The prostitutes ball

Chapter 14

We didn't have studio passes to get onto the Paramount lot, but we had badges, which worked just as well. We were allowed to park in the big lot just beyond the main gate. Hitch and I got out of the Carrera and followed the map the guard gave us to A-Building, where Scott Berman's offices were located on the second floor.

Hitch pointed out the Groucho Building to me on the way. As we passed the commissary, Hitch said the food in the executive dining room was interesting fare and the chef made a great lamb osso bucco, which was simmered in red wine until it fell off the bone, but he only served it on Fridays.

The other side of the restaurant Hitch called the "little people" side. The food there was standard cholesterol-clogging cafeteria chow. Hot dogs and lasagna. Better to stay away, he warned.

"That's Lucy Park," he said as we passed an open patch of grass, pointing out landmarks like a driver on the Hollywood tour. "I understand that Lucy and Desi used to eat their lunches out on that lawn, sitting on those very metal benches."

A-Building was a two-story stucco structure that Hitch said was the first building on the lot.

"Howard Hughes had his office here when this was still RKO."

We took the carpeted stairway up to the second floor and turned left into a hallway whose walls were covered in rich brown fabric and decorated with movie posters in simple brass frames.

"Berman's undoubtedly got Howard Hughes's old office. It's a celebrity suite. Has a big Hollywood history. After Hughes, Lucy had it for years. Stephen J. Cannell was there for a while in the eighties, Sherry Lansing after him, then Tom Cruise before he got the boot by Sumner Redstone for jumping on Oprah's couch and tanking the opening of Mission Impossible III. That office has seen a lot of shit go down."

"Hitch," I said, and he turned to look at me. "Stop it."

"I just thought."

"Just stop it, okay?"

"Jesus Christ," he muttered.

"No, but people tell me there's an amazing resemblance." Now he was sulking, but I'd had it.

"And while we're on it, why do you say shit like that?" I asked. "It makes you come off like a total dipshit. We're supposed to be cops. Three people died last night. It's up to you and me to speak for them, to get them some justice. I don't care right now who had that office after Howard Hughes or where Lucy and Desi ate their lunch."

"Fine, then I'm not talking to you anymore," he replied petulantly.

We entered the outer office that serviced Berman's production company and found a pretty assistant. Her mascara had run. She'd been crying.

"We' re homicide detectives," I said. "We d like to talk to somebody about Scott Berman."

"You should talk to Shay. Let me see if I can get her," she said, then buzzed an extension. "Miss Shaminar, two police officers are here about Scott." She listened for a minute. "Okay."

She hung up. "Miss Shaminar says you should wait in Mr. Berman's office. She'll be with you as soon as she's off the phone. As you can imagine, it's been pretty stressed around here this morning."

She stood and led us into Scott Berman's office. It was huge. Six beautiful leaded-glass windows lit a lush, paneled room. Two of the windows looked out over Lucy Park, the others were in a dining conference room, which we could see through a large opening in the south wall of the office.

The executive desk was big enough to play table tennis on. There was a big marble-faced fireplace fronting two wine-red sofas with a glass-top table set in between. All of the walls were dark wood. The modern art that hung inside each of the paneled insets looked stupid enough to be expensive. It wasn't hard to imagine Howard Hughes running his empire from this suite.

A few minutes later, a very slim, very directed black-haired woman with olive skin and a classic profile swept into the room. Her hair was pulled back in a bun. She was the executive assistant version of the beautiful librarian cliche. Severe suit, abrupt manner, glasses perched on her nose and secured on a no-nonsense chain around her neck. But you knew when she took those specs off and let down her hair, the results would be dazzling.

"I'm Shay Shaminar, Mr. Berman's executive assistant," she said. Her voice was crisp and strong, but underneath her command visage, you could see she was very upset.

It was the little things that gave her away. The rigid posture, the ring she turned manically on her right middle finger. But she was strong and kept a tight grip on her emotions.

We introduced ourselves and she motioned for us to sit on the wine-colored sofas near the fireplace. She sat opposite us, her shapely knees pressed together, her skirt just long enough to cover them.

"We re all a little shook up," she said. "Adding to Scott's horrible death, we were deep into preproduction on his next film, but now the studio is putting our picture on hold, which is a nice way of saying it's canceled."

"We'll only need a little time," I said. She looked very tense. I felt bad for her.

"This was Howard Hughes's office, wasn't it?" Hitch jumped in, asking her a question that was completely off the point.

"Yes. Back when he ran RKO in the forties, this was the studio headquarters. The RKO property was bought by Desilu, then became part of the Paramount lot in the late forties. Now administration is in the new building on the north side of the lot."

"Bet a lot of amazing stuff happened in here," Hitch replied.

It was a good play, so I went with it. People who are too locked up in grief miss details and don't give good interviews. It was a worthwhile technique to start by getting her mind on something else.

"Famous offices all have histories," she said, glad to talk about this and not the death of a boss she clearly worshipped. She seemed to relax slightly. Her expression softened.

