"1 don't believe this."
"Believe it. I'm gonna try and convince you not to be stupid here. Your best play is to go in with me so I can help you maximize your profit."
This was coming at me so fast I was a little stunned.
"My guys at UTA think we can get five hundred grand for the story rights, then another half mil as a production bonus when it starts shooting." He went on, "I intend to get Jamie to do this as a sequel to Mosquito, and if that happens we could end up making millions more on the back end. He plays me, we get Brad Pitt or some other handsome asshole to be you. If I set this up right, Brinks will back a truck up to your front door and start unloading cash."
I sat in his lush house with his midnight blue Carrera parked out front, looking at his spectacular view and getting more confused by the minute. In that second, I realized it's very hard to say no to potential millions. You like to think your knees won't buckle over money and that, on principle, you'll be true to your code, but I have to admit, I was struggling.
"The reason I'm getting five points and you're only getting two is because, in essence, you can take a ride on my past success. Because of Mosquito, I'll get a big piece this time and I already have killer agents to hammer the deal points. That's the only reason we don't split fifty-fifty." He was selling this hard to me. "Seventy-thirty is eminently fair."
Crystal came out of the kitchen holding a big pasta fork. "The ripiena is cooling," she said. "You guys get your business sorted out?"
"Shane is having second thoughts about selling his part of Prostitutes Ball" Hitch said.
"You should do it," Crystal advised me earnestly. "There's nothing wrong with it. Hitch knows the ins and outs of Hollywood and, as he's certainly proven, selling a movie concept doesn't stop you from staying on the job and being a highly respected cop."
"Not for nothing, but Hitch is not a highly respected cop. Even though he's obviously smart as hell he's also turned himself into a joke. The sole reason for that is all this movie BS."
Hitch frowned. "That may be a little harsh, Shane. I think it's probably worth noting that jealousy can often manifest itself as sarcasm and ridicule."
"I thought we were still in Act One," I said to change the subject, trying to keep myself from taking a dive. "I thought you told me we didn't have anything until we found that big, dark, scary complication that was hiding under the surface that suddenly reared up and changed everything in Act Two."
"It's already reared, dude. Act One is the whole Vulcuna mess in eighty-one. That's why we gotta get busy and figure that out. Then our complication comes in Act Two with the whole Karel Sladky thing culminating with three new murders. Then Act Three is going to be the breathtaking resolution that brings these two murder cases together in a spectacular conclusion that nobody in the audience sees coming."
"Act Three? You mean there's more? What the hell is going to be in Act Three?"
"We ain't quite got that yet, but once we do, then all that's left is we throw in a bunch of gun-wielding assholes in a helicopter, some shoulder-mounted Stingers to give us that Michael Bay factor, and, voila, you got yourself a hundred-million-dollar domestic gross."
I started rubbing my eyes. I wanted to say no, but damn it, a million dollars is hard to walk away from. I put that thought on hold, hoping that events would submarine this whole thing and make the decision for me.
I thought my price for selling out would have been much higher than a few measly million, or better still, perhaps even be nonexistent. Apparently I lacked that kind of principle or moral fiber. It was a moment of sad realization.
"I'm not doing this," I whimpered, but quite frankly, as I sat there listening to the bubbling Jacuzzi and the distant strains of Dave Brubeck on his jazz piano, it sounded like a feeble protest even to me.
Hitch was up here on Apollo Drive living like a god on Mount Olympus, while I was in the flatlands on Anchor Way, living like an aging cop in a developer's scaled-down version of Venice, Italy.
The twinkling lights of L. A. graced Hitch's spectacular view.
A few plastic mossy-bottom gondolas greeted mine.
Was that fair? Shouldn't I be getting more perks in life?
"I think we should stop talking about it and let it settle in your mind," Hitch said. "I'm gonna assume you'll eventually come to your senses. In the meantime, we need to flesh out Act One and get working on Vulcuna."
