Eleventh Hour (13 page)

“Oh?” Flynn said, raising an eyebrow.

“The thing is that DeLoach is a weenie. I once saw him throw away an ice cream cone when a fly buzzed near it. He—well, I guess you could say that he lives in his head, he’s really out of place here, in the real world. He’s got a real rich fantasy life, and that’s good for Premier. As I said, he’s also got a work ethic, so all of it works to our advantage. But is he a man who’d commit brutal murders? No, definitely not DeLoach.”

Dane said, “It’s possible that DeLoach is a dangerous weenie, that this rich fantasy life of his has somehow imploded and pushed him out of his head and into the real world. Tell us more about DeLoach.

Is he the one who came up with the concept for
The Consultant
?”

“Yes,” Wolfinger said. “Yes, he did. His full name is Weldon DeLoach. He’s been responsible for two very successful shows in the last ten years. Well respected is Weldon, even though he’s pretty old now.”

“Define ‘pretty old,’ ” Flynn said.

“He’s probably early thirties, maybe even older than that.”

“Glory be,” Delion said. “He’s nearly ready for assisted living.”

Wolfinger said, “Despite what I’ve told you, you still think he’s the primary suspect?”

“It sure looks possible,” Delion said. “We’ll have to look at everyone. We’ll need lists from Personnel of all the writers who’ve been involved with the show, all the technicians, everyone who’s even sniffed around the sets.”

Dane said, looking thoughtfully at Linus Wolfinger, “DeBruler and DeLoach. The killer would have known his name, whoever he was. It doesn’t mean much.”

Delion shook his head, back and forth. “That would be just too easy. Makes the guy stupid, and Mr.

Wolfinger here says he’s got a brain. Ain’t no road ever that straight. But we’ll talk to him, the other writers as well and all those folks involved with making the show. Get us those lists, Mr. Wolfinger. I got detectives ready to go. The FBI is sending agents here to interview, do background checks, go over alibis, that sort of thing.”

Linus Wolfinger nodded. He was tapping a pen on the tabletop. Dane knew it was a different one from the one he had been chewing on in his office because it didn’t have teeth marks in it. “You didn’t ask me who I thought was behind this.”

“Well, no, we haven’t,” Flynn said. “And what do you know about it?”

THIRTEEN

“Hey, it all stays in this room?”

“Sure, why not?” Flynn said. “Give it your best shot, Mr. Wolfinger.”

Linus Wolfinger smiled at all of them impartially, tapped his pen one more time, and said, “I think it’s Jon Franken. He’s the assistant director for
The Consultant.
He’s too good to be true, you know? Mr.

Hollywood down to his tasseled Italian loafers. He knows everyone, is just so good at A-list parties. I know there’s got to be something really nasty about him. No one that good is what he seems to be, you know?”

Delion rose, the others with him. He said, “Thank you, Mr. Wolfinger. We’ll really look close at Jon Franken. Me, I can’t stand a guy who’s too good at his job. It motivates me to nail his ass.”

Flynn said, “Now, Mr. Wolfinger, do contact either me or Inspector Delion or Special Agent Carver here if you come up with something or if you find out anything that could be useful.” All of them passed their cards to Wolfinger, who didn’t take them, just let them pile up in front of him, close to that still-tapping pen that was driving everyone nuts.

Dane said, wishing in that moment that he could haul the little jerk up by his dicky and throw that damned pen out the window, “It would be easier if the murderer had stayed in the same city, but he didn’t. At least now no more episodes will be aired.”

Wolfinger said, “I’ve already slotted in
The Last Hurrah,
another new show about lottery-ticket winners and what becomes of them.”

“Sounds innocuous enough,” Flynn said.

Pauley said, “Maybe it’s someone who’s out to sabotage the show itself. I’ve been in the business a long time, made enemies. Maybe it’s someone who hates me personally, wants revenge, knows that this one is my particular baby. I’ve got a lot on the line here.”

Dane said, “You think a man would kill—what is the count now that we know of—eight people, just to get revenge on you?”

“Put that way, it doesn’t sound too likely, does it,” Pauley said.

“Were there problems getting the show off the ground, Mr. Pauley?” Flynn asked. “Someone specifically who put up roadblocks?”

