The Prostitutes Ball

Chapter 30.

"I can almost promise you Brooks won't be at home after ten P. M.," Hitch said, looking at his watch. "From what I hear the kid clubs every night."

We were still standing beside our cars in the marina parking lot.

"So how do we find this little turd?" I said as I pulled the day-old arrest warrant for Brooks Dunbar out of my briefcase.

"I think I can track him down. Let's drop our cars downtown and take a slick-back. If I can find him, that black-and-white might be useful."

We left the marina and dropped our cars at the Police Administration Building. Light Santa Ana winds had started blowing, bending the tops of the palm trees with a warm desert breeze. We checked out a slick-back from the motor pool.

"Slick-back" is police slang for a black-and-white that is assigned to detectives and doesn't have a light bar on the roof, hence the name.

I drove the D-ride up the ramp and onto the city streets with Hitch in the passenger seat beside me.

"Let's start with the Ivy," Hitch said.

"He's at the Ivy?" I asked.

"Not as far as I know."

"Then why are we going there?"

"Watch and be amazed," he replied.

We headed toward Sunset and then to the Ivy on Robertson. It was after eleven P. M., but the restaurant was packed. About forty paparazzi were camped out across the street, their Nikon digital cameras at the ready.

We pulled up and got out of the car. As soon as Hitch was visible, a lot of the photographers started snapping his picture and calling his name.

"If we end up in People magazine over this, I'll kill you," I growled.

"Don't worry. I'm in the wrong age demo for People. They only want eighteen to twenty-four unless your name's Obama or you're a middle-aged actor who's beating the shit out of his girlfriend. These guys like me. They only take my picture so I won't feel left out."

Hitch told the valet we'd just be a minute and to leave our ride at the curb. The red coat reluctantly pulled the black-and-white up and parked it next to the valet stand where, immediately, it began to draw nervous looks from the patio tables, soiling the trendy ambience of the posh Westside restaurant.

Hitch walked across the street to the crowd of scruffy-looking photographers. I had no idea what he was up to, but followed.

Paparazzi are the tree squirrels of celebrity journalism. The guys were mostly wide bodies with plumber butts. The girls had stringy hair and bad complexions. They were nocturnal animals who surged around West L. A. like schooling fish, always hunting for the action with Vitaminwater and protein bars stuffed in their pockets.

"Hey guys, anybody see Brooks Dunbar lately?" Hitch called out.

"He was trying to get into Club Nine about an hour ago," one of the scruffy guys said. "But he owes that place a fortune, so they probably didn't let him past the rope."

"If you can scare him up for me, then the next time I'm with Jamie, I'll slow my man down so you can get some shots."

"Solid," several of them said as they flipped open cell phones and started calling other paparazzi around Hollywood.

"Got him," a tall, hefty girl wearing low-rider jeans said. "The Cottonwood on Melrose. He just got there but he's never in one place long, so you better hurry."

"Thanks, Julie. I owe ya." Catcalls and "See ya's" followed us back to our car.

"Not bad," I said. "Definitely a fresh way to do it."

I slid behind the wheel of the slick-back and we headed toward the Cottonwood Club on Melrose.

We got there just in time because as I pulled in, the Heir Abhorrent and his posse of hangers-on were already being escorted out of the club by a bouncer who was roughly the size of an old Wurlitzer jukebox. Brooks was screaming insults at this monster.

"You assholes overcharged my AmEx! I'm not paying you a fucking dollar until you make it right!"

He was trailed by his drugged entourage; two guys and four girls, all bone-thin losers. The bouncer shoved him to the curb and went back inside. Brooks then turned his ire on the circling pack of flashbulb-popping paparazzi.

"Eat my crotch, you shitsticks!" He flipped them off. He climbed to his feet as his friends all giggled. The photographers scuttled along behind this band of unruly brats who loved the fact that they were being chased by a pack of Hollywood photographers, while all the time pretending to be very pissed off about it.

"You fucking assholes need to get a real job!" Brooks, who had never had one, yelled.

Hitch and I cut them off. I grabbed Dunbar by the arm and shoved the arrest warrant in his face. Cameras flashed.

"You are under arrest for failure to appear as a material witness in a murder investigation."

We cuffed him and Mirandized him while the pack of teenagers and paparazzi looked on.

"Leave my mate be!" the Aussie girl I recognized from his Christmas party yelled.

We ignored her and shoved Brooks into the back of the car as the photographers circled, gunning off shots with the Cottonwood Club in the background. The tabloid headline over these photos would undoubtedly be something cute like "Heir Abhorrent Errs."

