Eleventh Hour (32 page)

Dane said very gently, “Weldon, your father visited with your boy and confessed what he was to him?”

“Yes.”

“Weldon, who is your son?”

Weldon shook his head. “Listen, Agent Savich, my son isn’t a murderer, he isn’t.”

“But you believe he is,” Sherlock said, “and it’s eating you alive. You think your son killed the people in San Francisco and in Pasadena, copying the scripts you wrote.”

Finally, Weldon DeLoach said, “I just couldn’t make myself accept that he was like his grandfather, that his head wasn’t right, that something was missing in him.”

Dane said, “We’ve got to bring him in, Weldon, you must know that. You can’t let him continue doing what your own father did for so many years.”

Weldon was shaking his head. “Don’t get me wrong. I didn’t figure it out until just a couple of days ago.

And even then I didn’t figure it out for myself. The old man actually bragged about how he’d finally gotten a real man in the family, how he didn’t have much to teach his grandson, because—like his granddaddy—he was born knowing what to do and how to do it. He told me that his grandson came to see him, brought a Christmas present, a nice tie with red dots on it. And how perfect that was, and so he told the boy he was going to die soon and he wanted to tell him all about himself. And he laughed and laughed at how stupid everyone was, the cops especially.”

Weldon fell silent, looked at them again. He said at last, “I haven’t known what to do. I just knew I had to kill that obscene old man, get him buried, and gone.”

Sherlock said very gently, “But what were you going to do about your son?”

“Get him help. Stop him from doing any more harm. Turn him over to the police if I had to.”

Sherlock said, “We’re the cops. What’s his name, Weldon?”

But Weldon just shook his head. “I couldn’t let him continue, not like my father had done. He was a good boy, really. I know something must have happened to make him snap, to turn him into a monster like his grandfather. I don’t know what it was, but there just had to have been something. He was doing so well. He’s very smart, you know, extraordinarily talented. But then there were some signs—he struggled when he was in high school, didn’t like his teachers, couldn’t make friends—it was enough to make me pay attention. He was violent once, when he accidentally killed a girl in college, but it could have happened to any guy, you know? Things just got out of hand. It was involuntary manslaughter. I got him help. They made him well. My son promised me he was just fine, and I wanted desperately to believe him.

“Something happened. The old man did this to him, somehow.”

He looked up at each of them in turn. “Do you know I still don’t know how many people that old monster killed? There were people he killed that were never found by anyone. Oh Jesus.”

He put his head in his hands and sobbed very quietly.

THIRTY-TWO

“Wait! You can’t go in there!”

As she pushed past him, Sherlock said, “Jay, it’s time for you to go away now. It’s time to take your custom suits from Armani, get another job, and pay off your credit cards.”

“But he’s meditating! He specifically told me he didn’t want to be bothered. And I love Armani. When I wear Armani everyone knows it’s Armani.”

Suddenly Arnold Loftus came roaring forward. He didn’t try to bar their way, he rounded on Jay Smith.

“Shut up, Jay. They’re here for a reason. Don’t try to stop them.”

“You’re the damned bodyguard. Don’t let them go in there, you moron, you’ve—”

Arnold very gently picked up Jay Smith beneath his armpits and simply walked away with him. He said over his shoulder, “The Little Shit fired me. Whatever it is, go for it.”

Dane gently turned the handle. The door was locked. He turned to Jay, still held up by his armpits, and held out his hand. “Key,” was all he said.

Arnold let Jay down, watched him like a hawk as he went to his desk, got down on his knees, and untaped a key beneath the center drawer. He handed it to Dane.

“Thank you,” Dane said.

Dane quietly unlocked the door, slowly pushed it open. The huge office was dark, like a movie theater, and indeed, there was a movie showing, on the far white wall. Linus Wolfinger was seated in the chair behind his desk, his chin propped up in his hands, watching.

It was an episode of
The Consultant,
one they hadn’t seen. He didn’t look away from the screen even after all six of the people who’d come into his office were standing around his desk.

He said in a calm, conversational voice, “My dear old dad blew the whistle, I take it?”

“No,” Delion said. “Your dad told us about how he’d found out that his son was a murderer, but no, he didn’t tell us your name.”

“That crazy old pile of bones told you then.”

