The Prostitutes Ball

Chapter 24.

We stood out by our cars in front of the duplex apartment. Hitch was writing frantically in his red leather journal. It was just before noon.

"Put that away for a minute and let's talk about this," I said.

"You were right. There was a second shooter. The only problem was our time frame was off by over a quarter century. This story doesn't start with the Prostitutes' Ball and the Sladky triple. We gotta back it all up and start it on Christmas Eve 1981, the night Thomas Vulcuna bludgeoned his wife and daughter to death with a hammer then killed himself. Which, not for nothing, is a monster inciting event and the opening scene of our movie!"

"Listen, Hitch, put the movie on hold for a minute. Let's think this out." "Right."

"I think World War One Lugers fire 7.65 ammo."

Hitch was grinning. "Its all one case, dude. Beginning in 1981 with the bloody Vulcuna double murder with the ball-peen hammer, then the suicide. The investigation and the closed case ends Act One. Then we move into Act Two with the Prostitutes' Ball triple-murder case that just went down on the same crime scene. The exciting cast of characters grows and now we got Thayer Dunbar and his cadaverous attorney who bought the house from Vulcuna's estate in eighty-two and then for some still-unknown, Act Three reason won't let anybody get inside for almost thirty years. We got little coked-up Brooks and the Scott Berman/Yolanda Dublin thing with the two gorgeous dead hookers. I mean, can you stand this? Topping it off, we're simply lousy with subplots. We got a once-powerful production company run by Vulcuna in eighty-one, which is today a shell of itself with Brooks making cheesy Paris Hilton videos. And tying the whole thing together is the German Luger and the 7.65 ammo that turns up in both triple kills, and we're just getting started. I'm telling you, dawg, this is one big, magnificent, kick-ass, go-to-the-bank movie."

He had again started to jot something down in his journal, so I took the leather book out of his hand.

"Stop writing and listen to me," I insisted.

He tapped his foot impatiently. "I'm listening, but can I have my book back?"

I gave it to him, then posed a question.

"If Vulcuna checked the gun out of the prop room and brought it home on Christmas Eve, and if the L. A. homicide cops found him dead with a 7.65 bullet shot through his head upstairs, then how come we found the 7.65 slug in the backyard by the trash shed? It should be in a wall upstairs in the master bedroom."

"I don't know. Maybe he test-fired the gun in the backyard first," Hitch said. "I can tell you this much, it isn't simple. Which means Dahlias gonna freak with all her KISS bullshit. We say anything about this, she's gonna try and get our bosses to transfer us to a traffic detail."

"I know. Too much collateral info for her Sladky jury."

"So we can't tell her, right?" Hitch continued. "We do what she wants, go up to Skyline right now, get the evidence techs working on a grid and graph, let them wave the little metal detector 'til there's no more joy in Mudville. While they do that, we work on this."

"Except what are we working on?" I said. "Is this somehow still part of the Sladky triple or are we now just working on Thomas Vulcuna's double murder / suicide, which was closed by our own department over twenty-five years ago and doesn't even have a case number?"

"1 don't know," he said. "But you gotta admit, this is as intriguing as hell." He was excited; his foot was tapping maniacally. "By the way, this is exactly what happened on Mosquito. Things kept turning up, making the story better and better."

"You're saying we got two separate crimes here, but they're somehow connected? They happened twenty-eight years apart, both are triple killings, both occurred within days of Christmas, at the exact same location. In both instances, the guy who owns the house where the murders took place also owns the same Hollywood production studio, except because of the time span they're completely different guys and one wasn't even born when the first crime happened? I'm gagging here, Hitch."

"I don't know the answer, but it's certainly provocative."

"We need to get inside that house," I said, running the problem in my mind. "Except nobody's gonna write us a warrant. Vulcuna was solved years ago. That case is down. No need for further investigation. With the video we found of Sladky shooting up the party, that case is also down. Since both cases are solved, we got no PC to investigate that mansion. Sheedy will fight a search warrant saying the crime didn't occur inside the house and our spineless political hack DA will fold like a deck chair. So if we want to go in there we'll have to do it without a warrant."

"Right. Good one. Kiss your ass good-bye."

"I think we need to take a vow of silence," I said. "We pledge to keep this between us. Nobody knows. Not Jeb. Nobody. At least not until we figure out how we want to play it."

"That also include your wife?" he asked.

I didn't like keeping things from Alexa but Hitchens was standing there, his body language going more and more rigid by the moment, so I finally nodded.

Then his cell phone rang. He pulled it out of his holster and answered. "Yeah, sure… you bet." He hung up and put it away.

"Sadly, I won't be able to join you for the fabulous Dahlia dig up on Skyline Drive, which we've scheduled for this afternoon. That was the skipper. IA wants me over at the Bradbury Building ASAP for my shooting review board. I'm counting on you to handle my end of this search, bro. I want you to find every last piece of missing evidence for our exalted prosecutor. I wish I could be there cause I live for this shit, but sadly I'm needed elsewhere."

He shot me a peace sign, got in the Porsche and powered off, leaving me standing in the street.