The prostitutes ball

Chapter 7

"What was that all about with Rosselli?" I asked as we raced across the mountain ridge on Mulholland to Coldwater, then made a left turn and headed down the winding canyon road into Beverly Hills.

"Rosselli thinks he can cook," Hitch answered, using the Porsche's mid-engine cornering dynamic to take the S-turns on Coldwater at nut-puckering speeds. "Fucking Italians. All those greaseballs ever came up with that was worth anything was pizza and that's just a cheese sandwich with anchovies."

"And you're some kind of expert?"

"I've trained at the Cordon Bleu. I fly to France and take cooking classes on my vacations."

"I didn't know bullshit could be prepared in the French style," I said.

"Bullshit is a French specialty." He grinned. "And don't knock my cooking 'til you've tried it. Wait 'til you taste my eggs Portugal."

"What I meant was, what kinda deal do you have going with Rosselli? You get him movie premiere tickets or actress phone numbers, he sends you your own personal copies of the crime scene photos so you can include them in your movie pitches at UTA?"

"Come on, Shane. Let's not do this, okay? Everybody in this town is in business. Even you. We just have different profit expectations. Don't tell me you never flashed your badge to get out of a speeding ticket." He smiled. "Besides, how many L. A. cops have sold cases to the movies before me? LAPD Sgt. Joe Wambaugh single-handedly turned that into a cottage industry. Onion Field, Lines and Shadows, Echoes in the Darkness, just to name a few.

"We got a front-row seat to the greatest show on earth. You want to just write this stuff up in some stupid case file and forget it? I'm asking you to take a minute here and clear your bowels, man."

"We're working a triple homicide, Sumner. I told Jeb I'd work with you, but if I lose patience and throw you back like all your other partners, then you'll be out of Homicide Special and down to chasing smash-and-grabs in the Valley. We do this my way or you're gonna get your next decent police posting about the same time we colonize Mars."

He took a moment, grimaced, then said, "You're being very shortsighted."

"This case is not going to end up in a theater near you. It's gonna end up in court."

After a minute where he raced through another S-turn, causing me to grab the door pull, he said, "You need to relax on this, Scully, because a case like Mosquito doesn't come along very often.

"Granted, when it does, the Hollywood gantseh machers will drop trou and grab for the K-Y 'cause most studio execs have business degrees from Princeton or Yale, but they got no story imagination. What they do know is, they've got a much better chance of getting a picture greenlit if it's been a big national news story first, making it what we in the biz call a presold title.' Right now this Skyline Drive case is just an interesting springboard with no ending." He turned and focused the Hollywood Hitch persona at me. "Lemme give you some Screen-writing 101 here."

"That's okay."

"No, you should hear me out 'cause I can tell you're needlessly freaked. On this Scott Berman thing we're only at the top of Act One. The central job of Act One is to define the problem. Admittedly this inciting event has a high-value player and two hot-looking dead chicks floating in a pool, but while all that is mildly interesting, it won't carry a picture. There's gotta be something much more menacing hiding under the surface that drives the action forward. Something nobody sees that will rise up and grab the audience by the throat in Act Two. So far we ain't got that. Not even close. Meaning we got a ninety percent chance this story dies right here at the top of Act One."

"I think when you get to Lindacrest you want to go left," I said.

"Got it." A moment later he turned on Lindacrest but the writing lesson continued. "Like, suppose it turns out Scott Berman was cheating on his old lady and she got fed up, hired some guy with a harelip to put Scott on the ark. Bing, bang, boom, end of story. Provocative start, no ending. See what I'm saying?

"For a movie to have legs, you need a great first act with a sharp attack on the story, then a complication in Act Two with some hellacious moves where the antagonist is rippin' up the landscape.

"Next comes your second act curtain where the hero ends up on the balls of his ass, completely destroyed, or, alternately, where something so big happens it puts the screenplay in a whole different place. In Mosquito, by the way, it was when I almost became victim number six. Then Act Three needs a firestorm ending where you blow the shit outta something big.

