Eleventh Hour (12 page)

“And then we check the airlines,” Flynn said. “Looks to me, boys, like we’re stuck with a real ugly case.

What do you say we go back to the studio and round up everyone who had anything to do with those scripts? I’ll just bet the studio honchos are shitting in their pants, what with the possibility of lawsuits they’

ll face from the families of the victims.”

“They have assured us of their complete cooperation,” Delion said.

Flynn said, “Well, that’s something. Hey, it’s kinda neat having a Fed around. You bite?”

“Nah, never.”

“That’s good, because I bite back,” Flynn said.

Dane said, “I’ll be heading up our involvement with the local agents. Ms. Jones is a possible witness and that’s why she’s here with us. We want her to look at everyone who had anything to do with this show.

Just maybe we’ll get lucky.”

“I say it’s the writer,” Delion said. “He dreamed it all up. Who else could it be?”

Detective Flynn just gave Delion a mournful look. “Sorry, son, but the writer—poor schmuck—yeah, he could be the one to start the ball rolling, maybe come up with the concept, a couple of show ideas, maybe even a rough draft for the first show, but is he our perp? You see, depending on the show, there can be up to a dozen writers with their fingers in the plot. Then there’s all the rest of those yahoos—the director, the assistant directors, the script folk, the producers, the actors, hell, even the grip. I know all this because I live here and my kid is an actor. He’s been on a few shows so far.” Detective Flynn drew himself up even taller, if that was possible. “He’s a comedian.”

“Which shows?” Nick asked.

“He was on
Friends
and
Just Shoot Me
.”

Nick nodded. “That’s fantastic.”

Flynn smiled down at her from his six-foot-six height and said, “I wonder how many more episodes of
The Consultant
it would have taken before someone somewhere noticed.”

“Needless to say,” Dane said, “they’ve stopped the shows.”

“The studio heads might be morons,” Flynn said, “but not the lawyers. I’ll bet they had conniption fits, ordered the plug pulled the instant you guys called.”

Nick said, “How do they select which episode is played each week? Or are they aired in a specific sequence?”

“Since this show isn’t about the ongoing lives of its main characters,” Flynn said, “I can’t imagine that the order would be all that important. Normally, though, I understand that they’re shown in the order they’re filmed. We’ll ask.”

Delion said, “Then that means our guy knows which episode is going to play next. And that means he’s here in LA for sure.”

“Yeah, over at Premier Studios,” Flynn said.

TWELVE

Premier Studios was on West Pico Boulevard, just perpendicular to Avenue of the Stars. Across from the studio was the Rancho Park Golf Course. Dane was surprised at the level of security. There was a kiosk at the entrance gate, armed security guards, and dogs sniffing car interiors. Past the initial kiosk, the driveway was set up with white concrete blocks forming S-curves to force cars to drive slowly.

Detective Flynn flashed his badge and told them that the Big Cheese was expecting them, at which point the woman smiled, checked her board, and said, “Have at it, Detective.”

There were giant murals painted on the studio walls: Marilyn Monroe in
Seven Year Itch,
Luke fighting Darth Vader in
Star Wars,
Julie Andrews singing in
The Sound of Music,
and cartoon characters from
The Simpsons.
There was also advertising for new shows. Nick stopped a moment to stare at the building-size paintings of Marilyn Monroe and Cary Grant.

“They’ve been up forever,” Flynn said. “Neat, isn’t it?”

The head of Premier Studios, who was second only to the owner, mogul Miles Burdock, was on the fifth floor, the executive level of a modern building that didn’t look at all fancy and was close to the entrance of the studio lot.

The Big Cheese’s name was Linus Wolfinger and he wasn’t a man, Pauley told them when he met them in his office on the fourth floor, he was a boy who was only twenty-four years old. He believed himself a genius, and the arrogant Little Shit was right.

“Does this mean you don’t like him?” Delion said.

“You think it’s that noticeable?”

“Nah, I’m just real sensitive to nuances,” Delion said.

“The problem,” Frank Pauley said, waving that hand with the four diamond rings on it, “is that the Little Shit is really good when it comes to picking story concepts, and God knows there are zillions pitched each season. He’s good at picking actors, at picking the right time slots for the shows to air. Sometimes he’s wrong, but not that often. It’s all very depressing, particularly since he has the habit of telling everyone how great he is. Everyone hates his guts.”