He got up and walked into the house, leaving me with the lovely Crystal Blake. She was still holding the long-handled pasta fork. She looked beautiful in the gentle outdoor lights spilling out from under the eaves of the overhanging roof, throwing a rose glow across the deck and her life with Hitch.
"Thanks for being his friend," she said.
"Huh?" I replied, sounding like a stoned guest at one of Brooks Dunbar's parties.
"It's hard for Sumner. He has big dreams. But underneath it all he's always striving to live up to a higher version of himself. Nobody ever gave him anything and look what he's accomplished. But despite the money and fame, he's still that little boy hiding under his uncle's car trying not to join a gang."
"So that wasn't bullshit. He really did that?"
"His big brother was killed in the gangs. Its why he decided to become a cop. He could have quit the department after Mosquito. Jamie Foxx wanted him to run his production company, offered him a fortune, but Sumner said no."
"I didn't know that."
She smiled and nodded. "He has the same calling in life that you do. He loves being a cop, getting justice for victims. It's just with Sumner, so much is happening on the surface, it's sometimes hard to see what's going on deep inside. If you're not paying attention, you can miss it."
Then Hitch came out carrying two large cardboard boxes. He set them down on the table next to the Jacuzzi.
"Here's the Vulcuna case. The homicide team that worked this in eighty-one was out of Hollywood Division. Norris and McKnight."
"Jack McKnight?"
"Yeah, you know him?"
"Met him once. An old patrol car gunfighter who was working Hollywood Homicide about the same time I first came on the job. They called him 'Midnight Jack McKnight' because the guv was always working a bunch of moonlighting jobs. If I remember correctly, he lives at the marina now. Retired."
Hitch pulled out the leather journal and read from it. "Marina del Ray, slip B-243."
"We should go talk to him."
"I already set up an appointment to go out there at nine thirty, after dinner," Hitch said. "Tonight's his bowling night, but he said he'd be back by then."
"You were gonna go without me?"
"Yeah," he said unabashedly. "Until you showed up, that was my plan."
He reached into the box and pulled out McKnight and Norris's old murder book. It contained all their thoughts and drawings on the case. Usually it also had duplicate crime-scene photos and autopsy shots.
I flipped through, reading notes, studying their crime-scene pencil graphs, looking for photos of the double murder/suicide. There wasn't much here.
Hitch said, "Their notes say the Luger jammed after the first shot. Vulcuna fired one to his head. It went all the way through his skull and ended up in the headboard."
"There had to be two shots because we found the other slug in the backyard," I said. I continued to flip through the book and realized there were no crime-scene or autopsy photos in here at all.
Hitch reached into the box and pulled out the Luger. It was in a plastic evidence bag. The magazine was in a separate pouch. He took an inventory sheet from the box.
"Eight-round magazine. According to this, only one was fired. We'll get ballistics to match the slug we found to this gun."
I looked in the second box, which was loaded with physical evidence labeled Baggies with hair and fiber, bloody clothes. Then I saw an old book with an ornate spine and pulled it out.
"The Divine Comedy," I said, reading the cover.
"That's right," Hitch said. "By Dante Aligh
eri. The guy was a great Florentine poet who died in the early thirteen hundreds. The Divine Comedy isn't a comedy like the kind Jim Carrey makes. In Italian literature, a comedy is defined as a story that begins in sorrow and ends in joy." Hitch was proving to be well read with wide-ranging interests, yet I didn't think he ever went to college.
I was looking for the marked passage. A paper clip pinned the page. I found the underlined paragraph and read it aloud.
"'Midway upon the journey of my life, I found myself within a forest dark, for the straightforward pathway had been lost.'"
"Kapow," Hitch said. I looked up and saw that he had made a gun out of his thumb and forefinger and had pointed it at his head.
"It feels like bullshit," I said.
"Ya think?" He grinned. I'm telling you, Shane, there is a lot more here than a double murder/suicide. When we get it all together, Act One is gonna rock. The movie producer in me feels this fact resonating in my bones."
As I was closing the book, I happened to see something written on the inside of the front cover up by the top. In light pencil script, somebody had written San Diego.