"For instance, I ran into an old waiter from the commissary when I first came to work here," she continued. "The man was about eighty. He told me when Howard had this office, he used to order a tuna salad sandwich with chips on a plate every day. He wanted it placed right outside the door, which was always locked when he brought it. He was supposed to put the sandwich plate, covered in wax paper, on the floor at eight A. M. exactly. Then he had to come back at six and get the plate.

"But the sandwich and chips were always untouched. After a few days of this, he decided not to bring it anymore. At eight fifteen the next morning he got a call from Mr. Hughes. 'Where's my sandwich?' he shouted. The waiter said, 'But Mr. Hughes, you never eat it, so I didn't think you wanted it.' You know what Howard Hughes said?"

"No," Hitch replied, leaning forward, totally captivated.

"He said, 'I need to know it's there.'" She paused then smiled wanly. "Tells you a lot about the man, doesn't it?"

Hitch nodded. "Obsessive-compulsive."

That story had slowly brought her out, so I gently switched to the more painful topic of Scott Berman's death.

"I know this is hard, but can we start by talking a little about Mr. Berman's personal life," I said. "I understand he was divorced."

"Yes, from Althea," she told us. "His ex-wife was awful. A total bitch."

"Do you think she could have been involved somehow?" Hitch asked.

"I doubt it. She got a pile of money in the divorce. That seemed to be all she cared about. The settlement was almost five years ago. Since then, Mr. Berman's been all about his movies. He was married to his films. I know it sounds awful and shallow, but he was a celluloid artist. He didn't have time to invest in personal relationships. That's why he dated the girls from the Double Click Club."

"He didn't hide it?" Hitch asked.

"He didn't," she said, without rancor. "He even brought the escorts to studio functions. They were educated and beautiful."

"What about Chrissy Sweet?" Hitch asked. "We understand she wasn't exactly on the waiting list for Mensa."

"There's an expression in show business about beautiful, dumb actresses. 'God gives with one hand, but takes away with the other.'

That was Chrissy. She was gorgeous, but if you're a guy, don't get caught in a locked room with her when you're planning to keep your clothes on. You could die of boredom."

"And Mr. Berman liked that?" I asked.

"I think so. She was easy for him to be with. She made no intellectual demands."

"Can you tell me about the Christmas party last night?"

"He went to last year's party, so this was his second time. I bought a diamond tennis bracelet at Tiffany's for him to give to Chrissy as a Christmas gift. Fifteen grand. That's me, the working girl's friend," she quipped. Hitch and I both smiled at her attempt at humor.

"Did Scott have any enemies?" Hitch asked, getting to the meat of it. "Was there anybody you can think of who might have wanted to kill him?"

"You mean, besides the entire movie department at CAA and Endeavor?" she said, smiling. We nodded.

"As a matter of fact, he almost didn't go to that party because of Chrissy Sweet's husband, who she was divorcing. His name is Carl. He called here twice yesterday. He told Mr. Berman to stay away from his wife or there would be big trouble.

"Even though she was in the midst of divorcing him, Carl wasn't about to let go. He was extremely possessive. Scott wasn't going to go to the party because of that threat. Then unfortunately he changed his mind and went at the last minute. If I were you, I'd definitely go find Carl Sweet," she added. "If he doesn't have a hell of a good alibi, I'd bust him."

"Any idea where he lives?" Hitch asked.

"No. I don't think Scott even knew Chrissy's real address. It was one of Miss Dublin's strict rules. All dates had to be arranged through her Internet site. The girls were prohibited from giving out their addresses. At first, the only name we had for her was Slade Seven.

Eventually, she told Scott her real name. The Double Click Club kept it all very arms length, because that's the way Yolanda wanted it."

We talked to her for another ten minutes, but that was all Shay could really tell us. As we stood to go, Hitch took her hand then bowed elegantly like Count Hollywood.

"Shay is a very beautiful name," he said in his most bullshit courtly manner.

"Thank you," she demurred. "My father was from the South Pacific. In some obscure Indonesian dialect, Shay means princess."

We left and walked back across the lot.

"Nice lady," Hitch noted.

But I had tuned him out. My mind was parsing another idea. By the time we were back to the car, I had it.

"If Shay means princess in Indonesian, I wonder how you say Sweet in Czechoslovakian."

"Wow," Hitch said. "Good get, homes."

Once we were inside the car, I picked up the radio mic and I called the research desk at LAPD. It took five minutes to find out that the Czechoslovakian translation for Sweet was "Sladky."

We ran "Carl Sladky," spelling the whole name out.

"Roger, D-28," the RTO came back. "But the first name is Karel, spelled with a K and an E. Sladky is as you spelled it. He has three outstanding domestic violence warrants, all for aggravated assault. The warrant delivery team says they have tried three times to serve those warrants, but have no current address. According to their notes, since his wife moved out on him, he lost his apartment in Hollywood. She was paying for it. They think he's living in his van."