Eleventh Hour

Nick nodded. “That’s fantastic.”

Fly

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

“The studio heads might be morons,” Fly

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,” Fly

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,” Fly

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 Fly

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,” Fly

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 Fly

“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?” Fly

Frank Pauley gri

“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.”

Fly

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 pla

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. Fly

“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 Fly

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.”