the Prostitutes' Ball (2010) (5 page)

"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."

Chapter
8.

The young attorney introduced himself as Stender Sheedy Jr. He was with the famous Century City law firm of Sheedy, Devine & Lipscomb, where his father was the letterhead Sheedy. Junior informed us he was in the entertainment law department and handled Brooks Dunbar's film and music business, which if Sergeant Cruz was correct probably consisted of phone camera gags and recorded farts.

As we stood in the massive marble-floored entry, I could see a swarm of young revelers partying in the huge living room beyond.

"Could I possibly use the men's room?" Hitch said.

"It's right through there on the left," Stender said, pointing.

After Hitch left, young Stender tried to tell me that I'd have to come back in the morning that Mr. Dunbar was hosting his annual Christmas Do, and could not be pried away from his importan
t g
uests, who, from what I could see, were just a bunch of stoned Hollywood leeches and midnight club crawlers.

"Let me put it to you another way," I said, politely. "Your client owns a property at 3151 Skyline Drive. A triple homicide was committed there tonight. My partner and I are working that crime, which means that Mr. Dunbar can talk to me here, right now, as a friendly, cooperative material witness, or he can talk to me at Mens Central Jail as a guest of the city."

"This is not a good time. We Ye just starting holiday follies," Stender protested. "The Truth or Dare is about to begin. It's a tradition."

"I'll make it as quick and painless as possible."

Sumner hadn't come back from the men's room so I did a quick scan of the party and to my dismay saw he hadn't gone in there at all, but was over by the floor-to-ceiling windows, already talking to a pretty girl in a green sequined miniskirt. As I watched he handed her his business card.

"Okay, Detective, if you'll make it quick, let me see what I can do," Stender said, as if it was his choice, not mine.

He escorted me into the massive hotel-sized living room. The center had been cleared of furniture with the big, snow white sofas pushed up against the far walls to make room for the festivities. There were at least forty people in here, all of them very hip and trendy. Nobody over the age of thirty-five.

"Okay, okay," somebody shouted shrilly above the noise as I entered. "But if I do it, Sandra, then you gotta do me." I turned and saw a slightly pudgy guy wearing baggy jeans and a T-shirt that had FUCK ME screen-printed across the front. He was shouting at a young, shapely girl with a rich tan set off by a strapless white mini.

"You ain't got the stones, mate," the girl yelled back with a New Zealand or Aussie accent. The crowd was hooting and shouting insults at the pudgy young guy.

The chub squealed. "That's the bet, right? If I do it, I get to put my schmandra in Sandra." He laughed. It was actually more of a high
-
pitched giggle.

"You gotta catch me first," the girl yelled. She was drunk or stoned, so that probably wasn't going to be much of an issue. She took a step forward and stumbled, almost going down.

Without warning, the pudgy brat grabbed a taser up off a nearby table and shouted, "Don't taze me, bro!" Then he slammed the gun up on his chest and fired.

The tazer zapped the T-shirt. Flesh and fabric burned. His body leaped backward, hit by fifty thousand volts of electricity. He bounced off a sofa by the wall, then rolled onto the white plush pile carpet and started vibrating violently under a table like a hype with the dries. "Ooow-Ooow-Ooow! That smarts!" he yelled while the room hooted and cheered.

"I'm hoping that's not him," I said to Stender.

"That's him," he replied.

"Who are these other people?"

"Agents, studio development people, celebutantes."

I didn't ask what a celebutante was but guessed it was a famous heiress who did nothing but party.

"Somebody cut me a line. I need medication!" Brooks shrieked, as everyone laughed.

A fresh line of cocaine was cut on a table as the Heir Abhorrent crawled over to it on his hands and knees. Somebody handed him a straw and, while his friends shouted encouragement, Brooks hoovered up the blow.

I'm not in Vice, and I didn't want to waste three valuable hours at the top of a murder investigation booking this jerk at Men's Central, but I have to admit I was tempted. I turned to Stender instead.

"We've got two ways of doing this. You can bring him to me in another room or I can badge this whole bunch of loadies and end this party right now with a trip to jail. Your call."

"There's a den back there," he said, pointing. Til show you, then bring him."

"Good choice."

I caught a glimpse of Sumner Hitchens, caucusing with four Hollywood film types whose hair was moussed and styled in interesting shapes. Hitch had his hand on one guy's shoulder, chatting him up relentlessly. I left him there because bottom line, I preferred to do this alone.

Stender led me to the den and left. As I waited I decided to have round two with Jeb over my new partner first thing in the morning.

