Eleventh Hour

  “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.”

  “Oh?” Flynn said, raising an eyebrow.

  “The thing is that DeLoach is a weenie. I once saw him throw away an ice cream cone when a fly buzzed near it. He—well, I guess you could say that he lives in his head, he’s really out of place here, in the real world. He’s got a real rich fantasy life, and that’s good for Premier. As I said, he’s also got a work ethic, so all of it works to our advantage. But is he a man who’d commit brutal murders? No, definitely not DeLoach.”

  Dane said, “It’s possible that DeLoach is a dangerous weenie, that this rich fantasy life of his has somehow imploded and pushed him out of his head and into the real world. Tell us more about DeLoach. Is he the one who came up with the concept for The Consultant?”

  “Yes,” Wolfinger said. “Yes, he did. His full name is Weldon DeLoach. He’s been responsible for two very successful shows in the last ten years. Well respected is Weldon, even though he’s pretty old now.”

  “Define ‘pretty old,’ ” Flynn said.

  “He’s probably early thirties, maybe even older than that.”

  “Glory be,” Delion said. “He’s nearly ready for assisted living.”

  Wolfinger said, “Despite what I’ve told you, you still think he’s the primary suspect?”

  “It sure looks possible,” Delion said. “We’ll have to look at everyone. We’ll need lists from Personnel of all the writers who’ve been involved with the show, all the technicians, everyone who’s even sniffed around the sets.”

  Dane said, looking thoughtfully at Linus Wolfinger, “DeBruler and DeLoach. The killer would have known his name, whoever he was. It doesn’t mean much.”

  Delion shook his head, back and forth. “That would be just too easy. Makes the guy stupid, and Mr. Wolfinger here says he’s got a brain. Ain’t no road ever that straight. But we’ll talk to him, the other writers as well and all those folks involved with making the show. Get us those lists, Mr. Wolfinger. I got detectives ready to go. The FBI is sending agents here to interview, do background checks, go over alibis, that sort of thing.”

  Linus Wolfinger nodded. He was tapping a pen on the tabletop. Dane knew it was a different one from the one he had been chewing on in his office because it didn’t have teeth marks in it. “You didn’t ask me who I thought was behind this.”

  “Well, no, we haven’t,” Flynn said. “And what do you know about it?”

  THIRTEEN

  “Hey, it all stays in this room?”

  “Sure, why not?” Flynn said. “Give it your best shot, Mr. Wolfinger.”

  Linus Wolfinger smiled at all of them impartially, tapped his pen one more time, and said, “I think it’s Jon Franken. He’s the assistant director for The Consultant. He’s too good to be true, you know? Mr. Hollywood down to his tasseled Italian loafers. He knows everyone, is just so good at A-list parties. I know there’s got to be something really nasty about him. No one that good is what he seems to be, you know?”

  Delion rose, the others with him. He said, “Thank you, Mr. Wolfinger. We’ll really look close at Jon Franken. Me, I can’t stand a guy who’s too good at his job. It motivates me to nail his ass.”

  Flynn said, “Now, Mr. Wolfinger, do contact either me or Inspector Delion or Special Agent Carver here if you come up with something or if you find out anything that could be useful.” All of them passed their cards to Wolfinger, who didn’t take them, just let them pile up in front of him, close to that still-tapping pen that was driving everyone nuts.

  Dane said, wishing in that moment that he could haul the little jerk up by his dicky and throw that damned pen out the window, “It would be easier if the murderer had stayed in the same city, but he didn’t. At least now no more episodes will be aired.”

  Wolfinger said, “I’ve already slotted in The Last Hurrah, another new show about lottery-ticket winners and what becomes of them.”

  “Sounds innocuous enough,” Flynn said.

  Pauley said, “Maybe it’s someone who’s out to sabotage the show itself. I’ve been in the business a long time, made enemies. Maybe it’s someone who hates me personally, wants revenge, knows that this one is my particular baby. I’ve got a lot on the line here.”

  Dane said, “You think a man would kill—what is the count now that we know of—eight people, just to get revenge on you?”

  “Put that way, it doesn’t sound too likely, does it,” Pauley said.

  “Were there problems getting the show off the ground, Mr. Pauley?” Flynn asked. “Someone specifically who put up roadblocks?”