“There are always problems,” Wolfinger said, batting his hand at Pauley to keep him quiet, “but on this one there were fewer than usual. Mr. Pauley is right that he’s got a lot to lose. He’s married to
the
consultant’s
girlfriend on the show. He pushed to have her star. If the show closes down, then so does she.” Wolfinger didn’t sound sorry at all.

Dane glanced over at Pauley and knew he was thinking,
Little Shit.
Pauley said, “He’s right—having the show shut down won’t be wonderful for my home life, but Belinda will understand, she has to. But having the media go nuts over a script murderer will be a disaster for my reputation and the studio’s. We won’t even mention the lawsuits.”

“Certainly everyone’s reputation is on the line here,” Flynn said.

“Unfortunately, yes,” Wolfinger said. “I trust you gentlemen will try to encourage everyone interviewed to keep quiet about this?” He laughed. “Hey, it won’t matter. This is far too juicy to keep quiet about. It’ll be out before the day is over.” Wolfinger looked down at his pen, frowned a moment, then said, “Then there’s Joe Kleypas, the star. Interesting man. A bad boy, but nonetheless, an excellent actor. Maybe you want to put him up there on your suspect list.”

“Why would he kill people to ape the show he’s starring in?” Delion asked. “He has to know the show will be shut down.”

Wolfinger shrugged. “He’s a deep guy, never know what he’s thinking. Maybe he’s got mental problems.

”

Flynn said, “All right. We’ll be speaking to you later, Mr. Wolfinger. Thank you for your time and your ideas.”

When they left exactly seven minutes later, Nick said, “He’s an interesting man. I didn’t think he was a shit. Well, all that pen tapping was obnoxious.”

“That’s vintage Little Shit,” said Pauley.

Frank Pauley stopped to frown at a framed black-and-white photo of Greta Garbo on the wall. He carefully straightened it, then nodded. “You’re right. He acted like an adult. I’ve seen him do it before.

But I’ve also seen him throw a soda can—full—at somebody who said something he didn’t like.”

Dane said, “Mr. Pauley, are they still shooting any of these episodes?”

“No. Eight shows were shot last summer and into early fall. The way it works is that if the show is picked up, that is, if the network decides to continue with more shows, they get everyone back together and shoot six to thirteen more. They usually make this decision after three, four shows. If the ratings are good, they pay for us to write more episodes. If it’s a huge success, everything is given the go-ahead and things move really fast. Oh yes, I called the AD—assistant director—Jon Franken for you.”

“This is the guy Wolfinger thinks is the psychopath?”

“Yeah. Wolfinger is cute. Can you believe the damned head of the studio was talking like that? Making accusations? But again, Wolfinger does just as he pleases, usually the more outrageous the better. As for Franken, the man has both feet firmly planted on the ground, knows how to squeeze money out of the sidewalk, and if something needs to happen yesterday, he’s the guy you go to. He’s trusted, something so unusual in LA that people come up to pinch him to see if he’s real. He also works his butt off.”

“Exactly what does he do on the show?” Dane asked.

“Actually, it’s Franken who has to know more about the actual show than just about anyone, including the line producer. He’s in charge of setting up off-studio sites, getting everyone together who’s supposed to be shooting, setting up the actual shooting schedule, holding everyone’s feet to the budget fire. He listens to the stars whine about the director or sob about their latest relationship gone bad, stuff like that.

He’s got the big eye. Oh yes, Franken’s really big into anything otherworldly; he goes for that stuff. He and DeLoach are really in sync on this one.”

“Did they develop the idea together?” Dane said.

“I’m not really sure about that. I do know that they’ve always got their heads together.”

Delion said, “I hope he’s older than twenty-four.”

“Yes, Jon’s been around for a long time. He might even be forty or so. An adult. He started out sweeping off sets when he was just a kid. He’s expecting us.”

They found Jon Franken on the sound stage for a new fall sitcom that wasn’t doing well titled
The Big
Enchilada
. He was talking to one of the actors, using his hands a lot, explaining something. From twelve feet away, they could see that he was buff, tanned, and dressed very Hollywood in loose linen trousers and a flowing shirt, his sockless feet in Italian loafers. He looked to be in his forties.

Pauley waved to him, and in a few minutes he joined them. He was polite, attentive, and when they asked him about the order of the episodes, an eyebrow went up. “I’ve been hearing some rumors, something about some murders that are similar to an episode of
The Consultant.
Is this true?”

Delion said, “Well, so much for discretion.”

