"Thank you," she demurred. "My father was from the South Pacific. In some obscure Indonesian dialect, Shay means princess."
We left and walked back across the lot.
"Nice lady," Hitch noted.
But I had tuned him out. My mind was parsing another idea. By the time we were back to the car, I had it.
"If Shay means princess in Indonesian, I wonder how you say Sweet in Czechoslovakian."
"Wow," Hitch said. "Good get, homes."
Once we were inside the car, I picked up the radio mic and I called the research desk at LAPD. It took five minutes to find out that the Czechoslovakian translation for Sweet was "Sladky."
We ran "Carl Sladky," spelling the whole name out.
"Roger, D-28," the RTO came back. "But the first name is Karel, spelled with a K and an E. Sladky is as you spelled it. He has three outstanding domestic violence warrants, all for aggravated assault. The warrant delivery team says they have tried three times to serve those warrants, but have no current address. According to their notes, since his wife moved out on him, he lost his apartment in Hollywood. She was paying for it. They think he's living in his van."
Chapter 15
We flagged the outstanding warrants so if the warrant delivery team finally pulled up an existing address on the guy, we would be on their contact list. Then I called in a new firearms check, giving them the correct name and spelling.
When we got back to the office, guess what? No Brooks Dunbar. Stender Sheedy was there with his little jar of Vaseline, trying to get another six hours. I jammed the warrant into his hand.
"That's a copy. If your client even makes an illegal turn, he's gonna end up in jail. You want my opinion, we should let it happen. He's got too many people protecting him. Next time he falls, you oughta let his ass hit the dirt instead of always shoving a feather pillow under him. Maybe some jail time will straighten him out."
"Don't do this," Stender pleaded.
"Already did."
After he left, we were pulled into Jeb s office. We'd been working the whole night and for us, it seemed like forever since we'd gotten the case. Jeb, on the other hand, had gone home to bed, and since Scott Berman's death was blasting out of every radio and TV speaker when he awoke, he was complaining about how quickly the press had gotten it.
We brought him up to date on Karel Sladky, who was a definite person of interest. The fact that we had a name to chase after seemed to please our captain.
"This is good progress," he said. "Good stuff. You've made me happy."
"We live for those moments, Skipper," Hitch said. I couldn't tell if he was kidding or just in the midst of a monumental ass kiss.
"You guys now have a prosecutor assigned to work with you," Jeb continued.
"Already?" Hitch moaned. "Aren't we supposed to arrest somebody before they assign a prosecutor?"
"District Attorney Chase Beal wants to make sure none of the evidence is compromised. He put one of his best gunslingers on this."
"Uh-oh," I said. "Who'd we get?"
"The Black Dahlia."
"Dahlia Wilkes?" we both said, simultaneously groaning.
"She wants to meet with you before the end of the clay to be briefed. In the meantime, she gave instructions that she wants you to personally get back out to Skyline Drive with an evidence collection team and some metal detectors to locate every single slug that was fired from that Bizon.
"So far CSI got no prints off the cartridges they found," Jeb continued, "but they only picked up twenty casings and fourteen slugs. The Bizon's got a sixty-four-shot clip, so there's a lot still out there. It's a big job. Sorry."
"Do you think there'll be time for us to wash and wax Miss Wilkes's car before we go?" I said.
"Look, Shane, you're the one who wanted to work on high-profile hits."
We left the captain's office and sat at Hitch's cubicle because Sally still hadn't cleaned out her desk. I looked up at Hitch's cork divider. He had put up pictures of different clothing ads from GQ and Vanity Fair. The men in the shots had sculpted chins and moussed hair. They stood in poses that could get you killed in a biker bar.
"These are nice." I frowned.
"Hey, Shane, 'til I was assigned to partner up with you I had no fucking cases. I was working on my spring look."
We arranged for an evidence team to meet us at the crime scene. I walked over to my desk, unlocked the bottom drawer, and switched guns. I left the Ultra-Lite. 38 revolver with its ankle holster in favor of a bigger-bore 9 mm automatic. Something told me I might want to pack heavy. Then, because I was still separated from my vehicle, we were back in the Porsche Carrera. Hitch gunned the engine.
"Can we at least put the top up?" I suggested.
"Sure, homes." He hit a button and a mechanical hardtop lifted out of the trunk deck and cantilevered forward, snapping down and locking itself into the brackets.
"Pretty sweet, huh?" he said.
I nodded because it was, and we were out of there.
We parked down the hill from 3151 Skyline Drive and walked up. The vacant lot we'd assigned to the press now looked like the media center in Baghdad's Green Zone. Satellite uplinks, news vans with station call letters on the sides, a craft services section complete with a catering truck advertising five choices of hot meals.
"American journalism at its finger-lickin' best," Hitch said, checking out the food truck. We walked past a phalanx of microphone-wielding reporters gathered by the gate. I knew a few of them. They all knew Hitch.
"Hey, Hitch, over here!" they shouted, gunning off footage.
"Sorry, guys," he said, smiling and waving like a red-carpet celebrity. "I'm working right now."
They shot tape of us, but we made it past without giving an interview, and proceeded on up the driveway.
