Eleventh Hour (18 page)

“The first show he produced was
The Delta Force,
back in the mid-eighties, ran for about four years.

Maybe you’ve seen some reruns?”

Savich nodded. “It was a good show.”

Belinda Gates seemed to light up from the inside, gave him a big smile and pulled one of the big rollers out of her hair. A long fat curl flopped out. “I’ll tell him what you said. You know, Frank tells me everything so I know probably as much as he knows about this murderer.”

Sherlock said, “You’re smart, Ms. Gates, you’re on the inside. We know that you’ve given this some thought. We need your help. Do you have any idea who could have orchestrated all this?”

Belinda pulled out another roller, gently ran her fingers through the big loop of hair, decided it was cool enough, and nodded to herself as she said, “If I had to guess, I’d say it was the Little Shit, you know, Linus Wolfinger. He’s very smart. But it’s more than that.” She paused a moment, scratched her scalp, and said, “It seems like every single day he has to prove that he’s the smartest guy on the planet, the biggest cheese. It doesn’t matter what it is, he’s got to be the best—the fastest, the smartest—and everyone has to recognize it and praise him endlessly.”

Savich sat forward, clasped his hands between his knees, and said, “Other than his need for everyone to know how great he is, can you think of a reason why he’d actually follow a TV script to murder people?”

“Because it’s weird, it’s different, that’s why. The Little Shit really likes to think up things to show his scope, all his abilities that are so much more impressive than, say, yours or mine. A murder would be a different kind of challenge for him. If he is the one killing these people, then he had to know that the police would catch on soon enough. Hey, I bet he even set it up to get the police pretty close to him, and that would put him center stage, right in the spotlight. Does that make sense?”

“Not really,” Sherlock said.

Another roller came out and Belinda scratched her scalp. “Of course it doesn’t, I’m just being bitchy. If I really had to vote, though, I’d pick Jon.”

“Jon Franken?” Savich said, and he knew a moment of real surprise and recognized it for the mistake it was. Everyone in this bloody studio was a suspect. Still, he hadn’t put Jon Franken in the mix, not really, because he was just—what? He was too together, he was focused. He was very Hollywood, yes, that was it; he was normal in that he fit just right into this specific environment. Savich just couldn’t see him at ease in a murderer’s world.

He said to Belinda Gates, “Why do you think it’s Jon Franken?”

“Well, Jon is one of the sexiest guys who’s not an actor in LA. He’s slept with more women than even Frank knows about, and believe me, Frank knows just about everything. Jon’s sexual prowess has helped him really plug in to everything in LA that counts. He knows everyone, knows who’s on the A list at any given time for the past ten years, and that’s because he’s slept with them. He knows stuff he probably shouldn’t know, knows all the players, intimately, most of them, including me, not that I’m a big player, mind you. Sex is powerful. Maybe sometimes even more powerful than money.”

Savich thought that was probably true. The good Lord knew that if he chanced to look at Sherlock—it didn’t matter where they were or what they were doing—the chances were he wanted her right at that very minute. He remembered just the week before they hadn’t even made it into the house. They’d made love against the garage wall. But to have sex color every encounter, to make it the cornerstone of your success, to have sex as a major building block to help you get what you wanted and to get you
plugged
in
—no, he really couldn’t relate to that.

Belinda said, “I know that all makes it sound like Jon is a real Hollywood predator, and he is, but I’m using ‘predator’ in the good sense.”

Sherlock laughed. “I’ve never before heard a person described as a predator in a good sense.”

“As sort of the real insider,” Belinda said, no offense taken. Then she frowned. “But then there’s another side to Jon. He’s got a mean streak, and it’s really deep inside him.”

Sherlock said, “Tell us about this mean streak. We haven’t seen it.”

“Well, when I stopped sleeping with him, I was the one to break it off—not him. Normally it’s Jon who wants to move on, but the word is that he does it very smoothly, doesn’t leave a woman wanting to cut his—Well, doesn’t leave a woman wanting revenge. Nope, he manages to keep his women as friends.

“Don’t get me wrong, he would have been the one to move on from me, too, but it just so happened that I met Frank.” Belinda leaned closer. “It still scares me when I think about it. I told Jon the truth. I remember he just stood there, right in front of me, and his hands were fists at his sides. He didn’t hit me.