"On a true-crime story its okay to embellish a few flat spots slightly to keep it interesting because as Albert Einstein once said, 'imagination is more important than knowledge/ But that's it. Believe me, we're a long way from having something we can sell for megabucks like Mosquito."

I was getting a headache.

A car full of girls in UCLA sweatshirts pulled up next to us and started honking and waving. Hitch honked and waved back.

We left them as they turned on Sunset Boulevard, heading to the UCLA campus while we continued on down Lindacrest Drive, navigating the narrow curving streets, finally arriving at 236 Schuyler Road five minutes later.

It was another huge house located behind closed gates. Another Christmas party was in progress. My third in one night and I don't like them much to begin with.

We pulled up in the Carrera with the top down and Hitch smiled at the gate guard, a black guy with shoulders like a bookcase and a CIA-style earpiece jammed in one ear.

"Sumner Hitchens," he said. "I'm sure I'm on the list. My office at Paramount phoned my acceptance in late this afternoon." All this before I could stop him.

"Just show him your fucking badge," I growled under my breath.

I pulled my creds out and held them across his chest for the guard to see. "Police. We're here to talk to Brooks Dunbar."

"Okay," he said. "But I have to announce you."

"Fine, just open up."

He pushed the gate button and Hitch squealed up the drive.

"You gotta chill, dude," he said as we approached the palatial house. "I know this place. It's a Hollywood landmark. Elton John used to own it. Then Spielberg before he got married. They call it Knoll House. When a mansion has a name it means its like one of a kind. There's some major weight living on this six acres of manicured velvet. I know how to play this crowd. We won't get anything butting heads."

"If you so much as open your mouth I'm gonna fill it with shoe leather."

"Suit yourself, but you'll see."

We pulled up in front. More Christmas music was leaking out of the open front door. About twenty-five fancy cars were in the huge driveway, as well as one or two limos with their liveried drivers standing beside them.

"The guests at this Christmas party might be stoned, but hopefully they won't be dead like at the other one," Hitch said as he parked and we got out. Another security guard was in the doorway with a clipboard. This guy was Hispanic with a weight lifters build. We approached him in the entry.

I showed my badge. "Detectives Scully and Hitchens from Homicide Special."

"Hey, nice to know you," he said. "I work at the Police Administration Building too. LAPD Sergeant Bob Cruz. I think I've seen you guys around."

"What are you doing here?" I asked.

"I moonlight for Ameritech Security after hours. This is one of my semi-regular accounts." Then he leaned closer. "Homicide Special, huh? What's up?"

"We're working a triple murder that took place tonight on a property Brooks Dunbar owns in the Hollywood Hills," I told him. "Before we talk to him it might help if you could give us some background."

"Welcome to the care and feeding of the asshole elite," off-duty Sergeant Cruz said. "Brooks Dunbar has his head so far up his ass he's looking at most stuff through his navel. This kid is twenty-four and says he's a movie producer, or sometimes it's an art dealer, but what he really does is snort dope and throw up in the backseats of cars. His buds call him Heir Abhorrent, which might give you an idea."

"Who owns this place?" Hitch asked. "Looks a little lush for a twenty-four-year-old drug addict."

"You're right. His dad, Thayer Dunbar, owns it. He's a big Texas billionaire who lives half the year in Houston, checking on his oil leases. He's divorced. The mother lives in Malibu. Brooks has inherited money, but since his parents know he's a total nimrod, they've locked it all up in trusts.

"Ameritech has the contract to protect the property. But for parties like this one, Brooks takes on extra people like me, 'cause he's got this thing about paparazzi getting shots of him that will piss off his dad. But when you work for Brooks you gotta get your money up front cause he's a very slow pay. Slow like in months."

"Can I help you?" a young man said.

He had appeared out of nowhere and was standing behind us. This guy was thirtysomething, dressed in an open-collared silk shirt and gabardine pants. He had a glass with some kind of foamy Christmas punch in his hand, eggnog maybe.

"We're police, here to see Brooks Dunbar."

"That's what they said when they called up from the gate," the young man said. "I'm his attorney. I'm afraid you'll have to start with me."