Disclaimer: I don't own Knight Rider, Columbo, or the respected characters mentioned in this story. They are the property of the respective creators and NBC/Universal.

Just One More Thing

"Ah, Mr. Knight?" calls our latest police confidant, a man of slight stature wearing a tattered raincoat. He raises a hand holding an unlit cigar high over his head in an attempt to block the sun from his eyes before continuing.

"Can I ask you something?"

I watch as my partner stops short of grabbing my door handle. I can tell he's debating over whether or not to engage in this conversation. Normally, local law enforcement pays us little attention, unless it was of the I-believe-you're-somehow-involved-with-the-crime sort. That's what sets Michael on edge about the Lieutenant, I believe; along with a host of many other things, I'm sure.

Honestly, if I had eyes, even I would be tempted to roll them. It's not that I dislike Lt. Columbo or doubt his abilities as a homicide detective, but, as Bonnie put it, he's peculiar. Insufferably so, Devon added. Either way, the investigator is in the habit of popping up when least expected, making our assignment all that more difficult.

"Yes, Lieutenant?" Michael asks as he decides to open my driver's side door and plop down into the seat. Ordinarily, such a gesture gives off the impression of being in a hurry, resulting in the other party keeping their discussion brief. Not so with our friend, the Lieutenant, here.

"It's about my car, sir," he says in that ever so disarming but frustratingly vague fashion. I can already tell this is going to be a long interaction, so I don't even bother to address my ignition sequence. I receive an irritated glance from Michael for my foresight before he focuses on the Lieutenant.

"Your car?" he asks, trying to gain more clarification, I imagine. After all, Michael just spoke to the man at length moments ago concerning the disparaged ex-lover of our murdered informant and nothing about the Lieutenant's car ever entered into it. And, oh, what a poor heap this car is, indeed.

The little Peugeot 403 had probably been one fine automobile in its heyday, but now it was all dents and dings, faded paint and tattered rag top; a shell of its former glory. The only thing new about it were perhaps the tires and even they had to be pushing eight to nine years. It did speak volumes to its lengths of loyal service, but still a sad sight to behold. The Lieutenant should be ashamed of himself for letting the maintenance on that unfortunate wreck go so badly.

"Yeah, well, I figured, since your car seems to have all those fancy, new doodads, I thought maybe you could help me with something . . . uh, do you mind if I have a seat?" the detective asks as he places a hand on my passenger side handle.

Michael looks over to see I still have the locking mechanism engaged. He gives a nod to both me and the lieutenant. I release the locks just as the man pulls the handle. He rather awkwardly slides into my passenger seat, pushing the floor mat up into my dashboard as he did the last time he sat there. It's a slight annoyance, but I'm more concerned about the unlit cigar still in his hand.

"So, what can I do for you?" Michael asks patiently. The other man is preoccupied, however, and proceeds to comment on my doodads; as seems to be his custom.

"Gee, I never get tired of looking at this. It's amazing what they come up with nowadays. It even has a little T.V. right there. You know, I didn't notice that before . . ."

"No kidding. Well, I'm kind of in a hurry, so, was there something you needed?" Michael, as good-naturedly as possible, asks, again. I don't believe Michael gets to make nearly enough declarative statements in the Lieutenant's presence.

"Oh, sorry, yes. Well, see, the cigarette lighter in my car doesn't work anymore and I was wondering if I could use the one in yours . . ." he starts, eyes searching for the knobbed device in question no doubt, "except I don't see one."

Thank you, Mr. Wilton Knight, for this design.

"Sorry about that, Lieutenant," Michael says with a smile, "I don't smoke so I didn't have that feature put in."

"Ah, well, that's alright. My wife says I smoke too many of these things anyway. They say it's bad for your health too. I suppose I'll give 'em up one day . . ." the Lieutenant prattles on. Again, if I had eyes . . .

Michael chuckles but, then, he shakes his head with a sigh. It's not out of annoyance or contentment, though. It's more like a sigh born of . . . resignation; surrender maybe. It's a sound I don't hear often from my friend. Now, I'm set on edge.

"You're not here to ask me about cigarette lighters, are you?" Michael inquires somberly. I train my medical sensors on both men as the exchange continues, searching for any spike in vitals; a telltale sign something's amiss.

"No . . . no, sir, I'm not," Lt. Columbo says frankly, but his left eyebrow quirks up. His heart rate is slightly elevated, but you would never know it from his calm, unassuming demeanor. I can't quite read what that means. Michael remains silent as he shifts to face the Lieutenant. I can tell he's uncomfortable, not scared, but only because I've known my partner for so long. The Lieutenant continues.

"You see, when I first met you back in front of the pet shop, I kept thinking, why is this man here? You weren't close to the victim. In fact, it was you who told me you just met him that day."

"And that's the truth," Michael interjects frustratingly. It didn't look like this line of conversation would circle back around in our favor. I just hope they place me in a better impound lot than the last one. I'm still trying to cope with that unpleasant scrapyard in my memory banks.

