The prostitutes ball ss-10 Page 9

  Then I heard three shots ring out. They sounded like balloons popping in contrast to the roar of the Bizon.

  I looked up just in time to see Sladky fly backward. Three red spots blossomed on the front of his white shirt. He landed on his back and the Bizon fell harmlessly from his hands.

  I turned and saw Hitch. He'd taken cover inside the trash Dumpster. When Sladky fired at me, Hitch had jumped up, exposing himself. Then he'd taken the Czechoslovakian down with three well-placed shots.

  Hitch climbed out of the Dumpster. Coffee grounds and orange rinds stained the cuffs of his beautiful rust-colored suit. I wanted to kiss the guy.

  "Good shooting," I said, my voice a croak.

  The back door burst open and two gun-wielding SWAT officers came running out. Two more rounded the corner at the side of the bar. All with their guns up and safeties off.

  "We re Code Four!" I shouted. "Shooter s down."

  The SWAT commander checked the body. Sladky was alive, but just barely. The Hollywood station LT called for the ambulance SWAT had standing by and seconds later it rolled into the parking lot. Sladky miraculously continued to breathe as he was loaded aboard a stretcher, leaking blood from three chest wounds. A few seconds later he was being rushed away, with sirens blaring.

  The watch commander wanted Hitch and me to be transported directly back to Hollywood Division to complete a Daily Field Activity Report, which takes place immediately after every shooting where a police officer discharges his or her weapon.

  A DFAR is usually done by a "shoot unit" headed by a sergeant from Internal Affairs. Afterward Hitch would undergo a full shooting review, also standard practice after an officer-involved gunfight.

  When I finished with the lieutenant, he went in search of Hitch, who was supposed to be isolated in the back of a patrol car.

  The watch commander couldn't find him and was starting to freak out. Hitch wasn't supposed to have contact with anyone until after his DFAR. The idea was to keep participants from getting together and organizing their versions of what happened.

  "I'll find him, LT," I said, trying to calm the guy. "He's around here somewhere. Give me a minute."

  I found Hitch behind the strip club in the very alley where Karel Sladky had gotten the drop on me and then been gunned down.

  When I spotted him I thought he was cleaning the garbage out of the cuffs of his rust-colored suit. But he wasn't doing that at all.

  He was bent over, throwing up on his Spanish leather shoes.

  Chapter 20

  The DFAR took place in the lieutenant s office at the Hollywood station. Sergeant Lena Fine, a thirty-year-old nondescript woman with mouse brown hair and a careful demeanor, from the Bureau of Professional Standards conducted the interview.

  The interview was on a continuous tape and was witnessed by the lieutenant watch commander. The DFAR is conducted under oath and is basically the officers retelling of the event for the official record. Hitch, as the primary shooter, went first.

  I gave the supporting eyewitness statement and told my end of it, recounting how Sladky came out the window behind me after I had gone into the back parking lot and how he was dropped by my partner before he could get off a second deadly burst that would certainly have killed me.

  I was told by Sergeant Fine that a separate shooting review would be conducted a day or so later at the Bradbury Building, and that I might be called to testify. She said because it was nearly Christmas Eve and even the headhunters from IA needed time at home with their families it probably wouldn't happen until after the holiday.

  Hitch and I finished around eight. Despite the fact that I'd only had ninety minutes of sleep in two days, I was not the least bit tired, an adrenaline rush performing that miracle for me.

  Hitch came out of the mens room where he'd been washing up and stood facing me.

  "You wanta go home or do you want to let me buy you a thanks-for-saving-my-life-merry-Christmas drink?" I asked.

  "Drink sounds good," he replied.

  We went to a bar right across the street called Mulroney's Roost. It was a cop bar that catered to the Hollywood station. However, at eight P. M. this close to Christmas, the bar was pretty dead. Hitch and I took a booth in the back. We both ordered a Corona with lime.

  "You okay?" I asked, looking at his tired expression and the rust-colored suit, which had endured a lot of abuse in the last two days.

  "Yeah, I guess," he said, but he didn't sound too sure.

  "You never put a guy down before, did you?" I said, remembering the image of him bent over in the alley, puking.

  "No."

  He sipped some of his beer; his handsome face was furrowed in thought. "Funny," he said. "Growing up in South Central I saw my share of bangers get taken off the count. Saw my first payback hit when I was in fourth grade. But…" He stopped and looked down at his beer.

  "But it feels different when you're the shooter," I finished for him.

  "Yeah, it does."

  "Listen, Hitch. What you did for me this afternoon, that's something I can never repay. You know that, right?"

  "Come on… guy was greasing off rounds at both of us."

  "You stood up. You exposed yourself to fire and you saved my life. I'm not saying I exactly understand what you're all about yet, but that's something I'm not going to forget."

  After a moment he nodded. I could see he'd taken in what I'd just said.

  "You're gonna have some bad moments about it," I continued. "It's hard being responsible for ending somebody's life."

  "He's not dead yet," Hitch said. "I called the hospital an hour ago. He's still in ICU."

  "Come on. You put three in the ten ring. He might still have a heartbeat, but that guy's on the ark."

  Hitch nodded.

  "I've done this a few times. It's never easy. You gotta watch out for yourself these next few days. There's a guy in the psychiatric support unit who I've talked to a couple of times when this happened to me. It's standard procedure to send you to a shrink, so I'm sure Jeb will set you up to do that soon. But some of the head docs in psychiatric support are just clocking time. I want you to have this guy. His name's Dr. Eric Lusk. I'm gonna call him."

  "Okay," he said softly. "Eric Lusk." We finished our beers and were getting ready to leave when he looked at me with an earnest expression I'd never seen before.

  "I guess we did pretty good. I mean, we got lucky with that video, but we put the case down and we did it in less than two days. Big, media-intense red ball and we gonked it. Home run for big blue."

  "Yes it is," I agreed.

  "Okay, so what's our story, you and me? Where do we go from here?" "You move over to my cubicle and take Sallys desk."

  "Good." He smiled.

  I nodded. "But do me a favor."

  "Sure."

  "Don't put those damn GQ photos up."

  "Okay" he said. "Deal."

  We shook hands and walked out into the parking lot and stood next to our cars, a little reluctant to let the moment go. We'd bonded behind the strip club and our partnership had found a heartbeat a few minutes ago. We could both feel it.

  "Guess there's no movie," I said, grinning at him.

  "Yeah." He shook his head in amazement. "But we had a pretty good one going for a while there. Great inciting event. Great characters two dead hookers, Yolanda Dublin, a dead movie producer. Great title. But then I fucked it all up and shot the antagonist before we got out of Act One." He smiled. "And all I got in the bargain was you."

  "Not much of a trade, but I'm grateful," I said.

  We slapped palms, then he slid into the Porsche. "Merry Christmas. See you in a couple of days, dawg."

  "See you then," I agreed. "Merry Christmas."

  I drove home, kissed Alexa, called Dr. Lusk at the Psychiatric Support Unit and left a message about Hitch on his voicemail. Then I slept for twelve hours.

  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:

  ACT TWO

  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 mea
ningless 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.