Our detective car had the desired effect.

"Am I being arrested?" Brooks said, suddenly aware of his predicament. "Whatta you doin'? I don't like this. I wanna leave." He was protesting loudly as we drove away.

Men's Central Jail is no damn fun at all. Especially if you're a pudgy white guy wearing a T-shirt that says EAT SHIT AND DIE MOTHERFUCKER.

Despite his drug history, according to his yellow sheet Brooks Dunbar had never actually landed there before, having successfully used money and privilege to beat two possession beefs and one indecent exposure where he'd mooned sorority row at USC from the passenger seat of his dad's Ferrari.

Fifteen minutes later we were in the booking cage at the City Jail.

"For now he's being booked as a material witness on a seventy-two-hour hold," I told the sergeant in charge as I filled out the paperwork. "Put this guy in a dorm on the second floor."

The sergeant ran the night shift at MCJ and started processing my paperwork. I wanted Brooks in a group cell so he could experience the full ambience of our facility.

"You cant do this!" he shrieked, standing in the center of an outlined box painted on the floor while his picture was snapped. He looked terrible. His hair was mussed and his eyes bleary. I thought if it were ever published, this shot would live in perpetuity on the Internet.

"I can t stay here!" Brooks wailed.

I didn't blame him. The jail was a foreboding place with sliding metal doors, chipped yellow paint, and the faint smell of vomit mixed with desperation.

"I warned you, Brooks. You should ve come to my office when you had the chance. Now we do it this way."

After he was processed Hitch and I left him with the booking sergeant and went to a restaurant across the street to get a cup of coffee. As we walked, I could feel the Santa Anas growing in strength. The trees on Bauchet Street were beginning to rustle in the desert wind. We went into the coffee shop and took a booth. After the waitress poured, we sat back and pondered our options.

"How long you want to keep him up there?" Hitch asked.

"He's not very tough. An hour ought to do it. We also need to get an ADA to chase us down a broad search warrant for both the house and yard at Skyline Drive. We need somebody who won't give us up if the pressure builds."

"I got just the one." Hitch smiled. "Frieda Wilson. She's been on the DA's staff for a year and she's got a huge case on the Hitchmeister."

An arrogant remark, but somehow Sumner Hitchens had the charm to get away with it. He dialed a number, then turned away and had a quiet conversation on his phone with someone, which included some whispered nuances before he finally disconnected.

"Frieda has a judge who will write it blind if she promises not to release the warrant without signed authorization from the primary property owner, which would be our man, Brooks. She said she'd be here in an hour."

"That works."

After three quarters of an hour had passed I said, "Lets see if Brooks feels any better about cooperating with our investigation now."

We went back over to the PAB and checked in with the booking sergeant, who told us he'd put Brooks into 2-15, an Erne gang car on the second floor.

I wanted him in a group cell but I wasn't sure he should be put into a cell with a bunch of Mexican Mafia. We followed the sergeant quickly into the elevator and rode up. As soon as I stepped out into the cell block, I could hear Brooks whining or whimpering. When we rounded the corner on our way to 2-15, we heard a slap followed by a squeal.

"Leave me alone. Please!" Brooks pleaded. "I can pay you money. My dad's a billionaire." Something you probably don't want to confide to a cell full of extortionists.

We stepped in front of the barred door and saw Brooks against the wall, surrounded by three Hispanic bangers, each with a large "18" tattooed on the back of his neck, indicating they were from the Mexican Mafia's hardened 18th Street gang.

"Hey ese, ease up. Don't go committing no assault on my arrestee," Hitch said sharply.

The gangbangers turned away from Brooks as the sergeant from the booking cage pulled out his keys and let the terrified Heir Abhorrent out.

Once he was in the corridor I saw he had a puffed lip from getting smacked around. Tears were wet on his cheeks.

Hitch and I led him into one of the I-rooms off the jail corridor and closed the door behind us. I took out my cuffs, and for effect, locked him to the ring on the table.

"What are you doing? What re you doing?" he squealed hysterically, pulling back. But once chained up, he wasn't going anywhere.

"How come you didn't come to my office?" I began. "You need to give me a good reason."

"Be… be… because," he stammered.

Hitch leaned forward. "Because is not a reason. We're looking for an action word here, Brooks. 'Because' is a conjunction."

"I had things to do."

"So, for no stated reason, you hampered and delayed our triple homicide investigation, keeping us from doing our job?" I said. "Don't you want us to solve this? You aren't somehow involved, are you?"

"No! Of course not. How could I be involved? I have an alibi. I was at my Christmas party. You already know that. And of course I want you to do your job." Brooks sniffled. "I'm very pro-police."