"I believe you, Mr. Knight," Lt. Columbo says quickly, giving Michael direct, sincere eye contact, "But, you have to admit, running into you for the fifth time since beginning this investigation is kind of odd, don't you think?"

"Look, Lieutenant, if you thought I had anything to do with James' death, you'd have already run a check on me, so, what's this really about?" Michael asks bluntly.

"Well, sir, yes, when you kept popping up in the same places our leads were taking us, I did run a check . . ."

I note Michael's heart rate steadily increasing while simultaneously observing the Lieutenant's decreasing. Normally, a reduction in the fear response on one's part means there's some type of relief expected. I quickly do a sweep of the surrounding area, looking for the police backup I'm sure is on the way, but I see nothing. Strange.

". . . and it appears up until three years ago there was no such person as yourself, Mr. Knight."

My partner, once again, remains quiet as he turns to face back out my windshield. What can he say? The obscure nature of his past offers us protection from those we pursue, but it always seems to hang us up when it comes to the authorities.

"Now, in my line of work, I only see so many types of people who use aliases; those trying to break the law . . ." Lt. Columbo begins, causing Michael to stiffen and my CPU to overclock, "but also those trying to uphold it. I'm pretty sure you're the latter, but I have a feeling you're not a cop."

"What?" Michaels says in what can only be described as disbelief. I must admit, I'm surprised too. We're usually accused of being criminals. At best, the police, but . . .

"So, Mr. Knight, I'll cut straight to the chase," Lt. Columbo says with what can only be described as an elfin smile, "If I'm wrong and you're some kind of undercover agent, I'll step out of this car and I won't bother you again, I swear. But, if I'm right and you're more of a private detective for some third party, I'm gonna have to ask for some transparency. This is a homicide investigation, after all, and I'd rather have more answers than questions if you know what I mean."

There's a long pause as Michael keeps a poker face. For the Lieutenant to peg us so accurately . . . well, it certainly complicates things.

We're usually in the habit of leaving local authorities in the dark about our work, but seeing as this case was unfolding in our proverbial backyard of Los Angeles, it would be difficult to worm our way out of this with a story about being strangers from out of town. I think Michael knows that too.

"Alright, Lieutenant. If I were out here independently, what would you need to know?" Michael inquires in a hypothetical tone of voice. I trust he knows what he's doing. The Lieutenant places a hand under his chin.

"How about the reason you were trying to find James Elliot, to start with?"

"Hm, I can't give you details, but he was supposed to be our informant. He was shot before he could tell me anything. I think the shooter might have taken something that could help nail our target, but the problem is, I don't think who pulled the trigger has anything to do with our target," Michael says tiredly. The Lieutenant gives a short nod before looking over to my partner with a shrewd glance.

"You think it's the girl too, huh?"

"How—?"

I don't believe I've ever seen Michael sputter in amazed bewilderment before. I have to admit, I'm completely bamboozled too. According to my databanks, the police don't have half as much information as we do and, yet, this detective was able to draw the same conclusion we did?!

It takes everything within my processor not to ask him what his deductive reasoning is. Curse this pesky little issue of not revealing myself to outsiders. Oh, the burden of being a top-secret, highly-sophisticated computer is mine to bear.

"Yes, I do," Michael finally answers cautiously before continuing in that theoretical tone again, "but it'll be pretty hard to prove without any evidence."

"Uh-huh, and something tells me you're not the kind of guy who'd leave things at that," Lt. Columbo says with just enough accusation to elicit a scowl from Michael.

"Listen, Lieutenant. All I'm doing is driving around and asking questions. Last I checked, that was still legal in the state of California, right?"

"Yes, sir, it is, and I can see that you're only trying to help, but it's gonna be kinda hard to explain away an obstruction of justice charge if you're withholding information."

"What are you talking about, Lieutenant? What information?!" Michael asks indignantly, trying to feign innocence. I key up my scanners again and look for any police backup because I'm sure they're going to haul us away now. Still nothing. It makes me disconcerted.

"Please, Mr. Knight," Lt. Columbo says calmly, raising both hands in a surrendering gesture, "I'm not here to get you in trouble. I'm here because I know you know something that will help me with this case. I'm not here to lecture you on the sometimes-questionable legality of private investigations; my business is homicide and all I need to know is the name of the place Sheila and James visited before Tuesday morning."

I watch as my partner looks to the detective.

"The Old-World Restaurant. Is that all?" Michael asked incredulously. I have to admit, I'm a bit skeptical too. That was a pretty simple piece of information for such a hard lean.

"Uh? Well, just one more thing."

"Yes, Lieutenant," Michael says with more genuine patience this time.

"Are you telling me, this thing really doesn't come with a cigarette lighter?" the man asks in a mixture of confusion and disbelief. Again, it takes everything within me to remain quiet. The man points to my chemical analyzer.

"It has an ashtray . . ."

"Oh, good grief . . ."


"Whoever covers an offense seeks love, but he who repeats a matter separates close friends." Proverbs 17:17