Savich said, “Actually, we managed to figure it out. MAX, my computer, verified for us that you were born Robert Allen DeLoach, and you attended Garrett High School here in LA. Here’s a photo of you.”

Savich laid the photo faceup on Wolfinger’s desk. Linus didn’t bother to look at it.

Sherlock said, “We also found the real Michael Linus Wolfinger. Here’s his photo. He isn’t you.”

Linus waved a hand. “The guy died in a skiing accident, nothing more. He was an orphan. Taking his identity wasn’t a problem. I wanted to work in the studio. With the year in that institution, I knew no one would hire me.” Linus shrugged. “Who the hell cares?”

“Tell us about the girl in college,” Dane said.

Linus shrugged again, his fingers were tapping on the desktop. He couldn’t seem to keep himself still. “

Silly little twit, told me she wouldn’t go out with a nerd. I twisted her neck until it broke. Unfortunately my father came in before I could get rid of her body. But he helped me, told me that I wasn’t like my grandfather, that he was going to get me help. I argued with him but he told me I had no choice. For my own good, he was putting me in an institution. If I didn’t agree, he’d turn me over to the police.”

Linus looked at them again, shrugged. “I am very smart, you know. In fact, I’m more than smart. I’m a genius. That year in the Mountain Peak Institution, in the butt-end of nowhere—well, I used that year to plan out what I wanted to do with my life. It was right after that that Wolfinger died and I took on his name and his past. Dear old dad got me a job here at the studio. Then I met Miles Burdock and impressed the hell out of him, which was tough, but I told you, I’m a genius. I’ve proved it. I’ve made lots and lots of money for the studio. That’s why all the old duffers around here call me Little Shit. They’

re all jealous. Hey, I’m the crown prince, the best fucking thing that’s ever happened to this place.”

He paused a moment, looked at Savich. “I don’t suppose my daddy knocked off my grandfather?”

“No,” Dane said, “but he really wanted to. He still does. How did you find out about your grandfather?

How did you even know where he is?”

Linus laughed. “I was at my dad’s house last month and came across a paid invoice to the old folks’

home. I had never met my grandfather, but I did know that my dad hated him. He told me several times that he’d never put that old man in my life, never. I suppose my dad told you that?”

Dane nodded.

“I wanted to meet him, maybe find out why my dad hated him so much. I even took him a Christmas present. Do you know what I found out from that pathetic old man?”

No one said anything, just waited.

“He told me about what he’d done. At first I just didn’t believe him, it was too fantastic. But he told me stuff that sounded too real to be made up. He called my dad a coward and a wuss. Then he asked me if I was really of his blood, if I’d ever killed anyone. I told him I had. I thought the old man would crawl out of his wheelchair and dance he was so pleased.

“He cackled, blood and spittle hanging off his chin. He wagged his finger at me, told me it was in my blood, told me I had the look of him when he was young, and the good Lord knew it was so deep in his blood that now it was coming out of him. He coughed again and more blood came out of his mouth.

“I realized then that I was just like him. I told him that I’d gotten bored, and then my dad had come up with this terrific idea for a series. As I listened to him, everything came together in my mind. I knew exactly what I was going to do. I added my own ideas to the first two or three scripts, and my dad was really pleased that I was so interested and that my ideas worked so well.

“When I told my grandfather what I was going to do, he wanted all the details. He even helped me refine some of my plans. When I left, he laughed and wished me luck, said he wanted to hear how things actually went down because, he said, things never go exactly as planned, and that just makes it all the more fun. I told him he could read all about it in the newspaper.” Linus shook his head, tapped his fingers some more on the desktop.

“Jesus, it was fun, particularly that priest in San Francisco, your twin brother, Agent Carver. He surprised the hell out of me. It gave me quite a start when you first came in here.”

Dane wanted to kill the little bastard. He felt Savich’s hand on his arm, squeezing very lightly. He fought for control, managed to keep it. He said, “It’s over now, Linus, all over. You’re dead meat.”

Linus said, “You do know I’m the one who sent that picture of you and Miss Nick to the media. All I had to do was make a couple of calls to the SFPD to find out who she was. And now she was here, sniffing around, looking at everyone, but I knew she wouldn’t recognize me.”