"Doesn't seem that way," Hitch said.

"I am, I really am!" he pleaded.

"How are you getting along with Stender Sheedy Senior?" I asked, abruptly changing the subject.

Now real anger flared. "I hate that fucker. He works for my father. Asshole made me fly all the way back from Amsterdam once 'cause he needed my signature on some stupid document that needed to be notarized."

"How 'bout Junior?"

"Sten is okay. He's a tight-ass, but he gets me stuff."

"Those two haven't exactly been helping me and my partner either," I said.

"Nope," Hitch agreed. "Makes us want to take it out on somebody.

Since you're handy I'm thinking we should park you in this jail 'til like, say, Easter. How's that sound?"

"No! No, please! Please don't!" he wailed. "Whatever the problem is, I can fix it, but you've got to let me outta here tonight. Those guys in that cell scare the shit outta me."

"Maybe you should stop wearing T-shirts that insult people," Hitch suggested.

"I'm not so sure we can just fix this," I said. "This isn't the Bel Air Country Club. You're not in here for throwing up in the pool. This is a triple homicide. Took place on your property. Until you convince us otherwise, we gotta assume you're part of it."

"I'm not! I promise you. What do you need? I'll do anything. Please!"

He was leaning forward. Tears again began to well in his eyes.

"I don't know." I looked over at Hitch. "What do you want to do?"

"I don't know," he said in deep theatrical thought. "I'm torn."

"Me too."

"Please! Just tell me what you want. I'll do anything. Just tell me. Whatever it is, I'll make sure it's done," Brooks whimpered.

"Okay," I said, rubbing my chin. "So here's the problem. In order for us to clear you, we need to make sure none of your DNA is on that crime scene."

"I wasn't there," he said. "How could my DNA be there if I wasn t?

"You say you weren't there but you haven't been too honest with us up 'til now," I reminded him. "Like we know you met with Yolanda Dublin up on Skyline Drive to get her money, but you said you never go there. That was a lie. We lose trust when people lie. When trust is lost it's almost impossible to earn it back again."

"I just said that to you so my dad wouldn't find out I was renting that backyard to people. And I didn't exactly go up there. Sten showed her the property. I met her on Skyline Drive a day later and she paid me. We were out front standing in the street. I never even went up the drive."

Hitch thought about it, then pretended to have an idea. "Hey, if that's true, what if we go back there with a spit kit and check the house and the backyard for Brooks's DNA. If all he did was stand in the street and get her money, then his DNA won't be on the crime scene and we can cut him loose."

"'Cept we don't have a search warrant," I replied, furrowing my brow. Of course, all of this was patently ridiculous, but it was working because Brooks had a panicked look on his face.

"We'd need the owner's permission to go in there looking for the DNA," I continued. "Sheedy won't give it, so that's just gonna end up being a huge unproductive hassle."

"I have complete ownership of that property, not Sheedy," Brooks said, lunging at the idea. "I sign papers all the time on that place. Por taxes and all kinds of shit. I can give the permission."

"I don't know," Hitch said, looking at me. "It's pretty late in the case now for that. Maybe we should just keep him here and sort it out later."

"No! Please. No! I'll sign it. I will." He was almost shrieking at us.

"We gotta think about it," I said. "Don't go anywhere."

We walked out of the room, leaving him chained to the table. Hitch notified the jail guard that our wit was to be detained in the I-room, and not put back in 2-15. We wanted to scare him, but we didn't want him killed.

Then we went to the lobby of the jail to wait for Frieda Wilson from the ADA's office.

She arrived twenty minutes later with our warrant and turned out to be another fox with great legs, wearing a very short skirt. The warrant she brought us was extensive. This one included both the house and the yard. There was a place for Brooks Dunbar to sign, granting us permission to search the premises.

"You're the best," Hitch told Frieda, who smiled longingly at him before she left.

The two of us went back upstairs to the jail. Brooks was crying softly when we walked back into the I-room.

Hopefully, this had been an eye-opening, life-changing experience for him.

"You left me. I was so scared you weren't coming back," he cried.

Hitch and I sat down facing him. "Here's the deal," I said. "You sign this and maybe… maybe we let you go home tonight."

"I'll sign. I'll sign."

"Since this is a sensitive case with a lot of media overtones, you better damn well keep this to yourself," I added. "You tell anyone and we slam you back in here."

"I promise," he said. "I won't tell anyone. Where do I sign?"

"Right here." I handed him my ballpoint. "Two copies. You keep the bottom one."

He signed without even reading.