The den had beautiful whitewashed ash walls. It was large and square, with a high carved-wood ceiling. Bookshelves dominated three walls and framed historic documents with some familiar signatures John Hancock, Benjamin Franklin, Thomas Jefferson
-
hung in lighted alcoves. There were certificates of authentication mounted beneath each priceless artifact.

In one corner of the den, inside a magnificent glass box, was an antique six-shooter. The plaque read: COLT SINGLE-ACTION .44 PEACEMAKER: JESSE JAMES 1881.

As I was admiring it, the door opened and a very stoned Brooks Dunbar stumbled in followed by Stender Sheedy, who closed the door immediately and moved up to take a guardian's position between us.

"You have a card?" Stender demanded.

I pulled out my creds and showed them to him as he wrote down my name and badge number.

"I don't want to talk to this fucker, Sten," said the pudgy little twenty-four-year-old monster in the pornographic tazer-burned T-shirt.

"Shut up!" I snapped at him, spittle flying.

He jumped back and looked at me with an expression of disbelief as if I'd just dropped down from the chandelier wearing a cape and spandex tights.

"You can't shout at me!" he said. "This is my house!"

It was actually his father's house, but I was beyond quibbling. Brooks seemed badly offended by my behavior. It seemed that nobody ever spoke harshly to him.

"Wait 'til my dad finds out about this," he said petulantly. "He'll get you fired."

"I'll risk it. You've got some questions to answer, Mr. Dunbar. They're not difficult, but they will require accurate, sober responses. I understand you own an estate at 3151 Skyline Drive in Hollywood. Is that correct?"

"Huh?"

I turned to Stender and shot him a frustrated look.

"Brooks, tell the detective what he wants to know," the young attorney directed. "Then I'm sure he'll leave."

Brooks Dunbar wiped some runny powder off the edge of his nostrils with the back of his hand. "Shit... I gotta . . ." More silence. "This fuckin' sucks. My party's totally going to shit out there," he complained before finally heaving a big, frustrated sigh. "That property, if you have to fucking know, is like an investment, which is in my dumb trust, which I can't fucking use. Why I gotta talk to this guy, Sten?"

"Three people died by the pool up on Skyline tonight," I told him.

"You mean like they overdosed or something?"

"Yeah . . . On 9 mm bullets."

He held my gaze, a shrewd crafty look finally coming into his bloodshot eyes. "Is that supposed to be like my fault or something?"

"Do you own a machine gun, Mr. Dunbar?"

"A machine gun? I got... I got.. . like a
I got... I really don't wanta do this now, Sten. This is so fucking unfair."

"Just please answer his question, Brooks," Stender Sheedy prodded gently.

"I can run a firearms check," I said. Tm gonna find out so you might as well tell me. You own one or not?"

"I got like an old antique something or other. Its got a model number but I can't remember. It's a fucking
All I know is I had to register it when I bought the damn thing." He glowered, then mumbled, "You're not supposed to let shit like this happen, Sten. I'm not approving of this at all."

I waited for more, but that seemed to cover his thoughts on the machine gun.

"Is it here?"

"What?"

"The machine gun."

"In my room."

"Let's go."

He looked at his young lawyer. "The Truth or Dare is getting trashed while we mess with this shit."

"Let's just get it over with, Brooks," the wise, still sober, Century City mouthpiece advised. He set clown his drink and led the way.

We walked down a hall and out into the beautiful six-acre backyard that featured a commanding view of the sparkling lights of Bel Air. We headed along a hedge-trimmed path to a carriage house, which was bigger than my place in Venice. Brooks opened the front door.

The main room was a mess. Beer cans, empty scotch bottles, and old fast-food boxes littered every surface. Girls' undergarments bloomed like lacy, pastel mushrooms on the furniture and floor. There was a dusting of white powder on most of the tabletops.

" 'Scuse the mess," Dunbar mumbled as he led me upstairs to the large master suite.

The bedroom looked like a bomb had gone off in a men's store.

I followed him over to a table littered with a ton of debris. He swept it off onto the floor with his hand and there, serving as an elaborate base for a glass-topped coffee table, was a .50 caliber, water-cooled, antique Browning Model 1809 machine gun from World War I. It was sitting on a low tripod stand.

"Does it even work?" I asked.

It looked like an art piece, a decorative table base for gun freaks or Rambo fans. It was undoubtedly welded in place and missing the firing pin. I was starting to fantasize about smacking this little chump.

"I don't know," he whined. "How should I know? Can I go now?"

"Do you know Scott Berman?" I asked.

"The producer?"