the Prostitutes' Ball (2010) (13 page)

The next afternoon I turned on the news and found out that miraculously, Karel Sladky was still alive in ICU, although he was not expected to make it.

The news anchors all said that the huge Scott Berman murder case had been solved in record time and that the DA would file against Sladky for triple murder, that is if he didn't die of his wounds first.

On Christmas morning, after a crazy week, it just felt good to relax. We had the house to ourselves this year. Our son, Chooch, was on the road with the Trojans preparing for a national bowl game the following day.

We ate a late breakfast and opened our presents. Our cat, Franco, sat on the floor under the tree batting at Christmas ornaments. I saved Chooch s gift for last. It was a painting he'd had commissioned using the picture from the USC football media guide. It showed him dropping back, helmetless, the big number 9 on his jersey, about to rifle a pass. It would go in my den and I would treasure it.

On that quiet Christmas Day, I thought the case was over.

But it wasn't.

We were just beginning:

*

Chapter
21.

We were having coffee and pancakes on the patio the Monday after Christmas weekend. Torn wrapping paper and Styrofoam packing peeked out of the trash cans and the empty boxes stacked around them. Franco was curled up under my chair sleeping.

"So then it's settled. You and Hollywood Hitchens are the new hot team at Homicide Special," Alexa said, smiling at me.

"Know any good agents?" I joked.

"Give it a chance. Maybe it's gonna work."

I finished eating and helped her clear the table and rinse the plates. We were both getting a late start. Alexa had slept in trying to stockpile some shut-eye because today would start the department's annual end-of-the-year budget review. Until it was complete she would be more or less sleeping in her office.

I was getting out late because Hitch had called earlier to tell me that Jeb had already set up an appointment for him at Psych Support. He was meeting with Dr. Lusk at eight A
. M
. I decided to time it so we would both get in about nine thirty.

On my way into work, one little troubling detail kept pestering me. It was keeping this cool red ball from being nothing but net.

The thing I couldn't stop thinking about was that damn 7.65 mm slug that we'd found by the trash area. It was the one piece of evidence in the Sladky case that didn't fit. Where had that bullet come from? Was it part of all this, or had it been fired years ago, and meant nothing? It was floating around in our case without a home.

I pulled into the garage at the PAB, parked in my slot, and went upstairs, where I found Hitchens already in our cubicle putting his belongings into Sally's old desk.

He was back to being a fashion elitist. Gray herringbone jacket, pleated gray designer slacks, maroon shirt and loafers, and a great
-
looking gray silk tie with matching pocket square. Sitting across from him I was going to look like a homeless guy.

"Morning, partner," he greeted me as I walked in and dumped my stuff on the desk opposite him. "How was your Christmas?"

"Great. How was the shrink?"

"Doc Lusk is tits. Thanks for the recommendation. He's gonna call Jeb this morning and approve me for duty. According to department shooting policy I gotta go to three follow-up sessions, but it's cool, 'cause we're doing them over golf on consecutive Saturdays at his club."

"How'd you sleep? Any bad dreams?"

"Had Czech psychos with Bizon machine guns chasing me around all night. 'Zat count?" The joke let me know he'd be all right.

One or two guys in the unit came up and congratulated him on putting an active shooter down and saving my life. I could tell from his expression that he hadn't been expecting this and that recognition of this kind was a new experience. He seemed almost shy as he accepted the praise.

Once we were alone again, he said, "Skipper says the Black Dahlia wants to talk to us. She's on her way over."

"Listen, Hitch, little tip since we're now gonna be full-time partners. Nobody, and I mean absolutely nobody, calls their captain Skipper. You're coming off like a bad episode of Starsky and Hutch."

"Here's the thing on that, Shane. A man has to have two things in life: his look and his style. We both know I got my look dialed in, but a man's style is infinitely more important than his fashion sense because it's all-encompassing. When you boil it down and remove wardrobe considerations, style is pretty much code and content, and a big part of content is syntax. Syntax creates perception. Perception often determines result. For that reason I "

"Okay, okay. I give."

Just then I saw Dahlia Wilkes step out of the elevator. As usual, she was very pulled together in a no-nonsense black pinstripe suit and heels, carrying a big-ass briefcase from some expensive designer like Prada or Coach.

Hitch was sitting with his back to the elevator but stood up and said, "I just felt the temperature drop, so our ADA must be here. Let's go see the Skipper."

We walked into Jeb's office. Dahlia Wilkes was already by his desk setting down her big briefcase, removing binders and folders, all business. She didn't bother to mention Hitch's life-saving heroics.

"I just talked to the hospital," she started off. "Sladkv is hanging in like he's union. His ICU doc now says he's probably going to make it. That means we gotta keep prepping the murder case."

"That's why we're here, Dahlia," Jeb said amicably. "We're always at the service of our talented team of county prosecutors."

"Right," I chimed in politely and looked at Hitch, who nodded and smiled warmly. I thought we were doing much better with her this morning.

Tm looking for dedication, energy, and motion," she said. "Nothing more, nothing less. But I wont tolerate any goofing off on this just because we've now got the surveillance video showing Sladky doing the killing. We continue to work it as if we've got absolutely nothing."

"You won't ever find Detectives Scully and Hitchens goofing off," Hitch said sarcastically. "We're all about the motion. We don't even stand still on escalators."

From his tone I could tell he was back to messing with her, which was a really bad idea. She looked at him without expression, hands on hips. I thought she was about to fire back, but then, unexpectedly, she let it pass.

