Eleventh Hour

Belinda Gates walked in some ten minutes later. Sherlock said, “Goodness, she’s got rollers in her hair, Dillon, those big heat rollers. Do you remember the last time I used them to straighten my hair? You helped me roll them in?”

He said as he wrapped a long red curl around his finger, “Let’s do it again. It was fun.”

Sherlock paused a moment, remembering very clearly what they’d done just after pulling the rollers out. She said to Franken, “That’s really Belinda Gates? She’s very beautiful.”

“Yes, that’s her,” Franken said, and smiled as he chewed another french fry. “She is beautiful, and most important, the camera loves her face.”

Both Savich and Sherlock realized in that instant that Jon Franken had slept with her.

Sherlock said, “Tell us a bit about her, Jon.”

Franken ate another french fry, shrugged his elegant shoulders. “Belinda is basically a lightweight. She learns her lines, takes direction well, and has enough talent to keep the wolves at bay-of course, now that she’s nailed Frank Pauley she doesn’t have to worry. She works when she wants to, which probably means that her head’s less screwed up than it was. The thing is, she doesn’t have much fire in the belly; she just doesn’t have it in her to go for the jugular. If you’re looking at her as a suspect in this mess, all disguised and made up to look like a man, I’d say she wouldn’t be able to make it through the first audition. Now, if you’re interested in Frank Pauley as your murderer, maybe Belinda will give you something incriminating. Pauley just might have enough acid in his gut to do something like this. The thing is, I just don’t know why he’d sabotage his own show.”

“And you could? Make it through the first audition?” Savich said. He ate a carrot out of his huge salad.

“Oh yes, believe it. Listen, I’d still be sweeping the studio floors if I didn’t have it in me to take out a few jugulars, if I didn’t want to move up in this business more than I wanted to eat, which was in question in those early years.” And then he smiled again, wiped his hands on a napkin. “I’ll introduce you and let you at her. A few years ago, Belinda had some problems with the cops. She might not be all that easy for you.”

Jon Franken rose. “Forget what I said about Pauley. Even if his worst enemy were backing this show, he still wouldn’t have the guts or the imagination to try to bring it down through this convoluted, god-awful violence. Ah, Belinda is taking her lunch out. This should be a good time. She doesn’t tape for another hour or so; I checked.”

Sherlock and Savich met with Belinda Gates in a small green room co

A challenge, Sherlock thought, smiling at her, remembering what Franken had said. She introduced herself and Savich, carefully showing Belinda Gates their FBI shields up close.

“You’re both FBI?”

“Yes, that’s right,” Savich said, sitting back so he wouldn’t overwhelm, so just maybe she would relax.

“Partners?”

“Sometimes,” Sherlock said, sticking out her hand so Belinda Gates was forced to shake it. “Actually, we’re partners all around-we’re married and we’re FBI agents. Isn’t that a kick?”

Belinda said, looking back and forth between them, “You’re really married? To each other?”

“Oh yes,” Sherlock said. “We’ve got a little boy, Sean’s his name. He’s nearly a year old now. He’s walking, but he can also crawl as fast as I can walk. Besides being good parents, we’re good agents. We’re here to catch this killer and we need your help. We assume you know all about this, Ms. Gates?”

Belinda Gates leaned toward Sherlock, less wary and suspicious now. “Oh yes. Your husband-he looks like he could star in that new series Frank just dreamed up. It’s about a sports lawyer who’s a real looker and a hunk, stronger than most of his athlete clients. His clients are always getting him into trouble.” Belinda cleared her throat. “Listen, I’ll do whatever I can to help you find this horrible person. Is your name really Sherlock?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Cool.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock said. “We really appreciate speaking with someone who knows the ropes and all the players. I was very impressed with your role on The Consultant. I only saw the first two episodes, but you were really good. Your Ellie James character was believable, sympathetic, and beautiful, of course, but you can’t help that.” She paused a moment, and Belinda smiled.

“It’s unfortunate that the show has to stop, at least until we catch the maniac who’s causing all this grief. We’re hoping you can give us some ideas.”

EIGHTEEN

Belinda nodded, said, “I’ll certainly try, but I really don’t know anything. I do know that poor Frank is really upset about the show’s cancellation, but what can he do? He told me that DeLoach or some other writer involved in the scripts is killing people to match the murders in the first two episodes. Frank started calling it The Murder Show.”

“Catchy title,” Sherlock said. “Yes, that’s the essence of it.”

“Well, I think that actually Weldon DeLoach came up with that title, but the powers-that-be didn’t like it, preferred The Consultant. More uptown, you know what I mean?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “More Manhattan than Brooklyn.”

“Exactly,” Belinda said, smiling. “That was Frank’s take on it as well. He’s been in the business a long time. He was an actor back in the early eighties, never made it big, and that was okay because he realized he wanted to make shows, not star in them. He didn’t ever want to do movies. He loves TV. He’s at his happiest when he’s the mover behind the scenes, you know, getting scripts actually made into shows, selling the networks, doing the budgets, lining up the actors and directors. Kicking butt to keep everything moving and reasonably on budget.

“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?”