Eleventh Hour (26 page)

“Oh?” Savich said. “Just where did you go?”

“We played poker until really late and I had too much to drink. I stayed over at Jimbo’s house.”

Savich raised a dark eyebrow. “Jimbo?”

“That’s James Elliott Croft.”

“The actor?” Nick said.

“Yes. He’s also a lousy poker player. I won three hundred bucks off him.”

Savich said, eyebrow raised higher, “And he still let you stay?”

Pauley said, “Hey, it’s a really big house. I’m a quiet drunk, never bother anyone.”

Sherlock said, not breaking the rhythm that she and Savich had set up, “When you saw Belinda this morning, she told you about the show?”

Pauley shook his head. “No, she was pissed at me because I’d told her I was coming home but I didn’t.

She’d left for a run before I even got back from Jimbo’s house.”

Savich said, “So you don’t know why she wouldn’t have called last night, the minute she realized she was watching episode three?”

“No clue. She’s at home right now. I know that Detective Flynn spoke to her. What did he tell you?”

Sherlock gave him a nice smile. “I think I’ll just keep that under my hat.”

“You shouldn’t wear a hat, ever,” Pauley said. “It wouldn’t look good on you.”

“Depends on the hat,” Sherlock said, still with a sunny smile.

The phone rang. Pauley shot a harassed look toward his desk, listened to it ring again. “I told Heather not to disturb me so it must be really important,” he said, and picked up the phone, a fake antique affair in, naturally, gray.

When he hung up, he said, “That was Jon Franken. He says that his own personal copies of the next episodes of
The Consultant
are gone.”

“What do you mean, gone?”

“Agent Savich, look, the episodes we taped of
The Consultant
—they’re videotapes, and all over the place. Anyone who wants a copy can get ahold of it. All the producers, the editing department, the grips, anyone on set could get copies. They’re not locked away. Jon said that someone evidently took his copies.” He sighed. “Everyone knows that actual murders were committed using the scripts from the episodes. Who would steal Jon’s copies?”

“How many of his episodes are missing?” Sherlock said.

“He said the next three. Look, there’s just no way to hide the last three episodes we shot last summer. I’

m surprised that Jon even noticed.” He looked like he wanted to howl. Sherlock devoutly hoped he wouldn’t.

“It seems,” Sherlock said, “that the videotape was delivered by Gleason Courier Service. We spoke to the man who delivered the film and the letter. He said the package was simply left in their mail delivery drop at the North Hollywood office. Here’s the letter.”

She stuck it out to Pauley. He took it, stared down at it.

“Please read it, Mr. Pauley,” Savich said. “Dane and Nick haven’t heard it.”

Frank read:
“Dear Mr. Lido, I’m enclosing an episode of
The Consultant
. We’ve decided to cancel
the series due to many factors, and someone suggested that you might find it appropriate for your
audience. Give it a try, see what you think, get back to me.”

Frank looked up. “He signed my name, and my title. It isn’t my handwriting though, I can prove that.” He was up fast, nearly ran to his desk and pulled some papers off the top. “Here,” he said, shoving the pages into Savich’s hand, “this is my handwriting.”

“It’s very similar,” Sherlock said at last. “Even the letters are slanted the same way. It’s hard for me to tell.”

“Not for me.”

Savich rose. “All right, Mr. Pauley. We will be in touch.”

Nick just happened to look over her shoulder as she left Frank Pauley’s office. He was standing in the middle of the room, his arms stiff at his sides, his hands fists. Just like he had been standing when they’d come in.

They were standing at the elevator doors when Dane said, “While we’re here, why don’t we drop in on Linus Wolfinger?”

“That’s the plan,” Savich said and punched the up button.

They went through the three secretaries, all of them the same adult crew, still showing no cleavage, just elegant suits in subdued colors. The place hummed with efficiency.

Nick nodded to Arnold Loftus, Linus Wolfinger’s bodyguard, who was leaning against the same wall, looking buffed, tan, and bored. Sherlock picked up a magazine from one of the end tables and handed it to him.

Arnold Loftus automatically took the magazine. “Thank you. Hey, you guys are the FBI agents, right?”

“That’s right,” Sherlock said. “Does the FBI interest you?”

“Oh yeah, you guys get a lot more action than I do.”

Nick smiled at him. “How’s tricks?”

