Eleventh Hour

“No news is good news, I guess,” Savich said. “When we spoke to Pauley by phone, he claimed he didn’t know anything about this, that he never gave a copy of any episode to anyone. We’re going to go see him again, and Belinda as well. Delion thought Sherlock would do best with her. Dane, you stay in bed and try to get yourself healed. Nick, you keep out of sight; the media is going to be crawling all over the studio.”

“No,” Dane said. “I’m okay, really. I want to come see Pauley with you.” He paused a moment, then said, “I really need to do this, Savich.”

After a pause, Savich said, “All right, Dane. We’ll pick you up in about fifteen minutes. But I think this is the last time you guys should be out and about here in LA. There’s just too much media interest, and I’d just as soon not take any more chances with Nick’s safety. Or yours,” Savich added, looking at Dane’s arm.

Nick just looked at him and said, “I’ll get your clothes together for you while you take a shower.”

“Thank you.”

“Be careful of your arm.”

Frank Pauley stood in the middle of his office, his arms at his sides, and said without preamble to the four people who’d just been ushered into his office, “It’s like I told you a couple of hours ago, I did not send that damned episode over to KRAM. I don’t even know the program manager over there. I’ve never even heard of Norman Lido. Obviously, somebody got ahold of the tape-maybe the murderer, maybe not-and sent it over in my name to confuse things, to make you think I did it. But I did not. There’s a little thing called liability, you know, and the studio will get its butt sued off if there are more murders. Jesus, I wouldn’t ever do that. It’s madness.”

Sherlock said, “Why weren’t you watching TV with Belinda last night?”

“What? Oh, I was playing poker with some guys in Malibu. It’s a weekly game. There were five of us. You can check it out.”

Savich waved to the very long gray sofa. “Do sit down, Mr. Pauley.” He motioned Sherlock, Dane, and Nick to sit down as well. “Agent Carver was shot yesterday, so he needs to take it easy. It’s likely that the murderer was trying to kill Nick.”

Pauley just stared at Dane, then over at Nick. He said slowly, looking utterly bewildered, “I just don’t understand any of this. It doesn’t make sense. All of this is just plain crazy.”

“I’m starting to agree with you,” Dane said. He was feeling a bit green again. His arm was throbbing, a dull bite that just wouldn’t stop. He cupped his right hand under his elbow, sat back in the comfortable gray leather chair, and held himself perfectly still.

Nick’s hand hovered, then lightly touched his.

“Mr. Pauley,” Sherlock said, “help us get a handle on this, please. When you got home last night from your poker game, did Belinda tell you about the show?”

Pauley looked at his fingernails, then down at the tassels on his Italian loafers. “I didn’t go home last night.”

“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 Fly

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 su

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.”