He just said in this really soft voice that I was a bitch and no woman dumped him. I think he slashed my tires, but since I didn’t see him actually do it, I can’t prove it. I’d call that pretty mean.”

“I would, too,” Sherlock said. “But that isn’t the end of it, is it?”

“Right. Then there was Marla James, a young, real pretty girl who actually had some talent. I don’t know what went on between them, but whatever happened, Jon saw to it that she was kicked off her show. I heard she was pregnant—by Jon? I don’t know, but she left LA.”

Sherlock took down all the facts Belinda knew about Marla James.

“Then there was the guy who aced Jon out of an AD spot—that’s assistant director—on this new show he really wanted. That was
Tough Guy,
lasted four years. Anyway, the guy ended up with two broken legs, couldn’t do the job. Jon got it. Was he responsible? You betcha, but there wasn’t any proof.”

Savich said, “Are you upset that
The Consultant
has been stopped?”

Belinda smiled, shrugged, pulled out another roller, and scratched her scalp. “Poor Frank, he’s the one who’s really upset. This was his baby. He has a lot of ego on the line here.”

Sherlock said, “Can you think of anyone who would be pleased to see the show closed down?”

Belinda pulled out the final roller, dropped it, and all three of them watched it roll across the floor.

“Pleased enough to murder people according to a pre-written script? Now that’s something I haven’t thought about,” she said, frowned at the fallen roller, then ignored it. All the rollers were arranged like little smokestacks in front of her. She ran her fingers through her hair, over and over again. Her hair, Sherlock decided, didn’t need to be combed. It looked tousled and thick and utterly beautiful, more shades of blond than she could count.

“You know,” Belinda said, her voice low, all confidential now, “Wolfinger’s bodyguard. He’s this big guy, never says a word. His name’s Arnold Loftus. I think he and Wolfinger sleep together.”

“You’re saying that Wolfinger is gay?” Savich said.

Belinda just shrugged.

A boy with a bad complexion stuck his head in. “They need you on the set, Ms. Gates.”

Belinda took one final swipe at her hair, nodded at herself in the mirror, rose, and smiled at them. “Sean’

s his name? I’d like to have a little boy,” she said, nodded to both of them, and walked out of the green room.

Savich said, “I got turned on watching her with those rollers, Sherlock. What do you say we buy some of our own?”

“Some really big ones?”

“Oh yes,” he said, “bigger than the ones we used before,” and Sherlock laughed.

CHICAGO

“My poor darling, how are you feeling?”

Nicola looked up at John Rothman, heard three of his aides speaking in the hospital corridor because he’

d left the door ajar. His face was ruddy from a stiff Chicago wind and thirty-degree weather, his blue eyes bluer than a summer sky. She thought she’d first fallen in love with his eyes, eyes that could see into people’s souls, at least see deep enough that he always knew the right things to say when he was campaigning.

“I’m okay now, John, just a sore throat and my stomach feels hollowed out.”

“I’m here to take you home. I was thinking, Nicola, maybe you should just move in with me now. The wedding is in February, so why not speed some things up a bit?”

She hadn’t slept with him. The one night she’d decided she was ready, they were caught making out just outside one of John’s favorite clubs
—The High Hat—
his tongue in her mouth, his hands on her butt, and there’d been photos in the
National Enquirer.
Very embarrassing.

He’d only given her light pecks on the cheek after that incident.

She said, “If I move in with you, people will find out. Don’t forget what happened before.”

He shrugged. “All right, then. Let’s move up the wedding. How about the end of the month?”

She was silent.

“I want us to begin our life together, Nicola, as soon as possible. I want to make love with you.”

She was still silent.

“I saw you naked, you know. You’re really quite beautiful.”

She smiled up at him as he took her hand, squeezed it lightly. “When did you see me naked?”

“I came over to get you, a couple of weeks ago. I rang the buzzer but you didn’t answer. I had a key, and so I let myself in. I heard the shower, and I watched you step out and dry yourself. You didn’t know I was there. I don’t know why I’m telling you this now, except to say I’d like to see you that way again. I

’d like to lick you all over, Nicola.”

