by John B. Rosenman

When Ken Turner got home from work, he found his wife standing in the living room with a big man in a gray, off-the-rack suit. Barbara was trembling, which was okay. He liked to keep her nervous and obedient around him. Still, why had she let this strange man into the house? She knew his policy on that. He set his briefcase down and inventoried her face. Except for the bruises, it was white, struggling for composure. Clearly, she felt guilty about permitting this man to enter. Looking closely he could see that she held her cane so tightly, her knuckles were white.

"Ken," she began, her voice cracking. "I-I'd like you to m-meet --"

"I'll take it from here, Mrs. Turner," the man interrupted. Turner jumped a little inside at the stranger's deep baritone, which filled the room. "Perhaps you have something to do upstairs?"

She nodded, flashed Turner a tense look. "All right."

"Hey, wait a minute," Turner said. He took a step forward. Sticking out his chest, he realized that, though he himself was tall, he had to look up to meet the visitor's eyes. "Who are you, and what gives you the right to tell my wife what to do in my house? I've half a mind --"

He stopped when the man held up a badge. "Detective Larson of the 39th precinct," he said. His eyes slid politely to Barbara, who was anxiously gripping her cane. "Perhaps you were going to read a book, Mrs. Turner? If you need me for something, you can thump on the floor with your cane."

"Oh, yes. Of c-course!"

She edged around Turner, her cane going tap, tap, tap on the carpet. Not once did her eyes rise higher than his knees. Then, like the little mouse she was, she limped toward the stairs. Before she climbed them, though, she did an unusual thing. She turned and gave him what looked like a defiant smile, meeting his eyes directly.

Puzzled, he dragged his gaze back to the man, who was smiling too. He did not like the smile.

"Look," Turner said, then stopped, because he could not begin to imagine what this visit was about. Unless . . . But Barbara would never dare tell. She probably didn't even have the guts to think about doing it.

Still, this cop was here. And Turner doubted very much that he wanted a contribution to the Policeman's Ball.

The cop's -- Larson's -- smile widened, displaying rows of perfectly straight, white teeth. "You were about to say, Mr. Turner?"

"Nothing," Turner muttered. He went to the side table and poured himself a large shot of bourbon. Took a deep gulp.

"You must be here about those parking tickets," he said, then flushed. For the first time he could remember, he felt foolish. Police, especially detectives, did not make house calls about parking tickets.

"No."

"Oh? Then is something wrong at my company? Has . . ."

"As far as I know," Larson's deep baritone responded, "your company's fine."

As hard as it was to believe, Turner began to feel he knew the reason for the man's visit. But why was Larson playing cat and mouse? Finding his drink almost gone, he turned back to the side table for a refill. When he glanced through the window, he noticed there was a spectacular sunset. Plenty of bright, flaming, even angry red, just like Barbara's face after he . . .

He bit his lip, turned back. "My wife tends to exaggerate. Why don't you tell me what the problem is?"

"Suppose you tell me, Mr. Turner."

Damn this man's insolence! Okay, impossible or not, Barbara must have told him. And for that she sure as hell was going to pay, he thought. Yes, indeed. When he got sweet Babs alone, they were going to have an interesting conference.

He forced down his anger, knowing he'd have to be patient. First, get rid of Columbo, then it would be payback time. "Okay," he shrugged. "I had a hard day and I guess I did slap Barbara a few times. But --"

"A few times?" The detective rolled his massive shoulders and actually chuckled. "Is that all you did, Mr. Turner?"