the Prostitutes' Ball (2010) by Stephen - Scully 10 Cannell
Authors: Stephen - Scully 10 Cannell
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a man still scaring up interesting plot points for Act One.
"There's always that possibility," Alexa agreed. Then she picked up her purse. "I'm gonna take the Acura and go on home. Sumner, will you take Shane back to the office so he can check out a slick-back to drive?"
"No problem."
I left Hitch in the booth and walked my wife outside to the car.
"How's it going with him?" Alexa asked as she unlocked the MDX.
"I'll find my way. We're still circling each other, checking out punching styles."
"I will not look kindly on leaks," she cautioned.
I kissed her and said, "Stop being such a "
"Such a what?" she interrupted, smiling.
"A newly minted, tight-ass captain."
"You wanta talk tight asses, you need to come home," she teased. Then she kissed me again and drove off.
After she was gone, Sumner Hitchens and I sat in the restaurant, finishing our early breakfast without talking.
Tm thinking we need to go badge Yolanda Dublin/' he said as we were paying.
"Yep, that's definitely the next move. Let's go get the Mulholland Madame out of bed. Try and catch her with a head full of cotton."
"I ran her while you were outside. She lives out on the Coast Highway in Santa Monica. 2300. That's up by the Malibu line. The even numbers are on the beach side of the road."
Pricey.
Chapter 11.
The first good thing that happened since I got this damn case was parked in the driveway in front of Yolanda Dublin's multimillion - dollar beach pad. It was a new black Mercedes 350 with the partial plate number 4 L M C. The rest of the plate read 292.
"That ride was coming down Skyline Drive when Alexa and I got the call and were going up," I told Sumner.
He shined his Mini Maglite inside the Mercedes. The top was up and both bucket seats as well as the back bench were empty. We proceeded up the walkway to the house and rang the front doorbell. The lights were on inside so apparently we weren't going to be gaining an advantage from the element of surprise.
Yolanda Dublin was a well-known Hollywood fixture who had once been a five-thousand-dollar-a-night girl herself, a centerfold wh o h ad gone into high-end hooking and then management. The word was that she was occasionally still available to party with clients, but only if she liked them and that was extremely rare, if it happened at all these days.
The door was opened by a striking six-foot-tall woman in her late thirties who had shiny long blond hair, a very nice shape, and a freckled beach tan. She was barefoot, wearing tight white jeans and a tank top. Her outfit complemented a spectacular body.
"Yes?" she said.
"Yolanda Dublin?" I asked.
"Yes."
"Police."
She looked over her shoulder and called out, "Edith!"
A few seconds later Yolanda s exact physical opposite lumbered up a short flight of stairs from the sunken living room and stood a few - feet behind her.
This woman was built like a refrigerator. Big enough to get picked for the NFL draft, she was even taller than Yolanda and weighed well over three hundred pounds.
She had a feathered masculine hairstyle that was carefully trimmed. Her mahogany brown suit jacket and long skirt were tailored to camouflage her boxy shape, but managed only to accentuate it. Piano legs with anvil-sized feet encased in flats held it all upright. Her jaw was set pugnaciously, projecting an overall impression of severe, relentless aggression. She looked vaguely familiar to me.
"This is a police matter," I said, and we showed them our credentials. "I'm Detective Scully from Homicide Special. This is Detective Hitchens."
Yolanda Dublin didn't seem surprised that we'd come calling, so there was little doubt she'd been expecting us.
"This is Edith Stillwell. She's my attorney," Ms. Dublin said, confirming my suspicions. She'd obviously called Stillwell for help and they'd been sitting here well past two A . M . waiting.
Now I remembered where I'd seen Edith Stillwell. It was in the hallways at the Criminal Courts building.
"Edith advised me
"There's always that possibility," Alexa agreed. Then she picked up her purse. "I'm gonna take the Acura and go on home. Sumner, will you take Shane back to the office so he can check out a slick-back to drive?"
"No problem."
I left Hitch in the booth and walked my wife outside to the car.
"How's it going with him?" Alexa asked as she unlocked the MDX.
"I'll find my way. We're still circling each other, checking out punching styles."
"I will not look kindly on leaks," she cautioned.
I kissed her and said, "Stop being such a "
"Such a what?" she interrupted, smiling.
"A newly minted, tight-ass captain."
"You wanta talk tight asses, you need to come home," she teased. Then she kissed me again and drove off.
After she was gone, Sumner Hitchens and I sat in the restaurant, finishing our early breakfast without talking.
Tm thinking we need to go badge Yolanda Dublin/' he said as we were paying.
"Yep, that's definitely the next move. Let's go get the Mulholland Madame out of bed. Try and catch her with a head full of cotton."
"I ran her while you were outside. She lives out on the Coast Highway in Santa Monica. 2300. That's up by the Malibu line. The even numbers are on the beach side of the road."
Pricey.
Chapter 11.
The first good thing that happened since I got this damn case was parked in the driveway in front of Yolanda Dublin's multimillion - dollar beach pad. It was a new black Mercedes 350 with the partial plate number 4 L M C. The rest of the plate read 292.
"That ride was coming down Skyline Drive when Alexa and I got the call and were going up," I told Sumner.
He shined his Mini Maglite inside the Mercedes. The top was up and both bucket seats as well as the back bench were empty. We proceeded up the walkway to the house and rang the front doorbell. The lights were on inside so apparently we weren't going to be gaining an advantage from the element of surprise.
Yolanda Dublin was a well-known Hollywood fixture who had once been a five-thousand-dollar-a-night girl herself, a centerfold wh o h ad gone into high-end hooking and then management. The word was that she was occasionally still available to party with clients, but only if she liked them and that was extremely rare, if it happened at all these days.
The door was opened by a striking six-foot-tall woman in her late thirties who had shiny long blond hair, a very nice shape, and a freckled beach tan. She was barefoot, wearing tight white jeans and a tank top. Her outfit complemented a spectacular body.
"Yes?" she said.
"Yolanda Dublin?" I asked.
"Yes."
"Police."
She looked over her shoulder and called out, "Edith!"
A few seconds later Yolanda s exact physical opposite lumbered up a short flight of stairs from the sunken living room and stood a few - feet behind her.
This woman was built like a refrigerator. Big enough to get picked for the NFL draft, she was even taller than Yolanda and weighed well over three hundred pounds.
She had a feathered masculine hairstyle that was carefully trimmed. Her mahogany brown suit jacket and long skirt were tailored to camouflage her boxy shape, but managed only to accentuate it. Piano legs with anvil-sized feet encased in flats held it all upright. Her jaw was set pugnaciously, projecting an overall impression of severe, relentless aggression. She looked vaguely familiar to me.
"This is a police matter," I said, and we showed them our credentials. "I'm Detective Scully from Homicide Special. This is Detective Hitchens."
Yolanda Dublin didn't seem surprised that we'd come calling, so there was little doubt she'd been expecting us.
"This is Edith Stillwell. She's my attorney," Ms. Dublin said, confirming my suspicions. She'd obviously called Stillwell for help and they'd been sitting here well past two A . M . waiting.
Now I remembered where I'd seen Edith Stillwell. It was in the hallways at the Criminal Courts building.
"Edith advised me
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