He shrugged. “Never anything going on. Wolfinger prances around, telling everyone what to do and how to do it, and people want to stick a knife in him, but they haven’t yet because they’re more afraid of him than they are of their mothers, at least that’s how it looks to me. I guess if somebody got pissed off enough to go after him, I’d have to save him. Hey, thanks for the magazine.”

“You’re welcome. Is Mr. Wolfinger here?”

“Oh yeah, you just have to get past his guard dog.”

“You’re not the guard dog?”

“Nah, I’m the ultimate weapon.”

Savich laughed, just couldn’t help himself. “What’s the guard dog’s name?”

“I call him Mr. Armani, but his real name is Jay Smith.”

“Now we’ve got a Smith and a Jones,” Dane said, and looked toward Nick, who ignored him.

“I don’t think,” Sherlock said after they’d stepped away, “that Mr. Arnold Loftus and Mr. Linus Wolfinger are lovers.”

“Agreed,” Nick said. “Who was it who told us about that?”

“I’ll have to look it up in my notes,” Sherlock said.

Jay Smith, in a beautifully tailored pale gray wool Armani suit, frowned at them. “Mr. Wolfinger is very busy. There are a number of people waiting—”

Savich simply walked by him, paused a moment, and said over his shoulder, “Do you want to tell Mr.

Wolfinger that we’re here to speak to him or should I just go on in?”

“Wait!”

“Oh no, this is police business. I don’t ever wait.” Savich winked at Sherlock, and she put her palm over her breast and mouthed, “My hero.”

Savich opened the door, stepped into the huge, bare office and stopped cold.

Linus Wolfinger was lying on top of his desk, and he looked to be asleep, unconscious, or dead.

TWENTY-SIX

“Shall we try CPR?” Nick said.

“It may be too late for him,” Dane said. “Hey, he doesn’t look bad, if he’s dead. A real pity, he was so young.”

“I think he looks very peaceful,” Sherlock said. “Do you think I should maybe kiss him? See if he’ll come around?”

“Like the Sleeping Prince?” Nick asked.

Jay Smith was wringing his hands behind them. He whispered, “That’s not funny. He’s not dead and you know it. He’s meditating. For God’s sake, you can’t interrupt his meditation. He’ll fire me if I allow it. Oh God, I’m still in hock to MasterCard for this suit.”

Sherlock patted his Armani arm. “Good morning, Mr. Wolfinger,” she called out, then simply brushed past Jay Smith, who looked to be on the verge of tears. “I’ll be fired, for sure he’ll bounce me out on my ear. What will I tell my mother? She thinks I’m a real big shot.”

Linus Wolfinger didn’t move, just lay still, looking dead.

Sherlock walked right up to the desk, leaned down, and said not an inch from his face, “Did you send episode three over to Norman Lido at KRAM?”

Linus Wolfinger sat up very slowly, and in a single, fluid motion, graceful as a dancer. He stood and stretched. Suddenly he looked just like an awkward nerd again, all sharp bones and angles, three pens in his white shirt pocket, tattered sneakers on his feet. “No,” he said, “I didn’t. I actually had no idea until Frank told me a while ago. He’s very upset about it since some character pretended it was from him and forged his name.”

Savich said, “Mr. Wolfinger, what did you do that year after you graduated from UC Santa Barbara?”

Linus Wolfinger pulled a pen out of his shirt pocket, listed to the right, and began tapping, tapping that damned pen against the desktop. “That was such a long time ago, Agent Savich.”

“Yeah, all of two and a half years ago,” Savich said. “Try to reconstruct the time for us.”

Linus looked over at Dane. “What happened to you?”

“A Harley.”

“A Harley hit you?”

“Nah, the guy on the Harley.”

Linus looked thoughtful. “I’ve always thought of Harleys as being cheap Porsches, but every bit as sexy.

Now, listen to me. I know you’re confused, that you don’t know your heads from your asses, but I don’t know anything either. All of this is quite a shock. I don’t need to tell you that Mr. Burdock is pissed about the whole thing. The media is sniffing around big time, invading everyone’s privacy, his in particular.

And our lawyers are whimpering, hiding in their offices.”

“Tell us what you did during that year after you graduated, Mr. Wolfinger.”

Tap, tap, tap went the pen. Linus said on a shrug, “Nothing happened. I just bummed around the western states—you know, Wyoming and Nevada, places like that. I was trying to find myself.”

Savich said, “What did you live on during that year?”

“Nothing much. I was by myself, didn’t eat much, just drove around.”

Nick said, “You said you were driving around Wyoming. My very favorite place is Bryce Canyon. Did you visit there? What did you think?”