“Yeah,” Delion said. “Even as delicate as I am, I can sure see why.”

“Twenty-four? As in only two dozen years old?” Detective Flynn asked.

“Yep, a raw thing to swallow,” Frank Pauley said. “On the other hand, most of the top executives in a studio are only around for the short term—maybe three, four years. You can bet their entire focus is on how much money they can pocket before they’re out. This is a money business. There are simply no other considerations. You’ll have an executive producer getting his paycheck, then he’ll decide to direct a show and that means he gets another paycheck. It’s all ego and money.”

“Why are you telling us all this, Mr. Pauley?” Flynn asked.

Frank Pauley grinned, splayed his hands. “Hey, I’m cooperating. It’s better if you have some clue what motivates people around here.”

“You direct shows, Mr. Pauley?” Nick said.

“You bet. I sometimes also earn a paycheck for inputting on the actual writing of an episode.”

“Three paychecks?” Nick asked.

“Yes, everyone does it who can. You know what’s even better? For direction and writing, I get royalties or residuals. I’ve got no complaints.”

Flynn rolled his eyes, said, “I’ve got to make sure my son is clear on all of this.”

Delion said, “You’re telling us that money, power, and ego—are the bottom line here in sin city? How shocking.”

Pauley smiled. “I hesitate to say this so cynically, but I want to be totally up front with you. This is a very serious mess we’ve got on our hands. If it gets out, and you can bet the bank it will, I don’t want to think what’s going to happen. The media will be brutal. I’ve kept quiet about this, just as you asked. To the best of my knowledge, no one involved in
The Consultant
has left town because the cops were here this morning. Wolfinger is expecting us on the fifth floor. That’s where the Little Shit’s castle is. It was a regular office until Mr. Burdock hired him on. This way.”

“What do you mean a ‘regular’ office?” Nick asked.

“You’ll see.”

“Tell us about Miles Burdock,” Delion said.

“He likes everyone to think he’s hands-on, that if he personally doesn’t like a show, it’s gone, but to be honest about it, it’s really Linus Wolfinger who’s got all the power around here. Mr. Burdock has so many irons in the fire—most of them international—and hell, you come right down to it, we’re just a little iron. He really likes Linus Wolfinger, met him here at the studio, watched him over a couple of months while Linus did nearly all the planning and execution of one of our prime-time shows when both the producer and the director proved incompetent. Then he promoted him, put him in charge of the whole magilla just like that.” Frank Pauley snapped his fingers. “It caused quite a furor for a while.”

They went through three secretaries, all over fifty, professionals to their button-down shirts, with not a single long leg showing, and not a single long red nail.

Frank Pauley just waved at them and kept walking down the wide corridor. Flynn said, “I would have bet no self-respecting studio honcho would have secretaries like these.”

“You mean like adult secretaries? Linus fired the other, much younger secretary the day he moved in.

Fact is, though, everyone needs slaves who will work eighteen-hour days without much bitching. That means young, and so usually the secretaries aren’t older than thirty. That’s why Linus hired three secretaries. Let me tell you, the place really runs better now.”

Nick said, “How long has Mr. Wolfinger been here?”

“Nearly two years in his current position, maybe six months before that. Let me tell you, it’s been the longest two years in my life.”

A man of about thirty-five, so beefed up he probably couldn’t stand straight, put himself in their faces, barring their way. He looked like he could grind nails with his teeth. “That’s Arnold Loftus, Linus’s bodyguard,” Pauley said under his breath. “He never says anything, and everybody is afraid of him.”

“He’s got lovely red hair,” Nick said.

Pauley gave her an amazed look.

“You’re here to see Mr. Wolfinger?” Arnold Loftus asked, his arms crossed over his huge chest.

“Yes, Arnold, we’re expected,” said Flynn.

Arnold Loftus waved them to a young man of not more than twenty-two who was walking toward them.

No, “strutting” was a better word. He was dressed in an Armani suit, gray, beautifully cut. He stopped, and also crossed his arms over his chest. They were coming into his territory.

“Mr. Pauley,” he said, nodding, then he looked at the three men and the woman tagging behind him.

“Jay, we’re here to see Mr. Wolfinger. These are police and FBI. It’s very important. I called you.”