Maybe it was because she still felt utterly empty inside, but she didn’t say what she probably would have said with a smile two weeks before
—Licking goes both ways.

“I’m very tired, John. Really, too tired to even think straight. I want to go home, lie in my own bed, get myself back together. Then we can talk about it. Did the doctor say anything more to you? About the food poisoning?”

“After speaking to each of us extensively, we figured out that only you had the raspberry vinaigrette dressing.”

“Dressing can cause food poisoning?”

John shrugged. “Would you like me to come back and take you home?”

Before she could say anything, one of John’s aides appeared in the doorway. “Senator, excuse me, but there’s a call from the mayor. He’s looking to speak to you.”

“Go, John. I’ll be all right.”

He leaned down, kissed her cheek. “You’re so pale,” he said, and lightly touched his fingertips to her cheek. “Shall I get you a bit of lip gloss from your purse?”

She nodded.

She watched him walk to the small table on the opposite side of the hospital room, open her purse, and pick up the lip gloss. He looked at it, frowned. “It’s really light,” he said. “You need something to make you look healthier.”

“I’ll put on some colorful stuff when I get home. Will I see you later?”

“I’m sorry, but I’ve got a meeting with a very important lobbying group tonight. I put off my lunch with the mayor so I could grab a little time to come see you. Albia is coming by to take you home. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She watched him walk out, tall, slender, so very elegant. Interestingly enough, he ranked nearly as high with male as with female voters. She heard the buzz of voices surrounding him, disappearing finally down the hall.

Albia arrived two hours later, sweeping into her room, two nurses behind her, not to chastise, but to bow and scrape and give her anything she asked for. Albia had that effect on people. She was a princess, well, perhaps now that she was in her fifties, she was a queen. She was regal. She was so self-confident, so self-assured, that sometimes even John would back down in the face of a single word from his sister’s mouth. She had been his hostess before he married Cleo, and then after she ran off with Tod Gambol.

She was an excellent campaigner. It was rare that a reporter would ever ask her an impertinent question.

“Albia,” Nicola said.

Albia Rothman leaned down, kissed Nicola’s cheek. “Poor little girl,” she said. “This is so awful. I’m so very sorry.” She ran her finger over Nicola’s cheek.

“It was hardly your fault, Albia.”

“That doesn’t lessen my being sorry that it happened during my birthday dinner.”

“Thank you.”

Albia straightened, walked to the window, and looked out toward Lake Michigan. “This is a very nice room. John didn’t even have to insist. You were brought here right after they released you from the emergency room.” She looked at Nicola, then away again. Albia was a very tactile person, and now she was running her hand over the drapes, less institutional than in most of the rooms that had drapes, but still.

“I’ve had food poisoning before, Albia. This wasn’t like that other time.”

A sleek eyebrow went up a good inch. “Oh? How very odd. I suppose this sort of thing can affect a person in different ways.”

“I’m just having trouble understanding what I ate that could have caused it.”

“I see. Do you wish to pursue it any further then?”

Nicola wanted to pursue it all the way to the moon, if necessary, but she knew when something simply wasn’t possible. She shook her head.

Albia pulled a chair close to Nicola’s bed and sat down. She crossed her legs, quite lovely legs, sheathed in stockings and three-inch black Chanel heels.

“John tells me that he wants to marry you as soon as possible. He reminded me about that car that almost hit you, and now this. He wants you safe and sound, and to a man—to John—that means you’re in his house, in his bed, and he’s looking after you. When he’s there, that is.”

And Nicola said, without hesitation, “I don’t know, Albia. I don’t think I’m ready to rush things.”

“What is this? John is an excellent catch. He has more women chasing him—both here and in Washington—and he is charming to all of them, but it’s you he wants. And that is a miracle, to my mind.”

“A miracle? Why?”

“He loved Cleo so very much, loved her nearly to the point of obsession. When she ran away, I thought he would simply shut down he was so devastated. I was very worried about him, for months on end.”

“I remember. I felt so very sorry for him, all of the staff did as well as the volunteers.” Nicola remembered how stoic he appeared whenever anyone mentioned his wife’s name, how stiff and remote he became.