"Turns out, Karel Sladky has two prior felony convictions," she continued. "He won't plea bargain a third strike. That means our red ball is going all the way to trial. You two are going to be very busy. In the next week, I'm gonna want you to wrap up every loose end on my case."

Neither of us answered that. "I do not want to get surprised in court," she went on. "I want this policed perfectly."

"That's a two-way street, Dahlia," Hitch replied, giving her a sleepy little smile. "We're certainly gonna be policing the hell out of it, wrapping up all those messy little loose ends like you want, but we're also going to expect you to put our slam-dunk case on correctly and not fuck it up in court or lose it like you did on State of California versus Menander and State v. Rosenard"

You could see her body stiffen. She looked at him for a long moment, forming her thoughts carefully before speaking, just like the well-trained attorney she was.

"Let's get something straight right now, boys," she began coldly. "I'm in charge of this case. Screw with me at your own peril, cause I'm not above turning both your lives into a shit souffle. I can have you on your knees at my crime scene digging for brass 'til next April. I'm not looking for you to carry my books, Hitchens. But you better damn well show some respect or I'm gonna light you up and flick you to the curb."

He sat back and smiled vaguely at her. They obviously hated each other. My ethnic traction idea had failed spectacularly.

"One other thing," she said. "I want that 7.65 slug you found out of the case."

"Its evidence," I said. "We found it on the crime scene."

"It's confusing. It 's suggestive. The defense will be all over it."

"You have the video showing Sladky doing the murder," I persisted.

I figured this might be coming, but I kept paddling nonetheless.

"Im sure you can endure a few meaningless questions about another caliber bullet. I really don't like removing evidence from a case file."

"Me either," Hitch said crisply.

"It suggests a second shooter," Dahlia argued. "We know there wasn't one, but the defense will say he could have been off camera, directing the show. They'll try and create doubt through confusion."

"One of the vies was Sladky's wife, who was in the midst of divorcing him," I shot back. "He was violent and jealous, and she was a high-roller hooker selling herself to guys like Scott Berman. How's the defense gonna get around that? It's pretty obvious what the motive was and why he shot them."

"I don't want that bullet in the case," she repeated.

"Except, we're not taking it out," Hitch said adamantly. "As the investigating officers, that's our call."

"I'm ordering you to."

"Can't do that," Hitch said, holding firm. "In fact, that would probably constitute prosecutorial misconduct. That bullet may be exculpatory evidence. You actually have an obligation to supply it to the defense on discovery."

Jeb was sitting at his desk with his head swiveling back and forth like a spectator at a tennis match. He hated this kind of stuff. But I knew in the end he'd come down on our side because we were right.

"The rule with juries is KISS, Keep It Simple Stupid," Dahlia countered. "I don't want any loose ends that I can't explain. My position is the 7.65 bullet was fired years ago and, as such, isn't part of my case in brief, and therefore, doesn't need to be supplied to the defense on discovery."

"We don't know it was fired in the past," Hitch persisted. "That's just your supposition."

"So you're not going to take it out," she said.

"Not unless the skipper directs us to," Hitch replied.

Everybody turned to Jeb.

"We cannot remove valid evidence in a homicide investigation just because it doesn't fit our theory of the crime," he told Dahlia. "You'll just have to deal with it."

"Okay, fine. Have it your way," the Black Dahlia snapped.

She closed up her books and folder, stuffing them angrily into her bulging briefcase. As she turned to go, she fixed a murder-one stare on all of us.

"I notice from the case notes you e-mailed over that you've still only recovered fifty-three of the sixty-four Makarov slugs that were fired, and that we're still missing four casings."

"That's right," I said.

"Then get back out there and start digging."

"The video techs couldn't determine how many rounds were actually fired. He might not have dumped the whole clip," I protested. "Besides that, as I've already told you, some of those bullets were shot up into the air and could be miles away. We're never going to recover all of them."

"Doesn't mean you shouldn't try," she replied. "That's why you're up here, right? Homicide Special the best of the best. I know you hotshots are gonna come through for me."

We finally had her smiling, but believe me, there was no humor there.

"Excuse me, Dahlia," Jeb said. "But I don't want my detectives doing busywork. This is an active division. As far as I'm concerned this case is basically made and I need to put Scully and Hitch back in rotation. They'll continue to do normal wrap-up for you; take statements, build timelines and the like, but they're gonna get a new case to work. If you want more done at that crime scene, you should request a CSI evidence-gathering team out there."

"I'm sure you don't want me to bring Chase Beal into this."

She was referring to our county DA, who was already starting his campaign for L
. A
. mayor and was a dedicated politician. Whenever the media was involved he got squirrely.

"Let's just do it my way for a day or two," she said. "Then, if necessary, we can revisit it."

One of the other detectives in the unit tapped on the glass partition of Jeb's office and made a telephone sign, holding his thumb and little finger up to the side of his face, then pointed at his cubicle.

"Okay. You got 'em, but only for a day or two," Jeb said, getting up to take the call, glad to be out of there.

As soon as he was gone, Hitch switched tactics. He didn't want to kneel on a towel in his gray Italian designer slacks, digging in the dirt like a six-year-old, looking for bullets that were a mile away on some hillside or brass that wasn't there because it was probably never fired.

"Excuse me again, Ms. Wilkes," he said, standing up and putting on a full charm offensive. "Laying all of this aside for a minute, I'd like to say that I, for one, am glad to be at your disposal on this. I have nothing but the utmost respect for your work and hope you didn't misconstrue my comment of a moment ago."

She said nothing. She studied him like a spider in her closet, trying to parse this sudden change of course.

"Is that suit Dolce and Gabbana?" he asked, smiling.