"San Diego?" I said.
"Vulcuna or his wife probably bought that in a used book shop. These old books go hand to hand. Very few belong to the original owners. This one was published in 1912, probably sold at a bunch of book sales over the years. One was probably down in San Diego. God knows how many people could have owned that before Vulcuna finally got it."
"I wonder where the crime-scene and autopsy pictures are?" I asked.
"Old case like this, they could be anywhere. Lost even."
I put The Divine Comedy back in the evidence box.
"Let's eat," he said.
The galletto alia piastra was delicious. The pasta ripiena was also knockout. The wine was a Louis Jadot pinot noir. For dessert, Crystal brought out two plates of tiramisu.
She set one down in front of Hitch, the other before her own place. She went back into the kitchen and returned a minute later with a small platter of brown gunk with a parsley sprig stuck on the top.
She set it carefully in front of me.
I sniffed it. Smelled like peanut butter.
"What the hell is this?" I said, peering suspiciously down at it.
"Bullshit, prepared in the French style," Hitch said, grinning.
Chapter 28
I followed Hitch's Carrera into the parking area for the B-Basin 200 Dock at Marina del Rey and parked in front of the boat ramp. As we got out of our cars, Hitch was on his phone. He walked across the pavement toward me as he yakked, then flipped the cell shut and helped me lift the two evidence boxes from my trunk.
"That was McKnight. He's on his way up to let us in."
We walked to the locked gate, which was about nine feet tall. The dock was further protected by chain-link fencing on either side of the gate.
I saw a hunched-over figure of a man moving through the pools of light that illuminated the 200 Dock. He was lumbering along, limping slightly as he made his way slowly up the ramp to where we were standing.
"Hi," he said, a little out of breath. "I'm McKnight. Which one a you guys is Hitchens?"
"That's me," Hitch said. "This is my partner, Detective Scully."
"Hang on a minute while I get this open." He fiddled with the latch and pulled the gate wide.
We shook hands, which was a little tough because Hitch and I were each carrying an evidence box.
"What's in there?" McKnight asked.
"Vulcuna," Hitch told him.
"No shit. There's an old one," he said. "Come on out to the boat, I'm fucking freezing. You get old, you're always cold."
We followed him down the ramp onto the dock. He was much thinner and frailer than I remembered. Age was slowly pulling McKnight down as if it were a gnarled hand reaching up from the grave. Back when I was in patrol he'd been one of those robust street gorillas. Brass balls, big shoulders, and plenty of attitude. McKnight was never afraid to go through a door first. He'd morphed from that kick-ass cop into a craggy, wizened old guy whose face seemed arranged in a permanent scowl.
"Watch your step," he warned as we approached his slip. "This asshole neighbor of mine never flemishes his mooring lines."
He pointed at the ropes on the neighboring dock, which secured a thirty-foot Sea Ray and looked like a plate of spaghetti. By contrast McKnight had made neat, tight spirals of his. He mounted the gangplank leading to the beautiful forty-foot Bertram Sport Fisher. The mat on the dock by the boarding steps read: COME BACK WITH A WARRANT.
"Take off your shoes," he requested as he stepped out of his. "Saves the teak from getting scuffed."
Hitch and I shucked our loafers off, left them on the dock and stepped aboard. His boat was white with blue trim and was immaculately cared for.
It was set up for deep-water game fishing with large twenty-foot outrigger poles hinged up into the air on each side of the deck house, and a deluxe fish-fighting chair with two chrome pole holders located in the center of the teak back deck. There was a big circulating saltwater bait tank aft. Painted on the stern was CODE 4 the police radio designation for an event that was over.
McKnight led us into the spacious main salon, which had deep blue carpet and rich wood cabinets. There was a fancy entertainment center with a built-in flat-screen TV and stereo across from a large sofa and two club chairs. A step-down galley was forward, adjacent to the living area. In keeping with the fishing theme, McKnight had an expensive-looking glass-topped coffee table with two Wyland-like sculptures of jumping dolphins as its base. Their arched backs held up the inch-thick glass.
