a piece of New York hotel stationery dated this morning.