The Prostitutes Ball

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.