The Prostitutes Ball

Chapter 11.

The first good thing that happened since I got this damn case was parked in the driveway in front of Yolanda Dublin's multimillion-dollar beach pad. It was a new black Mercedes 350 with the partial plate number 4 L M C. The rest of the plate read 292.

"That ride was coming down Skyline Drive when Alexa and I got the call and were going up," I told Sumner.

He shined his Mini Maglite inside the Mercedes. The top was up and both bucket seats as well as the back bench were empty. We proceeded up the walkway to the house and rang the front doorbell. The lights were on inside so apparently we weren't going to be gaining an advantage from the element of surprise.

Yolanda Dublin was a well-known Hollywood fixture who had once been a five-thousand-dollar-a-night girl herself, a centerfold who had gone into high-end hooking and then management. The word was that she was occasionally still available to party with clients, but only if she liked them and that was extremely rare, if it happened at all these days.

The door was opened by a striking six-foot-tall woman in her late thirties who had shiny long blond hair, a very nice shape, and a freckled beach tan. She was barefoot, wearing tight white jeans and a tank top. Her outfit complemented a spectacular body.

"Yes?" she said.

"Yolanda Dublin?" I asked.

"Yes."

"Police."

She looked over her shoulder and called out, "Edith!"

A few seconds later Yolanda s exact physical opposite lumbered up a short flight of stairs from the sunken living room and stood a few-feet behind her.

This woman was built like a refrigerator. Big enough to get picked for the NFL draft, she was even taller than Yolanda and weighed well over three hundred pounds.

She had a feathered masculine hairstyle that was carefully trimmed. Her mahogany brown suit jacket and long skirt were tailored to camouflage her boxy shape, but managed only to accentuate it. Piano legs with anvil-sized feet encased in flats held it all upright. Her jaw was set pugnaciously, projecting an overall impression of severe, relentless aggression. She looked vaguely familiar to me.

"This is a police matter," I said, and we showed them our credentials. "I'm Detective Scully from Homicide Special. This is Detective Hitchens."

Yolanda Dublin didn't seem surprised that we'd come calling, so there was little doubt she'd been expecting us.

"This is Edith Stillwell. She's my attorney," Ms. Dublin said, confirming my suspicions. She'd obviously called Stillwell for help and they'd been sitting here well past two A. M. waiting.

Now I remembered where I'd seen Edith Stillwell. It was in the hallways at the Criminal Courts building.

"Edith advised me that I don't have to discuss anything with you guys," Yolanda said in a sexy, contralto voice.

"So you know then, that two of your working girls were found dead in a swimming pool up on Skyline Drive along with an unidentified man."

I thought it was best not to throw Scott Berman s name out at first. I wanted to see if she volunteered it. We were still on the front steps. Nobody had asked us inside yet.

Hitch shot Yolanda Dublin a smile that showcased his whole sparkling porcelain tray and said, "I could really use a glass of water."

Yolanda looked over at Edith, who said nothing, but Hitch's request worked, because Yolanda stepped aside to allow us to enter.

There was a Chinese man wearing a white shirt and black pants standing in the kitchen doorway that adjoined the entryway.

"Yeo-Sing, could you bring us a tray of ice water, please?" Yolanda said and he left quickly to get it.

"By working girls, are you implying that they are prostitutes?" Yolanda Dublin said. "Because no matter what you think you've heard about me, I run a legitimate modeling, escort, and physical therapy service. It's not a prostitution ring."

I let that go and replied, "Since you didn't ask us who the dead girls were, I'm going to assume you're pretty caught up on what happened on Skyline tonight."

"I think it would be foolish for you to assume anything, Detective," Edith Stillwell said. She was big in a way that made her appear uncomfortable. However, above the linebacker shoulders her hard, dark, gun-fighter eyes left no doubt that she was all business.

"We re investigating a triple homicide," 1 said. "This is not going to go away. Your best bet is to cooperate with us."

"Lets sit in the living room," Yolanda suggested.

She led us over to a grouping of sofas and chairs by a large floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the ocean. The outdoor spotlights were on, illuminating a low surf, which was pushing a line of bubbling foam up onto the damp sandy beach.

Yeo-Sing returned with a silver tray and passed out four iced glasses of water, each with a lemon slice perched festively on the rim.

After he left, we settled in and Edith Stillwell immediately took the offensive.

"Yolanda admits to nothing. At this point we re willing to listen nothing more. She has rights and I'm here to make certain they are scrupulously observed."

"Here's the bad news, Ms. Dublin. I happened to be the one who got the initial shots-fired call. I saw that black Mercedes out front coming down the hill on Skyline Drive. I was in the MDX you almost hit."

"There are lots of black Mercedes 350s in L. A.," Yolanda countered.

"Not with a partial plate of 4 L M C. You're busted as a participant at that Christmas party. That makes you anything from a material witness to an accomplice in a triple murder. Don't be lying to us. If we decide to make you an accessory after the fact, you're as good for this as the doer."

"Hardly," Edith said. "But it's good rhetoric."

"Okay, then I'm going to make an arrest."

I stood and reached for my cuffs.

"Wait a minute. Put those away," Edith said. "I guess Yolanda can answer a few nonincriminating questions."

I kept my cuffs out as an unstated threat, but sat back down and said, "Let's start with the dead man. You know who he was?"

"Scott Berman," Yolanda said softly. "I guess you know he's a world-famous producer."

I nodded. "Why was he there?"

She glanced at Edith, who dropped her head imperceptibly in a subtle affirmative. "He was a client. He was also an amateur figure photographer who sometimes hired our models for stills. He was nice. He treated the girls well. Since they're both dead, I guess I can tell you Chrissy Sweet was there as Scott's date. What he and Chrissy did on a date was their own business. He was divorced many years ago. That's about all I want to say right now."

"Who else was up there? What other clients?"

"I'm not going to tell you."

"That's sorta not your choice," Hitch said.

"Sure it is," Edith shot back. "She has confidentiality agreements."

"You gotta be joking. A modeling or escort service doesn't get a psychiatric or marriage privilege," I said, jiggling the cuffs in my hand softly. "You have some jeopardy here, Ms. Dublin. You tell us what we need to know and maybe we can work something out. You get balky, I'm gonna roll you up."

"Yolanda is in a personal service industry," Edith said. "She has some nondisclosure issues. You can threaten all you want, but she's not an accessory after the fact and you know it. The best you could possibly manage here is an arrest and a seventy-two-hour hold as a material witness. If she has to do a few days in jail, we won't be happy, but she can deal with it."

I knew she was probably right.

Edith continued. "Yolanda is not going to give up the names of clients or the professionals who work for her. If she does that, she'll crash her entire, totally legitimate business."

"Read the Heidi Fleiss book if you don't believe us," Yolanda said softly, then added quickly, "Not that my business is anything like hers."

"Okay, but you need to give us something that moves this case forward so we wont get stuck on you. If you don't, I'm willing to take this to the district attorney. I'm betting he'll see things my way and will charge you with a felony."

I was trying to bump her slightly to get her talking.

It worked.