Eleventh Hour

“You’re welcome. Is Mr. Wolfinger here?”

“Oh yeah, you just have to get past his guard dog.”

“You’re not the guard dog?”

“Nah, I’m the ultimate weapon.”

Savich laughed, just couldn’t help himself. “What’s the guard dog’s name?”

“I call him Mr. Armani, but his real name is Jay Smith.”

“Now we’ve got a Smith and a Jones,” Dane said, and looked toward Nick, who ignored him.

“I don’t think,” Sherlock said after they’d stepped away, “that Mr. Arnold Loftus and Mr. Linus Wolfinger are lovers.”

“Agreed,” Nick said. “Who was it who told us about that?”

“I’ll have to look it up in my notes,” Sherlock said.

Jay Smith, in a beautifully tailored pale gray wool Armani suit, frowned at them. “Mr. Wolfinger is very busy. There are a number of people waiting-”

Savich simply walked by him, paused a moment, and said over his shoulder, “Do you want to tell Mr. Wolfinger that we’re here to speak to him or should I just go on in?”

“Wait!”

“Oh no, this is police business. I don’t ever wait.” Savich winked at Sherlock, and she put her palm over her breast and mouthed, “My hero.”

Savich opened the door, stepped into the huge, bare office and stopped cold.

Linus Wolfinger was lying on top of his desk, and he looked to be asleep, unconscious, or dead.

TWENTY-SIX

“Shall we try CPR?” Nick said.

“It may be too late for him,” Dane said. “Hey, he doesn’t look bad, if he’s dead. A real pity, he was so young.”

“I think he looks very peaceful,” Sherlock said. “Do you think I should maybe kiss him? See if he’ll come around?”

“Like the Sleeping Prince?” Nick asked.

Jay Smith was wringing his hands behind them. He whispered, “That’s not fu

Sherlock patted his Armani arm. “Good morning, Mr. Wolfinger,” she called out, then simply brushed past Jay Smith, who looked to be on the verge of tears. “I’ll be fired, for sure he’ll bounce me out on my ear. What will I tell my mother? She thinks I’m a real big shot.”

Linus Wolfinger didn’t move, just lay still, looking dead.

Sherlock walked right up to the desk, leaned down, and said not an inch from his face, “Did you send episode three over to Norman Lido at KRAM?”

Linus Wolfinger sat up very slowly, and in a single, fluid motion, graceful as a dancer. He stood and stretched. Suddenly he looked just like an awkward nerd again, all sharp bones and angles, three pens in his white shirt pocket, tattered sneakers on his feet. “No,” he said, “I didn’t. I actually had no idea until Frank told me a while ago. He’s very upset about it since some character pretended it was from him and forged his name.”

Savich said, “Mr. Wolfinger, what did you do that year after you graduated from UC Santa Barbara?”

Linus Wolfinger pulled a pen out of his shirt pocket, listed to the right, and began tapping, tapping that damned pen against the desktop. “That was such a long time ago, Agent Savich.”

“Yeah, all of two and a half years ago,” Savich said. “Try to reconstruct the time for us.”

Linus looked over at Dane. “What happened to you?”

“A Harley.”

“A Harley hit you?”

“Nah, the guy on the Harley.”

Linus looked thoughtful. “I’ve always thought of Harleys as being cheap Porsches, but every bit as sexy. Now, listen to me. I know you’re confused, that you don’t know your heads from your asses, but I don’t know anything either. All of this is quite a shock. I don’t need to tell you that Mr. Burdock is pissed about the whole thing. The media is sniffing around big time, invading everyone’s privacy, his in particular. And our lawyers are whimpering, hiding in their offices.”

“Tell us what you did during that year after you graduated, Mr. Wolfinger.”

Tap, tap, tap went the pen. Linus said on a shrug, “Nothing happened. I just bummed around the western states-you know, Wyoming and Nevada, places like that. I was trying to find myself.”

Savich said, “What did you live on during that year?”

“Nothing much. I was by myself, didn’t eat much, just drove around.”

Nick said, “You said you were driving around Wyoming. My very favorite place is Bryce Canyon. Did you visit there? What did you think?”

“Gorgeous place,” Linus said, nodding. “I spent a good couple of weeks there. What else can I do for you folks?”

Savich didn’t have time to continue with Linus because the door burst open and Jon Franken came ru

He came to a dead stop when he saw the four people standing there, watching him. He drew up, sucked in a deep breath, and said, “What I meant to say is that I heard that those idiots over at KRAM showed episode three of The Consultant last night. Why did you okay such a thing?”

“Good morning, Mr. Franken.”

“Oh, stuff it,” Jon Franken said. “Why did you do it?”

“I didn’t. Someone sent it over saying it was from Frank.”

“That’s bullshit,” Jon said, and dashed his fingers through his beautifully styled hair. Next to Linus Wolfinger, Jon Franken looked like a model, one with style and good taste. He looked very Hollywood with his white linen slacks, dark blue shirt, and Italian loafers, no socks. He looked long and sleek and elegant. And royally pissed. He also didn’t look the least bit intimidated by Linus Wolfinger, who could have him out on his ear in about two seconds.

Linus Wolfinger wouldn’t stop tap, tap, tapping that damned pen.

Jon said to Savich, “I’m sorry for bursting in here like this, but I just heard. Belinda called me. What the hell happened? Please tell me there weren’t any murders.”

“Not yet,” Sherlock said.

“Good. Maybe this was just a distraction,” Jon said, and streaked his long fingers through his hair again. His hair was so well styled that it fell right back into place.

Wolfinger showed signs of life at that a

“I think you could be right,” Savich said. “Dane, sit down before you fall down.”

Dane went to one of the two very uncomfortable chairs in the huge, nearly empty office and sat down. He cupped his left arm with his right hand.

“What happened to you?” Jon asked.

Linus said, “A Harley.”

“What?”

But Jon Franken didn’t wait for an answer, just began pacing. “Look, this has got to come to an end. You’ve got to stop the maniac. Everyone is really freaked.”

Savich said, “You told us, Mr. Franken, that Weldon DeLoach is around thirty years old. When you showed us that tape, we all agreed that he looked older, forty at least.”

Jon shrugged. “That’s what he told me. He lives hard, what can I say? This town is really tough on some people, and Weldon’s one of them. You don’t understand-it sounds like a joke, but it’s all too true. People who work in TV die young because they work their butts off-an eighteen-hour day is common. Lots of people just sleep here on the lot, on sets, in trailers. I found one guy sacked out in Scully’s bed on stage five, his foot dangling over the side of the crib at the end of the bed. About Weldon-look, I never had any reason to doubt him. Are you saying he’s a lot older than he told me?”

“He’s forty-one, nearly forty-two,” Sherlock said. “You’ve known him for eight years, right?”

“Yeah, about that. I really never paid much attention. Who cares?”

“A lot of things could hinge on that,” Sherlock said. “We don’t know yet.”

Savich turned back to Linus Wolfinger. “It’s time for a geography lesson, Linus. Bryce Canyon is in Utah, not Wyoming. So, what were you doing during that year?”