"This was a good wardrobe choice," Hitch said to nobody in particular. "This rust suit looks hot on camera."
Our evidence team showed up ten minutes later and we went to work with them, hunting with metal detectors for spent cartridge casings and stray bullets.
Doing the math, if the clip contained sixty-four rounds, with nine bullets in our three vies and fourteen more bullets recovered from the crime scene, that meant if he shot 'til slide lock, there were forty-one slugs missing, and forty-four cartridge casings.
After an hour we had found six more Makarov slugs and one more brass cartridge. By early afternoon, it was starting to be longer and longer between shrill electronic beeps. Hitch and I were bushed and took a break, stretching out under an umbrella on the pool chaises.
At around three, we were both dozing when the metal detector lit up something.
"Got a hit," the operator called out.
We both rolled into sitting positions, rubbed our eyes, and ambled over to where he was working.
The way you retrieved this stuff was with little forensic tools. Tiny Barbie-sized spades and brushes. Finally, the technician exposed the find, pulled a bullet out of the ground and dropped it into an evidence bag. But this one was much smaller than the 9 mm Makarovs we'd been digging up.
"What the hell is that?" Hitch asked.
"7.65 mm slug," I replied, peering down at it.
"So our guy used two weapons?" Hitch said.
"Or we've got a second shooter."
Hitch turned to me with a troubled look. "We don't want a second shooter, Shane."
"Whatta you mean we don't want? You got the wrong verb there, partner."
"It's way too late in Act One for a second heavy. Splits the focus."
I glared over at him. It didn't even deserve a response.
"I just don't think we should jump to conclusions," he persisted. "We don't know there was a second shooter. A second shooter? Why? Sladky had a weapon that could put out six hundred rounds a minute and for backup, he brings along some guy with a pathetic little 7.65 automatic?"
"7.65 slugs originally came from Europe. Same with Makarov nines," I said.
"I don't like it, homes. It's n
ot working for me."
By then I'd really had it with this movie bullshit. "How 'bout this?" I snapped. "What if our second shooter is Scott Berman's hot bitch lover from Sarajevo? She could be over here with the Czechoslovakian female fitness team, which maybe Karel Sladky coaches. All of them wearing tiny little string bikinis, glistening with baby oil. Berman discovers that these hard bodies are really trying to blow up LAX with a stolen Russian suitcase nuke but before he can go to the cops, he gets greased, taking our story down a whole new path with a lot of great shit for Act Two. Does that make it work any better?"
"I know you're just playin' with me, but that's not half bad," Hitch replied.
Chapter 16
While I called Jeb and told him what we'd found, Sumner Hitchens was talking to the metal detector operator. They were rummaging around next to the trash area where the 7.65 bullet was found, looking for another hit. Jeb wanted us to bring in the slug right away. As I hung up, I saw Hitch walking toward me.
"Come over here," he said.
"Find something?"
"Yeah."
I followed him across the yard around to the side where the smaller bullet had been uncovered. There, built into the eaves of the trash shed, was a new-looking video surveillance camera in a waterproof box that was so well hidden that everybody had missed it the night before. If it had a wide-angle lens, it would cover the entire pool area.
"Hello, hello," I said, standing under the camera and sighting in the genera] direction it was pointed.
"I love it when we catch the killing on tape," Hitch said. "It really fucks with the defense attorneys head."
We followed the hidden ground cable to where it led into the mansion through a small hole drilled in the stucco at the base of the exterior wall.
"Video deck's inside the main house," I said. "Call Jeb and see if he can get us a warrant, or better still, to save all that trouble, maybe somebody from the Dorothy White Foundation will come out here and just open this up for us. Give us verbal permission to go inside."
While Hitch made the call, I walked around the side of the mansion and looked through every available window.
I hadn't done it the night before because I was positive that the house was deserted. I should have, because by the light of day, even though the windows were dirty, I could now see that the mansion still had some furniture inside, unusual for a deserted house.
Making this discovery even more intriguing was the fact that through one window I could just barely see a fully decorated Christmas tree standing on the far side of the solarium in the living room. The tree looked to be about seven feet tall and there were a lot of unopened Christmas gifts underneath.
Hitch came back after making his call and found me peering through the big round solarium window. "Jeb already called the lawyer at the foundation last night. They're gonna open this up for us without a warrant. What ya got?" he asked.
I pointed and he looked through the dirty glass at the sparsely furnished room and the fully decked-out tree and presents barely visible in the living room beyond.
"Thought nobody lived here," he said.
"Somebody's sure as hell all ready for Christmas," I said.
"Act One was on life support but its sure got a nice heartbeat now" Hitch replied.
"We've gotta go through this house," I said. "If somebody's in there then they could be a witness to the shooting." "Right."
"Why would everybody lie about this?"
Jeb Calloway arrived in about an hour, followed a few minutes later by Stender Sheedy Sr.
The legendary letterhead partner of Sheedy, Devine amp; Lipscomb turned out to be a seventy-year-old gray eminence in a charcoal suit with hair the color of roadside snow and such a pale complexion that it looked like he never got into the sun.
