The Prostitutes Ball

Chapter 20.

The DFAR took place in the lieutenant s office at the Hollywood station. Sergeant Lena Fine, a thirty-year-old nondescript woman with mouse brown hair and a careful demeanor, from the Bureau of Professional Standards conducted the interview.

The interview was on a continuous tape and was witnessed by the lieutenant watch commander. The DFAR is conducted under oath and is basically the officers retelling of the event for the official record. Hitch, as the primary shooter, went first.

I gave the supporting eyewitness statement and told my end of it, recounting how Sladky came out the window behind me after I had gone into the back parking lot and how he was dropped by my partner before he could get off a second deadly burst that would certainly have killed me.

I was told by Sergeant Fine that a separate shooting review would be conducted a day or so later at the Bradbury Building, and that I might be called to testify. She said because it was nearly Christmas Eve and even the headhunters from IA needed time at home with their families it probably wouldn't happen until after the holiday.

Hitch and I finished around eight. Despite the fact that I'd only had ninety minutes of sleep in two days, I was not the least bit tired, an adrenaline rush performing that miracle for me.

Hitch came out of the mens room where he'd been washing up and stood facing me.

"You wanta go home or do you want to let me buy you a thanks-for-saving-my-life-merry-Christmas drink?" I asked.

"Drink sounds good," he replied.

We went to a bar right across the street called Mulroney's Roost. It was a cop bar that catered to the Hollywood station. However, at eight P. M. this close to Christmas, the bar was pretty dead. Hitch and I took a booth in the back. We both ordered a Corona with lime.

"You okay?" I asked, looking at his tired expression and the rust-colored suit, which had endured a lot of abuse in the last two days.

"Yeah, I guess," he said, but he didn't sound too sure.

"You never put a guy down before, did you?" I said, remembering the image of him bent over in the alley, puking.

"No."

He sipped some of his beer; his handsome face was furrowed in thought. "Funny," he said. "Growing up in South Central I saw my share of bangers get taken off the count. Saw my first payback hit when I was in fourth grade. But…" He stopped and looked down at his beer.

"But it feels different when you're the shooter," I finished for him.

"Yeah, it does."

"Listen, Hitch. What you did for me this afternoon, that's something I can never repay. You know that, right?"

"Come on… guy was greasing off rounds at both of us."

"You stood up. You exposed yourself to fire and you saved my life. I'm not saying I exactly understand what you're all about yet, but that's something I'm not going to forget."

After a moment he nodded. I could see he'd taken in what I'd just said.

"You're gonna have some bad moments about it," I continued. "It's hard being responsible for ending somebody's life."

"He's not dead yet," Hitch said. "I called the hospital an hour ago. He's still in ICU."

"Come on. You put three in the ten ring. He might still have a heartbeat, but that guy's on the ark."

Hitch nodded.

"I've done this a few times. It's never easy. You gotta watch out for yourself these next few days. There's a guy in the psychiatric support unit who I've talked to a couple of times when this happened to me. It's standard procedure to send you to a shrink, so I'm sure Jeb will set you up to do that soon. But some of the head docs in psychiatric support are just clocking time. I want you to have this guy. His name's Dr. Eric Lusk. I'm gonna call him."

"Okay," he said softly. "Eric Lusk." We finished our beers and were getting ready to leave when he looked at me with an earnest expression I'd never seen before.

"I guess we did pretty good. I mean, we got lucky with that video, but we put the case down and we did it in less than two days. Big, media-intense red ball and we gonked it. Home run for big blue."

"Yes it is," I agreed.

"Okay, so what's our story, you and me? Where do we go from here?" "You move over to my cubicle and take Sallys desk."

"Good." He smiled.

I nodded. "But do me a favor."

"Sure."

"Don't put those damn GQ photos up."

"Okay" he said. "Deal."

We shook hands and walked out into the parking lot and stood next to our cars, a little reluctant to let the moment go. We'd bonded behind the strip club and our partnership had found a heartbeat a few minutes ago. We could both feel it.

"Guess there's no movie," I said, grinning at him.

"Yeah." He shook his head in amazement. "But we had a pretty good one going for a while there. Great inciting event. Great characters two dead hookers, Yolanda Dublin, a dead movie producer. Great title. But then I fucked it all up and shot the antagonist before we got out of Act One." He smiled. "And all I got in the bargain was you."

"Not much of a trade, but I'm grateful," I said.

We slapped palms, then he slid into the Porsche. "Merry Christmas. See you in a couple of days, dawg."

"See you then," I agreed. "Merry Christmas."

I drove home, kissed Alexa, called Dr. Lusk at the Psychiatric Support Unit and left a message about Hitch on his voicemail. Then I slept for twelve hours.

The next afternoon I turned on the news and found out that miraculously, Karel Sladky was still alive in ICU, although he was not expected to make it.

The news anchors all said that the huge Scott Berman murder case had been solved in record time and that the DA would file against Sladky for triple murder, that is if he didn't die of his wounds first.

On Christmas morning, after a crazy week, it just felt good to relax. We had the house to ourselves this year. Our son, Chooch, was on the road with the Trojans preparing for a national bowl game the following day.

We ate a late breakfast and opened our presents. Our cat, Franco, sat on the floor under the tree batting at Christmas ornaments. I saved Chooch s gift for last. It was a painting he'd had commissioned using the picture from the USC football media guide. It showed him dropping back, helmetless, the big number 9 on his jersey, about to rifle a pass. It would go in my den and I would treasure it.

On that quiet Christmas Day, I thought the case was over.

But it wasn't.

We were just beginning:

*