  “There are always problems,” Wolfinger said, batting his hand at Pauley to keep him quiet, “but on this one there were fewer than usual. Mr. Pauley is right that he’s got a lot to lose. He’s married to the consultant’s girlfriend on the show. He pushed to have her star. If the show closes down, then so does she.” Wolfinger didn’t sound sorry at all.

  Dane glanced over at Pauley and knew he was thinking, Little Shit. Pauley said, “He’s right—having the show shut down won’t be wonderful for my home life, but Belinda will understand, she has to. But having the media go nuts over a script murderer will be a disaster for my reputation and the studio’s. We won’t even mention the lawsuits.”

  “Certainly everyone’s reputation is on the line here,” Flynn said.

  “Unfortunately, yes,” Wolfinger said. “I trust you gentlemen will try to encourage everyone interviewed to keep quiet about this?” He laughed. “Hey, it won’t matter. This is far too juicy to keep quiet about. It’ll be out before the day is over.” Wolfinger looked down at his pen, frowned a moment, then said, “Then there’s Joe Kleypas, the star. Interesting man. A bad boy, but nonetheless, an excellent actor. Maybe you want to put him up there on your suspect list.”

  “Why would he kill people to ape the show he’s starring in?” Delion asked. “He has to know the show will be shut down.”

  Wolfinger shrugged. “He’s a deep guy, never know what he’s thinking. Maybe he’s got mental problems.”

  Flynn said, “All right. We’ll be speaking to you later, Mr. Wolfinger. Thank you for your time and your ideas.”

  When they left exactly seven minutes later, Nick said, “He’s an interesting man. I didn’t think he was a shit. Well, all that pen tapping was obnoxious.”

  “That’s vintage Little Shit,” said Pauley.

  Frank Pauley stopped to frown at a framed black-and-white photo of Greta Garbo on the wall. He carefully straightened it, then nodded. “You’re right. He acted like an adult. I’ve seen him do it before. But I’ve also seen him throw a soda can—full—at somebody who said something he didn’t like.”

  Dane said, “Mr. Pauley, are they still shooting any of these episodes?”

  “No. Eight shows were shot last summer and into early fall. The way it works is that if the show is picked up, that is, if the network decides to continue with more shows, they get everyone back together and shoot six to thirteen more. They usually make this decision after three, four shows. If the ratings are good, they pay for us to write more episodes. If it’s a huge success, everything is given the go-ahead and thin
gs move really fast. Oh yes, I called the AD—assistant director—Jon Franken for you.”

  “This is the guy Wolfinger thinks is the psychopath?”

  “Yeah. Wolfinger is cute. Can you believe the damned head of the studio was talking like that? Making accusations? But again, Wolfinger does just as he pleases, usually the more outrageous the better. As for Franken, the man has both feet firmly planted on the ground, knows how to squeeze money out of the sidewalk, and if something needs to happen yesterday, he’s the guy you go to. He’s trusted, something so unusual in LA that people come up to pinch him to see if he’s real. He also works his butt off.”

  “Exactly what does he do on the show?” Dane asked.

  “Actually, it’s Franken who has to know more about the actual show than just about anyone, including the line producer. He’s in charge of setting up off-studio sites, getting everyone together who’s supposed to be shooting, setting up the actual shooting schedule, holding everyone’s feet to the budget fire. He listens to the stars whine about the director or sob about their latest relationship gone bad, stuff like that. He’s got the big eye. Oh yes, Franken’s really big into anything otherworldly; he goes for that stuff. He and DeLoach are really in sync on this one.”

  “Did they develop the idea together?” Dane said.

  “I’m not really sure about that. I do know that they’ve always got their heads together.”

  Delion said, “I hope he’s older than twenty-four.”

  “Yes, Jon’s been around for a long time. He might even be forty or so. An adult. He started out sweeping off sets when he was just a kid. He’s expecting us.”

  They found Jon Franken on the sound stage for a new fall sitcom that wasn’t doing well titled The Big Enchilada. He was talking to one of the actors, using his hands a lot, explaining something. From twelve feet away, they could see that he was buff, tanned, and dressed very Hollywood in loose linen trousers and a flowing shirt, his sockless feet in Italian loafers. He looked to be in his forties.