Jay said, “Please be seated. I’ll see if Mr. Wolfinger is ready to see you.”

Six minutes later, just an instant before Delion was ready to put his foot through the door, it opened and the assistant nodded to them. “Mr. Wolfinger is a very busy man, but he’s available to see you now.”

“You’d think he’d be a little more interested, what with the studio lawyers going nuts,” Frank said. “But it

’s his way. He always likes to show he’s above everything and everyone.”

They trailed Frank Pauley into Linus Wolfinger’s office.

So this was the Little Shit’s castle, Dane thought, looking around. Pauley was right. This was no ordinary executive office. It didn’t have a scintilla of chrome or glass or leather. It wasn’t piled with scripts, with memorabilia or anything else. It wasn’t anything but a really big square room with a highly polished wooden floor, bare of carpets, windows on two sides with views toward the golf course and the ocean beyond, and a huge desk in the middle. On top of the desk looked to be a fortune in computers. There was a single chair, without a back, behind the desk.

Linus Wolfinger wasn’t looking at his visitors, he was looking at one of the computer screens, and humming the theme from
Gone With the Wind.

The assistant cleared his throat, loudly.

Wolfinger looked up, took in all the folks staring at him, and smiled, sort of. He stepped around from behind the huge desk, let them assimilate the fact that he did, indeed, look more like a nerd than not, what with his short-sleeve white shirt, pens in his shirt pocket, a black dickey that covered his neck and disappeared under the shirt, and casual pants that hung off his skinny butt. He said, “I understand from all of our lawyers, Mr. Pauley, that we have a problem with
The Consultant.
Someone has been copying the murders in the first two episodes.”

“Yes,” Frank said. “That appears to be the case.”

“Now, I suppose you’re all police?”

“Yes, and FBI,” Detective Flynn said, “and Ms. Nick Jones.”

Wolfinger pulled a pen out of his shirt pocket and started chewing on it. He said, “Did Frank tell you that the show is now, officially, closed down?”

“Among other things,” Delion said. “We wanted to ask you first if you have any idea who the real-life murderer is, since it’s very likely someone closely connected to the show.”

“I do have some ideas on that,” Wolfinger said, and put the pen back in his pocket. He opened a desk drawer, which was really a small refrigerator, and pulled out a can of Diet Dr Pepper. He popped the lid and took a long drink.

“Why don’t we go into a conference room,” Dane said. “You do have one, I assume? With chairs?”

“Sure. I’ve got seven minutes,” Wolfinger said, drank down more soda, and burped.

“With all your reputed brains,” Flynn said, “we should get this resolved in five.”

“I expect so,” Wolfinger said, and waved them into a long, narrow, utterly plush conference room just down the hall. Manning the coffeepot and three plates piled high with goodies was the second of the three secretaries, Mrs. Grossman.

All of them accepted cups of coffee.

Once they were all seated, Linus Wolfinger leaned forward in his chair and said, “Have you seen the third episode, the one that was scheduled to air this Tuesday night?”

“Not yet,” Delion said.

Linus Wolfinger said, “It’s about two particularly brutal murders that take place in western New York.

There’s an even more
X-Files
type of situation than there was in the first two. It’s got this talking head that keeps appearing just before the victims get chopped up. It’s pretty creepy. DeLoach loves shit like that. He’s very good at it.”

Dane and Delion looked at each other. When they’d first heard the writer’s name, they’d been flabbergasted. “Why would the jerk advertise like this?” Delion had wondered aloud.

Dane said, “DeLoach? The main writer’s name is DeLoach?”

Wolfinger nodded. “Yes, he’s smart. Ideas keep marching out of his brain like little soldiers. He really knows how to manipulate the viewer well. I’m sure, however, that all of you already knew the head writer’s name.”

“Could be,” Delion said.

“Sounds like you like the guy,” Flynn said.

Wolfinger shrugged. “What’s not to like? He’s creative, has a brain, and best of all, he has a modicum of a work ethic. Why are you so excited about DeLoach’s name?”

Delion, seeing no reason not to, said, “DeBruler is the alias our guy used in San Francisco, at the rectory.

”

“That’s very close,” Wolfinger said, tapping his pen on the tabletop. “But you know, despite the names being close, there’s no way DeLoach is your guy.”