We set the evidence boxes on the counter separating the salon from the galley.
"So what're you two geniuses doing with Vulcuna?" McKnight asked. "You said you wanted to talk about an old case but that fucker has a long, gray beard."
"Yeah, we know," Hitch said. "Nonetheless, we wanted to ask you about it."
"I get it now. You guys must be the dicks who caught the Skyline Drive thing. The Czech shooter who took off the two Internet whores and that movie producer."
"Thats us," I said.
"According to the news that case is already with the DA."
"Right, but we have a few little details to run down," Hitch said. "Some might involve the Thomas Vulcuna case you and Norris investigated at that same house. By the way, I couldn't find an address on Ed Norris."
"Ed currently resides in a pine box underground at 1656 Forest Lawn Drive. We all get there sooner or later. He took a shortcut called too much JD on the rocks. You guys want some coffee?"
"Good," I said, and Hitch nodded in agreement.
Jack McKnight poured from a pot sitting on the warmer. As he handed us our cups he asked, "So, how can I help?"
We told him about finding the 7.65 slug in the backyard of the house and how his report stated the Luger Vulcuna used to commit the suicide also fired 7.65 ammo but had jammed after one shot, leaving the one bullet in the master bedroom but only one round missing from the gun.
"So you're wondering how that second slug ended up in the backyard when there was only one missing from the clip," McKnight said.
"That's the question." Hitch nodded.
"Maybe he test-fired it in the backyard to make sure the gun worked and then reloaded before he pulled the trigger in the bedroom," McKnight suggested.
"Maybe, but it fights Occam's razor," Hitch said.
McKnight scowled. "And just what the hell is Occam's razor?"
I was wondering the same thing when Hitch explained. "It's a basic rule of logic that states in any complex situation where nothing makes sense, if you shave the problem down to its core issues the simplest solution tends to be the correct one."
"How does that apply to this?" McKnight asked, frowning.
"I don't think a guy who's planning to off himself test-fires his gun in the backyard and then reloads it because he likes a nice, neat suicide gun with only one round missing when they find him. Makes
no sense. The simpler explanation is he was shot in the backyard by an assailant and the killer reloaded the gun because the missing bullet fucks up the suicide idea."
Not bad, I thought.
McKnight frowned. He was troubled. "So you're saying he was shot in the backyard and then moved?"
Something about the way he said this told me it wasn't a new thought for him. Then he added, "You think he got moved upstairs to the master bedroom by his assailant and then the gun was reloaded and fired again, so the suicide bullet could be found in the headboard. Sounds like an episode of Columbo." His expression had gone flat and was now hard for me to read.
"There were no crime-scene or autopsy photos in your murder book," I said. "How come?"
"I don't know what happened to the photos. When the case got filed, they were already missing."
"That seem strange to you?" I asked.
"Yep. I think somebody went into our desks and took the pictures. Never figured out who." He hadn't poured himself any coffee and now he stood, walked to the refrigerator, and pulled out a beer. He levered off the cap and took a swallow.
While he had his back to us, I asked, "You remember whether Thomas Vulcuna had his shoes off or on when he died?"
"They were on," he replied, as he turned. "That matter?"
"Might," I said. "Most suicides take 'em off."
"Okay," he said as he returned to the salon and faced us. "I'm gonna give you guys some very friendly advice. Your Sladky red ball is down. You did it quick so you'll get good write-ups. Do yourselves a big career solid and take a deep bow, accept your praise, but let this old Vulcuna case go. There was big energy coming down from on high to have it listed the way it was. My guess is, there are some dangerous people still around who won't appreciate your meddling. You guys could get hit by lightning."
"'Zat what you and Norris did?" Hitch asked. "You two just cut and run?"
McKnight sat down again in the empty club chair. An angry frown creased his forehead.
Then he took a swallow of his beer and told us what had really happened twenty-eight years ago.
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