His manner indicated he was accustomed to being treated with deference. The only cops he'd ever dealt with had probably been holding traffic citations.
"I don't have much time," he announced abruptly. "I came personally because I conversed with Thayer Dunbar in Houston this morning and he's getting extremely annoyed. He doesn't want the house involved with all this."
What that had to do with a triple murder escaped me.
Stender Senior had a large ring of keys in his hand and walked past the pool where Chrissy and Paula had died without even bothering to glance at the blood-tinged water. Then he pulled up the ball of keys and, like a school janitor about to open a delinquent's locker, started trying keys in the heavy Yale padlock.
"We were told that nobody lived here," I said.
"Nobody does," he replied curtly.
"There's a Christmas tree in the living room with unopened presents under it."
He didn't bother answering as he continued to search for the right key.
"It's almost Christmas," I persisted. "That tells me somebody is living here."
He finally found one that worked, slipped it in, and twisted the padlock open. Then, once it was off, he turned and grimaced at me, exposing teeth almost the size and color of yellowing piano keys.
"Nobody lives in this house" he said, enunciating each word slowly and carefully, as if speaking to a three-year-old child or an idiot. "That tree has been there since we purchased this property in eighty-two."
"Really?" I said. "If it had been up almost thirty years wouldn't it be nothing but twigs by now?"
"It's synthetic. It was up and the presents were all there when the house was sold to us. The Dorothy White Foundation bought the property as a real estate investment for the Dunbar family. Then, when Brooks was born, I was asked to do some estate planning and the foundation was transferred into his portfolio along with this mansion. Since we were holding the property for long-term capital gain, we never bothered to clean out the house. Does that answer all your questions?" Without waiting for a reply, he turned the knob on the back door and pushed it open.
We entered into a kitchen pantry. There was easily an eighth of an inch of dust on the linoleum floor. Several sets of footsteps were tracked in the dust.
"Somebody's been inside recently," I said, pointing at the tracks.
"The security company comes in to service the video surveillance. I'm sure the tracks will only lead to the laundry room downstairs where the equipment is."
He led the way down to the laundry room. As it turned out, he was right. The tracks led to the basement, where we found a new surveillance DVR and monitor mounted on a bracket near a laundry table.
Jeb walked over and shut it off, then said. "How long is this set to record?"
"Almost a month. I think the company said it works on motion detection." Stender Sheedy Sr. frowned at his watch.
"I'd like to take a look around in here," I said.
Tm trying to cooperate," he said. "I realize three people died out by the pool. It s painfully apparent to me and to Thayer that young Brooks must have been secretly renting out this backyard to obtain extra money for his extravagant social habits. But even so, he was only making the backyard available and with that fact in view, I would suggest you confine your murder investigation to the pool area and keep the house out of it. I represent Thayer Dunbar, who intends to hold this property until Brooks is thirty-five. Then it will eventually be rehabbed and sold. He does not want the house included as part of your crime scene."
"Three people died here last night," I said.
"No. They died in the backyard." Then he heaved a theatrical sigh and began humoring us. "I'm sure it's not lost on you that many buyers are superstitious about houses, especially ones that have been involved in horrible murders. Once a house is rumored to be haunted the price drops precipitously. The backyard is one thing, but if the house becomes part of the investigation it could cost the Dorothy White Foundation a good deal of money."
"All of which means what?" I asked.
"I'm asking you not to create a problem where one need not exist."
"You mean, we'll have to get a warrant if we want to look around in here."
"I didn't say that. What I said was, please don't needlessly compromise this real estate investment."
We all stood locked in a stalemate. Then Jeb made a decision.
"Shane, let's start by looking at the surveillance video. If the shooter is on there, maybe this can just get wrapped up fast, like we all want."
"If that's your call, Captain," I said. Hitch shifted his weight and when I looked over at him I could see that, like me, he was uncomfortable with this.
"That's my call," Calloway replied stiffly.
I could tell by his voice that Jeb didn't like it either, but Thayer Dunbar and Stender Sheedy were part of L. A.'s power elite. They could pick up the phone and call people the three of us only read about in the paper.
We took the DVR into evidence and left without searching the house, although on the way upstairs from the basement I arranged to get myself lost for a minute so I could check out the Christmas tree. It was synthetic, just as Stender Sheedy Sr. had said. Everything, including the unopened presents, was covered in dust.
"You coming?" Jeb called out to me.
"Yeah, sorry, I thought this was the way out," I fibbed.
Stender locked the door and returned to his Century City law firm.
We returned to Jeb's office downtown and set up to watch the video.
You wouldn't believe what was on there.
Chapter 17
Dahlia Wilkes came directly from the courthouse, where she was prosecuting a murder. When she arrived she was breathless from hurrying, trailing dangerous wisps of her hunter-killer personality like noxious fumes from a city bus. She was a thirty-six-year-old, drop-dead gorgeous African-American woman who didn't give anyone time to appreciate her beauty because she was always in your face before you even got a chance to smile. We all knew one another from past cases. The Black Dahlia got convictions but gave heartburn.
"I hope you two detectives have finally catalogued all of my missing Makarov nines," she said, before hellos were even exchanged.
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