“Gorgeous place,” Linus said, nodding. “I spent a good couple of weeks there. What else can I do for you folks?”

Savich didn’t have time to continue with Linus because the door burst open and Jon Franken came running in, his handsome face red.

He came to a dead stop when he saw the four people standing there, watching him. He drew up, sucked in a deep breath, and said, “What I meant to say is that I heard that those idiots over at KRAM showed episode three of
The Consultant
last night. Why did you okay such a thing?”

“Good morning, Mr. Franken.”

“Oh, stuff it,” Jon Franken said. “Why did you do it?”

“I didn’t. Someone sent it over saying it was from Frank.”

“That’s bullshit,” Jon said, and dashed his fingers through his beautifully styled hair. Next to Linus Wolfinger, Jon Franken looked like a model, one with style and good taste. He looked very Hollywood with his white linen slacks, dark blue shirt, and Italian loafers, no socks. He looked long and sleek and elegant. And royally pissed. He also didn’t look the least bit intimidated by Linus Wolfinger, who could have him out on his ear in about two seconds.

Linus Wolfinger wouldn’t stop tap, tap, tapping that damned pen.

Jon said to Savich, “I’m sorry for bursting in here like this, but I just heard. Belinda called me. What the hell happened? Please tell me there weren’t any murders.”

“Not yet,” Sherlock said.

“Good. Maybe this was just a distraction,” Jon said, and streaked his long fingers through his hair again.

His hair was so well styled that it fell right back into place.

Wolfinger showed signs of life at that announcement. “Maybe Jon has a point there. Maybe this was just another planned detour for the police, to get you all panicked. What do you think?”

“I think you could be right,” Savich said. “Dane, sit down before you fall down.”

Dane went to one of the two very uncomfortable chairs in the huge, nearly empty office and sat down.

He cupped his left arm with his right hand.

“What happened to you?” Jon asked.

Linus said, “A Harley.”

“What?”

But Jon Franken didn’t wait for an answer, just began pacing. “Look, this has got to come to an end.

You’ve got to stop the maniac. Everyone is really freaked.”

Savich said, “You told us, Mr. Franken, that Weldon DeLoach is around thirty years old. When you showed us that tape, we all agreed that he looked older, forty at least.”

Jon shrugged. “That’s what he told me. He lives hard, what can I say? This town is really tough on some people, and Weldon’s one of them. You don’t understand—it sounds like a joke, but it’s all too true.

People who work in TV die young because they work their butts off—an eighteen-hour day is common.

Lots of people just sleep here on the lot, on sets, in trailers. I found one guy sacked out in Scully’s bed on stage five, his foot dangling over the side of the crib at the end of the bed. About Weldon—look, I never had any reason to doubt him. Are you saying he’s a lot older than he told me?”

“He’s forty-one, nearly forty-two,” Sherlock said. “You’ve known him for eight years, right?”

“Yeah, about that. I really never paid much attention. Who cares?”

“A lot of things could hinge on that,” Sherlock said. “We don’t know yet.”

Savich turned back to Linus Wolfinger. “It’s time for a geography lesson, Linus. Bryce Canyon is in Utah, not Wyoming. So, what were you doing during that year?”

Jon Franken looked at Linus. “You don’t know where Bryce Canyon is? Jesus, Linus, you’re supposed to know everything.”

Savich wished that Jon Franken would take himself off.

Linus just smiled and continued to tap his pen. “The agent over there told me how much she loved it and that it was in Wyoming. I wasn’t about to make her look like an ignoramus. It wouldn’t be very polite, now would it?”

Well, shit, Dane thought. The politicians in Washington could learn spin from these characters.

Dane’s cell phone rang just as Nick was seat-belting him into the backseat of Savich’s rental car, a big dark blue Ford Taurus. They were parked on the studio lot because the media couldn’t get into the studio itself, thank God. He listened, didn’t say a word for a good three minutes. Sherlock, Savich, and Nick were all staring at him, waiting.

“All right,” Dane said. “I’ll get back to you within the hour.” He pressed the end button, stared at Savich, and shook his head. “That was Mr. Latterley, the manager of the Lakeview Home for Retired Police Officers
—
you know, the nursing home where Weldon DeLoach’s father has lived for the past ten years.

“Mr. Latterley says that Weldon DeLoach called this morning. Said he wants to come see his father late this afternoon, and was that all right. He also said that when he’d called before they told him that his father fell out of his wheelchair and hurt himself.”