The prostitutes ball ss-10

by Stephen Cannell

  The run came back empty. He wasn't in our system, not even at Motor Vehicles. Then I put in a request to run him with the state to see if he had a Russian Bizon machine gun registered to him. We probably wouldn't get that info back until tomorrow.

  "If the guy was beating on Chrissy, it's hard to believe he didn't get at least one spousal abuse complaint," Hitch said after I hung up. "He should be in the system."

  "Maybe Sweet's not his real name," I said as Hitch put the car in gear and pulled out.

  "Hows that possible, Shane? Alexa ran Chrissy. She checked out. It was Chrissy's married name, so it had to be his."

  "You're right. Just thinking out loud."

  We got on the Coast Highway, heading toward Brand Boulevard in Glendale. I didn't trust Hitch's motives, so it was hard to solicit his opinion. But I've been trained to always check with my partner after an interview to see if he or she picked up on something I'd missed.

  "Gimme your take on what just happened back there," I said as Hitch drove.

  "Some lies are more believable than truth," he replied.

  "Who dropped that pearl of wisdom?"

  "I did, just now." The dashing smile was gone, replaced by a seriousness that gave me hope.

  "We walk in there and after a few rounds of'No, I won't,' 'Yes, you will,' out comes the little DVD with Carl Sweet," he said. "I know it's almost Christmas, but do we really think there's a Santa Claus?"

  "Good point. But sometimes it happens that way."

  "That's not a take. That's wishful thinking."

  "You're still looking for first-act moves," I told him, my disappointment showing. "If Carl Sweet, a jealous husband, shoots his ex and her boyfriend, you got nothing to give the movie

  department at UTA."

  "I'm just saying, before we ring up SWAT to go out and throw a net on this guy if we can even find him I think we need to check out Scott Berman, work on some victimology. My gut tells me we're going to find some juicy stuff there."

  "We'll get to the victimology tomorrow," I snapped. "Tonight we're following leads and this lead points to a dead girl's apartment in Glendale."

  It wasn't going well between us. We didn't speak again until we got to the address on Brand Boulevard. It was a small, seventies-style building, boxy but neat. Each unit had its own garage in back. Chrissy Sweet was renting B-6 on the second floor. We found her five-year-old silver BMW still in her parking spot.

  "So Scott Berman must ve picked her up here, driven her to the party up on Skyline," Hitch said.

  "Which begs the question of who drove Berman s car off Skyline Drive after he was dead and where is it now," I replied.

  We woke up the manager. It was three thirty in the morning and he wasn't happy about it.

  "Jesus Christ," he griped.

  "Nope," Hitch said. "But people tell me there's an amazing resemblance."

  The manager didn't find that funny. Neither did I. He was a grumpy bald guy who didn't know anything about Chrissy Sweet. He also didn't seem to be very shocked that she was dead.

  "I try not to get involved with my renters. L. A. is transient and superficial. People move on, they transfix, they die."

  "Gee, good one," Hitch said. "We should get that off to Deepak Chopra immediately."

  The manager led us to Chrissy's apartment, opened up, told us to drop the key in the slot when we were done. Then he returned to his apartment and went back to bed.

  There wasn't much here. The small one-bedroom had the look of a hideout. Very few clothes, a makeup case that was well stocked. No drugs, no pictures. A few teddy bears, but no real personal effects. We searched it for almost half an hour, came up with nothing.

  "The unlucky, lonely life of a tragic beauty," Hitch whispered softly, sounding like that guy in all the movie trailers.

  We locked up, dropped the key in the slot, and left.

  "I'll have Impound pick up her car and tow it to the forensic garage," I said. "Probably nothing in there, but we gotta look."

  "Maybe we'll get a latent print hit for Carl. If we do and Sweet is an alias, maybe it gets us another name," Hitch suggested.

  "Maybe."

  When we got back to the Porsche, we took five minutes just sitting at the curb in front of Chrissy's apartment, thinking out loud. It was almost four thirty A. M. The sun would be coming up soon.

  "Where do you want to go from here?" Hitch asked. "It's too late to go to bed. Or make that too early."

