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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."

    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