Dane said, “But you hired Milton to kill her. You were afraid that she might recognize you eventually.”

Linus shrugged yet again, his fingertips tapping a mad tattoo. “Why take a chance? Too bad Milton was such a lousy shot.” He looked at Nick. “Pity he missed you. Just a graze. Bummer. But I would have gotten you, Miss Nick, oh yes, I would have killed you dead.” He gave a short laugh, then turned back to the show. He pressed a button, lowering the volume even more. He said, never looking away from the episode playing on the wall, “Father Michael Joseph was my first big challenge. He told me he was going to blow the whistle on me, leave the priesthood if he had to. I was going to kill him anyway, but I had to speed things up.” He looked at Dane and smiled. “It was a beautiful shot. But you know what? The damned priest looked happy, like maybe he realized that he’d saved some lives with his sacrifice. Who can say?”

Dane was breathing hard now, struggling to keep his hands at his sides, to keep himself from wrapping his hands around Linus Wolfinger’s neck and choking the life out of him. He was a monster, maybe even more of a monster than his grandfather, but that would really be saying something.

“What did you do with the gun?” Sherlock asked.

He grinned at her. “Who knows?”

Dane smiled at him. “You’re going to pay now, Linus. You’re going into a cage and you’re never going to come out except when they walk you down to the execution room to send you to hell.”

“I don’t think so,” Linus said, lifted his hand, and in it was a gun, a derringer, small and deadly. He aimed it at each of them in turn.

“Don’t even think about it, Linus,” Savich said. “It’s too late. We don’t want to have to kill you. Don’t make us.”

Linus Wolfinger laughed. “Do you know running this studio isn’t even much fun anymore? Nothing’s much fun anymore.” He said, in a very good imitation of Arnold Schwarzenegger, “
Hasta la vista,
baby.

” He stuck the derringer in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

THIRTY-THREE

They’d just returned to the Holiday Inn. Linus Wolfinger had been dead for only an hour. It seemed much longer.

Nick stood in front of the TV and watched John Rothman, senior senator from Illinois, face a slew of cameras and a multitude of shouting reporters.

“. . . We’re told it’s your wife, Senator, the one everybody believed ran away with one of your aides three years ago. They found her body, but where’s your aide?”

“. . . Sir, how did you feel when they told you they’d found your wife’s body?”

“. . . She’s dead, Senator, not off living with another man. Do you think your aide killed your wife, sir?”

“. . . How do you think this will affect your political career, Senator?”

Nick simply stared at the TV screen, hardly believing what she saw. She felt a deep pain, and rising rage.

John Rothman had finally tracked Cleo down, and killed her. To shut her up. And to get revenge for the letter she’d written to Nick?

She looked at that face she’d believed she loved, that mobile face that could show such joy, could laugh and joke with the greatest charm, a face that could hide hideous secrets. She watched him perform, no other word for it. He was a natural politician, an actor of tremendous talent. To all the questions, Senator John Rothman said not a word. He stood quietly, like a biblical martyr as stones were hurled at him. He looked both stoic and incredibly weary, and older than he had just a month before. She couldn’t see any fear leaching out of him; all she saw was pain, immense pain. Even she, who knew what this man was, who knew what he’d done, what he was capable of, even she could feel it radiating from him. If she had been asked at that very instant if he’d killed Cleo, if he’d ever killed anyone or tried to kill anyone, she would have said unequivocally no. He was the most believable human being she’d ever seen in her life.

He continued to say nothing, didn’t change his expression at any of the questions, whether they were insulting or not. All the questions seemed to just float past him. Finally, and only when he was ready, Senator Rothman took a single step forward. He merely nodded to the shouting reporters, the people holding the scores of cameras, made brief eye contact with many of them as he gave a small wave of his hand. Immediately everyone was quiet. It was an incredible power he had, one she’d always admired.

Even before she’d met him she’d wondered how he did it.

Senator Rothman said very quietly, making everyone strain forward, shushing their colleagues so they could hear him, “The police notified me just last night that they’d found my former wife’s body, that it looked like she’d been dead for some time. They don’t know yet how long, but they will do the appropriate testing to find out. Then, we hope they’ll be able to ascertain what happened to her. As you know, I haven’t seen her in more than three years. I would like to ask for your understanding for the grieving family and friends.”