  "I got that little puffball, Brooks Dunbar, coming in at nine A. M.," I said. "Yolanda Dublin says he rented her the house for the party and that she met him up on Skyline two days ago and put the cash in his hand. He says he never goes up there. I'm gonna bust his grapes with that. There's opportunity in deception."

  "We also need to go to Paramount and check on what was going on with Scott Berman before he died."

  "Right," I said. "Paramount would be a good place for you to pass out some Hole in One business cards."

  "Knock it off, Scully. You know we should cover that. We gotta see if Berman was on anybody's shit list, if his life was being threatened. There might be another suspect other than Carl Sweet."

  "You mean one that doesn't wrap the movie up too quickly."

  "You're reading my mail, homes," he said irritably.

  He put the Carrera in gear and chirped rubber pulling away from the curb. We stopped for some coffee and rolls on the way to the office, said very little in the next hour, and then hit the PAB parking garage at a little before six.

  Hitch and I looked at the phone sheets and checked my computer. CSI had e-mailed over the initial case notes.

  They had collected twenty brass cartridges and fourteen bullets, photographed and plastered eight male shoe prints and six female, all of different sizes. They were now starting the slow process of trying to identify the shoe manufacturers by the sole shapes and tread patterns.

  The blood spatter was high-energy droplets, which was consistent with the machine gun fire description that the Prentisses and Yolanda had mentioned.

  CSI's notes also indicated they were beginning the painstaking step of dusting every brass casing they'd found, looking for fingerprints the doer might have left when he was loading the clip. From what Hitch and I read, it looked like the forensics part of the case was moving along.

  Stender Sheedy showed up at our office at nine o'clock sharp carrying a very expensive wafer briefcase, which looked like it was real alligator. His suit was Savile Row, his watch a Rolex. One of his cufflinks could have paid my monthly mortgage. He was only in his thirties, but already owned an extensive collection of fancy accessories.

  "Glad you could make it," I said.

  By ten thirty, it was pretty obvious that Brooks had missed his bus. Stender was on the phone making calls. His client either wouldn't answer his home or his cell phone, or he was vibrating under a table somewhere with his nipples stinging, checking out some celebutante's undies.

  "I'm filing the warrant," I told Stender.

  "Detective Scully, I know how this looks," he pleaded. "I know I promised I'd have him here and I'm sure you don't care about mitigating circumstances, but Brooks has had very little love or parental supervision in his life. As a result he doesn't react well to overt instructions. But I promise on my life, I will have him here by noon. I throw myself at the mercy of the Los Angeles Police Department."

  He rendered this argument with such passion and remorse that I took pity on him. Despite his prominent father, at least Stender Sheedy Jr. had managed to make it through Harvard Law or wherever it is these kinds of guys matriculate.

  "Okay," I told him. "But that's your last chance. After that, I'm going to jail your client."

  "He'll be here," Stender promised.

  When he left, I watched Hitch put some fresh business cards in his wallet and we headed out to Paramount Studios on Melrose.

  I thought we were probably still somewhere in Act One, but I didn't want to ask. Frankly, operating with no sleep, I was
getting a little confused.

  Chapter 14

  We didn't have studio passes to get onto the Paramount lot, but we had badges, which worked just as well. We were allowed to park in the big lot just beyond the main gate. Hitch and I got out of the Carrera and followed the map the guard gave us to A-Building, where Scott Berman's offices were located on the second floor.

  Hitch pointed out the Groucho Building to me on the way. As we passed the commissary, Hitch said the food in the executive dining room was interesting fare and the chef made a great lamb osso bucco, which was simmered in red wine until it fell off the bone, but he only served it on Fridays.

  The other side of the restaurant Hitch called the "little people" side. The food there was standard cholesterol-clogging cafeteria chow. Hot dogs and lasagna. Better to stay away, he warned.

  "That's Lucy Park," he said as we passed an open patch of grass, pointing out landmarks like a driver on the Hollywood tour. "I understand that Lucy and Desi used to eat their lunches out on that lawn, sitting on those very metal benches."

