The Prostitutes Ball

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.

"We've found fourteen more, so far," I said. "Plus the twenty CSI got last night and the nine that got parked in the three vies. That's forty-three total."

"I can do math, Detective."

"I didn't say you couldn't."

"How 'bout the brass?" she asked.

"Forty-five cartridges," I said.

"So you're still missing nineteen." We nodded. "If this guy, Carl Sladky, is our doer, I want to lock him up fast." She was looking at the monitor while Jeb fiddled with the DVR.

"Karel," I corrected.

"I'm sorry, were you saying something?"

She turned around and fixed coal black eyes on me. She was a real pistol, this one. I looked to Hitch. Since she was African-American, I figured maybe he might have some ethnic traction.

He picked up on my look and turned to her. "Ms. Wilkes, what my partner was saying is the man's name is not Carl, it's Kar-el, with a K and an E. Czechoslovakian."

"Then why didn't you say that?" she demanded.

"We just did," he replied.

"Stop babbling and play back the video. I'm on a short trial recess and my judge is a flaming asshole."

Jeb finally accessed the correct file and brought up the video. The initial image showed the gardeners working around the empty pool area early in the day. There was a time and date code running across the bottom of the screen. We fast-forwarded and then slowed the playback.

Yolanda Dublin and Yeo-Sing were the first to appear at a little past three P. M. We watched as they unloaded, put up a few decorations, and left.

Then a caterer arrived at six, set up buffet tables and a bar beside the pool and carried warming trays and food containers into the pool house before driving off.

Around eight P. M. Yolanda and Yeo-Sing returned, unpacked the food containers, and set out the hors d'oeuvres.

At nine, the gowned, beautiful girls of the Double Click Club began to arrive with their client dates. There was lots of arms-length air-kissing at first, but before long things began heating up.

As the party got going, Scott Berman and Chrissy Sweet reclined on a pool chaise. It wasn't long before he had the top on her dress loosened, and they were nuzzling and drinking champagne.

Occasionally, Scott got up to make them fresh drinks. We watched as couples started dancing. There was a decent amount of crotch friction. I could see why the Prentisses pulled down their blinds to shield their child.

Then the same scruffy blond guy who was on Yolanda Dublin's security video walked casually into the backyard carrying something draped with a towel. He walked to a spot at the end of the pool and dropped the towel. We could clearly see a machine pistol in his right hand. He pointed the gun at Chrissy and shouted something. That was when the guests became aware of his presence.

Scott Berman and Chrissy Sweet scrambled up from the chaise and turned to run as Sladky let loose with a stream of bullets, first hitting his wife in the back.

The force of the bullets lifted her off her feet and she flew face-first into the pool.

Scott scrambled for cover as three rounds ripped open his chest.

He staggered back, spun, and flopped over the back of the pool chaise where we'd found him.

As the rest of the partygoers scattered in every direction imaginable, Karel Sladky started to spray bullets, turning and firing in a wide arc. People were running and screaming in terror, but the shots now weren't directed at anyone. Some crashed into the hillside, some into the stucco walls of the main house, some went into the night sky, where they undoubtedly landed half a mile away.

The last burst of gunfire inadvertently hit Paula Morgan, who had stupidly run out of the pool house, accidentally stumbling into the line of fire as Karel spun wildly around. When the bullets struck her she splashed awkwardly into the pool.

Karel Sladky turned and walked without hurry away from the pool area and was gone. A moment later Yolanda Dublin and Yeo-Sing ran out of the pool house. Yolanda checked the three dead bodies without touching them. She said something to Yeo-Sing, who fished into Scott's pocket and came up with his car keys. While he was doing this Yolanda gathered up the girls' purses and they quickly left. Once they were gone only Scott Berman, Chrissy Sweet, and the hapless Paula Morgan remained in the shot.

Jeb turned off the video.

"Fuck," Dahlia Wilkes said softly. It was the first time I'd ever seen her shaken.

"Think you can win the case with that?" I said.

She ignored me and began issuing instructions. "I want our CSI video guys to try and count the shots. Have them go frame to frame. I want every single slug that you can find, catalogued and cross-matched.

"I need the names of every person on that tape and all those people who were up there that we didn't see. Names, numbers, addresses. This is a good case, but it's a media red ball so it needs to be squeaky clean. No flaws, failures, or fuck-ups.

"You need to crank up the existing BOLO on this Sladky guy and red flag it. Have every squad room pass his picture out at roll call. I want him in custody."

She turned to go.

"Excuse me, Ms. Wilkes," Hitch said.

"What?!"

"Unless we can get an independent verification of who was up there, we may have trouble getting Miss Dublin to cooperate and supply any names."

"It's a triple murder, is she kidding?"

"1 don t think so. She says we need to read the Heidi Fleiss book. I haven t had a chance to buy one yet but when I do, if you want, I'll pick you up a copy."

He was messing with her now and she scowled angrily. Dahlia was beautiful, strong, and smart, but all of those attributes were undermined by her intimidating personal interactions and her total lack of any humor. She drilled us with those deadly black irises. "Let me see what I can do to change that," she said.

"Good luck. Her attorney is Edith Stillwell," Hitch said. "Shit."

She handed Hitch her notepad. "Write Yolanda's contact info there and get back out to Skyline and finish policing the crime scene. I want the rest of those bullets and casings, and I want them now."

"You saw the tape," Hitchens said. "He was shooting a lot of those rounds up in the air. I think its reasonable to assume we won't find them all."

"Then focus on finding the rest of the brass. I need prints to lock this up tight. That stuff is out there somewhere. Go get it, Detective. And I don't want to hear a bunch of bullshit excuses either."

"Oh, lordy, lordy. Dontcha be payin' that no nevermind, missy." Hitch was bobbing his head up and down like Stepin Fetchit. "We field niggas ain't gonna be goin' and givin' no 'scuses, no siree."

"Go fuck yourself, Hitchens," she said.