Jon Franken was incredulous. “You honestly believe that this could have remained a secret? This is a TV

studio. There isn’t a single secret anywhere within two miles of this place.”

Dane said, “Yes, you have it right, and we need your help. Frank Pauley said you know everything and everyone.”

Franken said, appalled, “The higher-ups must be shitting their pants. A murderer who’s copying a TV

show? Incredible.” He shook his head. “Only in Hollywood. I’ll do my best.”

“Thank you,” Dane said. “We understand you’re close to DeLoach. How much of the actual writing was his?”

“Depended on the episode. The first two, however, were ninety percent Weldon, since it was his idea to begin with. Oh, Jesus, I can’t believe that.”

Nick said, “Are the episodes to be shown in a certain order?”

“Yes, that’s usually the way it’s done. There’s not too much week-to-week carryover, so it really doesn’

t matter, but yes, the episodes would remain in the order they were filmed.”

“Have you seen him, Mr. Franken?” Flynn asked.

“No, he isn’t working right now. He called me a couple of days ago, said his brain was tired and he was taking some time off. He said not to expect him anytime soon. He’s done this before, so no one gets cranked about it, but he never calls in and I don’t think anyone knows where he went. Listen now, even though the first two episodes are Weldon’s, that doesn’t mean he would do something this heinous. It just isn’t him.”

Dane asked, “Is the same episode shown all over the country on the same day at approximately the same time?”

Franken said, “The first two
Consultant
episodes were shown on Tuesday night everywhere, but Wolfinger slotted them a little differently, depending on the demographics, or maybe because of it, so they’ll probably okay some more scripts. Beginning with the third one, it’s not that heavily Weldon’s work. Do you agree, Frank?”

“You’re right,” Pauley said.

Delion said, “Who can tell us what Weldon’s travel schedule’s been the past month?”

“That would be Rocket Hanson. She makes all the arrangements for the writers, and for everybody else for that matter.”

“Rocket?” Nick said. “That’s a wonderful name.”

“Yeah, she was trying to break into films thirty years ago, thought she needed something unusual to get her through the door. It stuck.”

Flynn said, “Has Weldon DeLoach been out of town a lot very recently?”

Franken just shook his head. “I haven’t been working directly with him for several months now. You’ll have to speak to other folks. We e-mail a lot and speak maybe once a week if we’re not working together on a show. I heard someone say he was off to see some relatives, maybe in central California, but I’m not sure about that.”

Dane said, “I don’t suppose the relatives are near Pasadena?”

“I haven’t a clue. Listen, believe me, you’re wrong about Weldon. I know it looks bad, but you’re way off course here.”

Dane asked, “What is Weldon writing now?”

Franken said, “He’s been writing for
Boston Pops
for about four months now.”

Delion looked pained.

Franken nodded, said, “Yeah, I agree with you, Inspector. It’s a dim-witted show that has somehow caught on. Lots of boobs and white teeth, and one-liners that make even the cameraman wince. It’s embarrassing. Weldon keeps trying to sneak in some weird stuff, like some Martians landing on the Boston mayor’s lawn, just for an off-key laugh, but nobody’s buying it.”

Frank Pauley nodded.

They spoke to a good dozen writers. Nothing promising on any one of the group, just a bunch of really interesting men and women who didn’t have a life, as far as Dane could tell. “Oh yeah, that’s true,” one of the female writers said, laughing. “All we do is sit here and bounce ideas off each other. Lunch is brought in. Porta Pottis are brought in. Soon they’ll be bringing beds in.”

Dane said when they were walking down Pico back to their two cars, “It’s time for a nice big meeting, mixing Feds with locals. There’s lots of folks that need very close attention.”

Flynn nodded, saw some kids shooting baskets, took three steps toward them before he caught himself.

FOURTEEN

ST. BARTHOLOMEW’S

SAN FRANCISCO

Dane and Nick were seated in the second row in St. Bartholomew’s, Nick staring at Father Michael Joseph’s coffin, Dane staring at the wooden cross that rose high behind the nave, both waiting silently for the church to fill up and the service to begin. They’d come back from LA the previous evening for Michael’s funeral.

It was an overcast early afternoon in San Francisco, not unusual for a winter day. It was cold enough for Dane to wear his long camel hair coat, belted at the waist. The heavens should be weeping, Father Binney had said, because Father Michael Joseph had been so cruelly, so madly, slain.