  A-Building was a two-story stucco structure that Hitch said was the first building on the lot.

  "Howard Hughes had his office here when this was still RKO."

  We took the carpeted stairway up to the second floor and turned left into a hallway whose walls were covered in rich brown fabric and decorated with movie posters in simple brass frames.

  "Berman's undoubtedly got Howard Hughes's old office. It's a celebrity suite. Has a big Hollywood history. After Hughes, Lucy had it for years. Stephen J. Cannell was there for a while in the eighties, Sherry Lansing after him, then Tom Cruise before he got the boot by Sumner Redstone for jumping on Oprah's couch and tanking the opening of Mission Impossible III. That office has seen a lot of shit go down."

  "Hitch," I said, and he turned to look at me. "Stop it."

  "I just thought."

  "Just stop it, okay?"

  "Jesus Christ," he muttered.

  "No, but people tell me there's an amazing resemblance." Now he was sulking, but I'd had it.

  "And while we're on it, why do you say shit like that?" I asked. "It makes you come off like a total dipshit. We're supposed to be cops. Three people died last night. It's up to you and me to speak for them, to get them some justice. I don't care right now who had that office after Howard Hughes or where Lucy and Desi ate their lunch."

  "Fine, then I'm not talking to you anymore," he replied petulantly.

  We entered the outer office that serviced Berman's production company and found a pretty assistant. Her mascara had run. She'd been crying.

  "We' re homicide detectives," I said. "We d like to talk to somebody about Scott Berman."

  "You should talk to Shay. Let me see if I can get her," she said, then buzzed an extension. "Miss Shaminar, two police officers are here about Scott." She listened for a minute. "Okay."

  She hung up. "Miss Shaminar says you should wait in Mr. Berman's office. She'll be with you as soon as she's off the phone. As you can imagine, it's been pretty stressed around here this morning."

  She stood and led us into Scott Berman's office. It was huge. Six beautiful leaded-glass windows lit a lush, paneled room. Two of the windows looked out over Lucy Park, the others were in a dining conference room, which we could see through a large opening in the south wall of the office.

  The executive desk was big enough to play table tennis on. There was a big marble-faced fireplace fronting two wine-red sofas with a glass-top table set in between. All of the walls were dark wood. The modern art that hung inside each of the paneled insets looked stupid enough to be expensive. It wasn't hard to imagine Howard Hughes running his empire from this suite.

  A few minutes later, a very slim, very directed black-haired woman with olive skin and a classic profile swept into the room. Her hair was pulled back in a bun. She was the executive assistant version of the beautiful librarian cliche. Severe suit, abrupt manner, glasses perched on her nose and secured on a no-nonsense chain around her neck. But you knew when she took those specs off and let down her hair, the results would be dazzling.

  "I'm Shay Shaminar, Mr. Berman's executive assistant," she said. Her voice was crisp and strong, but underneath her command visage, you could see she was very upset.

  It was the little things that gave her away. The rigid posture, the ring she turned manically on her right middle finger. But she was strong and kept a tight grip on her emotions.

  We introduced ourselves and she motioned for us to sit on the wine-colored sofas near the fireplace. She sat opposite us, her shapely knees pressed together, her skirt just long enough to cover them.

  "We re all a little shook up," she said. "Adding to Scott's horrible death, we were deep into preproduction on his next film, but now the studio is putting our picture on hold, which is a nice way of saying it's canceled."

  "We'll only need a little time," I said. She looked very tense. I felt bad for her.

  "This was Howard Hughes's office, wasn't it?" Hitch jumped in, asking her a question that was completely off the point.

  "Yes. Back when he ran RKO in the forties, this was the studio headquarters. The RKO property was bought by Desilu, then became part of the Paramount lot in the late forties. Now administration is in the new building on the north side of the lot."

  "Bet a lot of amazing stuff happened in here," Hitch replied.

  It was a good play, so I went with it. People who are too locked up in grief miss details and don't give good interviews. It was a worthwhile technique to start by getting her mind on something else.

  "Famous offices all have histories," she said, glad to talk about this and not the death of a boss she clearly worshipped. She seemed to relax slightly. Her expression softened.

  "For instance, I ran into an old waiter from the commissary when I first came to work here," she continued. "The man was about eighty. He told me when Howard had this office, he used to order a tuna salad sandwich with chips on a plate every day. He wanted it placed right outside the door, which was always locked when he brought it. He was supposed to put the sandwich plate, covered in wax paper, on the floor at eight A. M. exactly. Then he had to come back at six and get the plate.

  "But the sandwich and chips were always untouched. After a few days of this, he decided not to bring it anymore. At eight fifteen the next morning he got a call from Mr. Hughes. 'Where's my sandwich?' he shouted. The waiter said, 'But Mr. Hughes, you never eat it, so I didn't think you wanted it.' You know what Howard Hughes said?"

  "No," Hitch replied, leaning forward, totally captivated.

  "He said, 'I need to know it's there.'" She paused then smiled wanly. "Tells you a lot about the man, doesn't it?"

  Hitch nodded. "Obsessive-compulsive."

  That story had slowly brought her out, so I gently switched to the more painful topic of Scott Berman's death.

  "I know this is hard, but can we start by talking a little about Mr. Berman's personal life," I said. "I understand he was divorced."

  "Yes, from Althea," she told us. "His ex-wife was awful. A total bitch."

  "Do you think she could have been involved somehow?" Hitch asked.

  "I doubt it. She got a pile of money in the divorce. That seemed to be all she cared about. The settlement was almost five years ago. Since then, Mr. Berman's been all about his movies. He was married to his films. I know it sounds awful and shallow, but he was a celluloid artist. He didn't have time to invest in personal relationships. That's why he dated the girls from the Double Click Club."

  "He didn't hide it?" Hitch asked.

  "He didn't," she said, without rancor. "He even brought the escorts to studio functions. They were educated and beautiful."

  "What about Chrissy Sweet?" Hitch asked. "We understand she wasn't exactly on the waiting list for Mensa."

  "There's an expression in show business about beautiful, dumb actresses. 'God gives with one hand, but takes away with the other.'

  That was Chrissy. She was gorgeous,
but if you're a guy, don't get caught in a locked room with her when you're planning to keep your clothes on. You could die of boredom."

  "And Mr. Berman liked that?" I asked.

  "I think so. She was easy for him to be with. She made no intellectual demands."

  "Can you tell me about the Christmas party last night?"

  "He went to last year's party, so this was his second time. I bought a diamond tennis bracelet at Tiffany's for him to give to Chrissy as a Christmas gift. Fifteen grand. That's me, the working girl's friend," she quipped. Hitch and I both smiled at her attempt at humor.

  "Did Scott have any enemies?" Hitch asked, getting to the meat of it. "Was there anybody you can think of who might have wanted to kill him?"

  "You mean, besides the entire movie department at CAA and Endeavor?" she said, smiling. We nodded.

  "As a matter of fact, he almost didn't go to that party because of Chrissy Sweet's husband, who she was divorcing. His name is Carl. He called here twice yesterday. He told Mr. Berman to stay away from his wife or there would be big trouble.

  "Even though she was in the midst of divorcing him, Carl wasn't about to let go. He was extremely possessive. Scott wasn't going to go to the party because of that threat. Then unfortunately he changed his mind and went at the last minute. If I were you, I'd definitely go find Carl Sweet," she added. "If he doesn't have a hell of a good alibi, I'd bust him."

  "Any idea where he lives?" Hitch asked.

  "No. I don't think Scott even knew Chrissy's real address. It was one of Miss Dublin's strict rules. All dates had to be arranged through her Internet site. The girls were prohibited from giving out their addresses. At first, the only name we had for her was Slade Seven.

  Eventually, she told Scott her real name. The Double Click Club kept it all very arms length, because that's the way Yolanda wanted it."

  We talked to her for another ten minutes, but that was all Shay could really tell us. As we stood to go, Hitch took her hand then bowed elegantly like Count Hollywood.

  "Shay is a very beautiful name," he said in his most bullshit courtly manner.