The FBI Thrillers Collection (40 page)

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?”

“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 things 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.

Pauley waved to him, and in a few minutes he joined them. He was polite, attentive, and when they asked him about the order of the episodes, an eyebrow went up. “I’ve been hearing some rumors, something about some murders that are similar to an episode of
The Consultant.
Is this true?”

Delion said, “Well, so much for discretion.”

Jon Franken was incredulous. “You honestly believe that this could have remained a secret? This is a TV studio. There isn’t a single secret anywhere within two miles of this place.”

Dane said, “Yes, you have it right, and we need your help. Frank Pauley said you know everything and everyone.”

Franken said, appalled, “The higher-ups must be shitting their pants. A murderer who’s copying a TV show? Incredible.” He shook his head. “Only in Hollywood. I’ll do my best.”

“Thank you,” Dane said. “We understand you’re close to DeLoach. How much of the actual writing was his?”

“Depended on the episode. The first two, however, were ninety percent Weldon, since it was his idea to begin with. Oh, Jesus, I can’t believe that.”

Nick said, “Are the episodes to be shown in a certain order?”

“Yes, that’s usually the way it’s done. There’s not too much week-to-week carryover, so it really doesn’t matter, but yes, the episodes would remain in the order they were filmed.”

“Have you seen him, Mr. Franken?” Flynn asked.

“No, he isn’t working right now. He called me a couple of days ago, said his brain was tired and he was taking some time off. He said not to expect him anytime soon.
He’s done this before, so no one gets cranked about it, but he never calls in and I don’t think anyone knows where he went. Listen now, even though the first two episodes are Weldon’s, that doesn’t mean he would do something this heinous. It just isn’t him.”

Dane asked, “Is the same episode shown all over the country on the same day at approximately the same time?”

Franken said, “The first two
Consultant
episodes were shown on Tuesday night everywhere, but Wolfinger slotted them a little differently, depending on the demographics, or maybe because of it, so they’ll probably okay some more scripts. Beginning with the third one, it’s not that heavily Weldon’s work. Do you agree, Frank?”

“You’re right,” Pauley said.

Delion said, “Who can tell us what Weldon’s travel schedule’s been the past month?”

“That would be Rocket Hanson. She makes all the arrangements for the writers, and for everybody else for that matter.”

“Rocket?” Nick said. “That’s a wonderful name.”

“Yeah, she was trying to break into films thirty years ago, thought she needed something unusual to get her through the door. It stuck.”

Flynn said, “Has Weldon DeLoach been out of town a lot very recently?”

Franken just shook his head. “I haven’t been working directly with him for several months now. You’ll have to speak to other folks. We e-mail a lot and speak maybe once a week if we’re not working together on a show. I heard someone say he was off to see some relatives, maybe in central California, but I’m not sure about that.”

Dane said, “I don’t suppose the relatives are near Pasadena?”

“I haven’t a clue. Listen, believe me, you’re wrong about Weldon. I know it looks bad, but you’re way off course here.”

Dane asked, “What is Weldon writing now?”

Franken said, “He’s been writing for
Boston Pops
for about four months now.”

Delion looked pained.

Franken nodded, said, “Yeah, I agree with you, Inspector. It’s a dim-witted show that has somehow caught on. Lots of boobs and white teeth, and one-liners that make even the cameraman wince. It’s embarrassing. Weldon keeps trying to sneak in some weird stuff, like some Martians landing on the Boston mayor’s lawn, just for an off-key laugh, but nobody’s buying it.”

Frank Pauley nodded.

They spoke to a good dozen writers. Nothing promising on any one of the group, just a bunch of really interesting men and women who didn’t have a life, as far as Dane could tell. “Oh yeah, that’s true,” one of the female writers said, laughing. “All we do is sit here and bounce ideas off each other. Lunch is brought in. Porta Pottis are brought in. Soon they’ll be bringing beds in.”

Dane said when they were walking down Pico back to their two cars, “It’s time for a nice big meeting, mixing Feds with locals. There’s lots of folks that need very close attention.”

Flynn nodded, saw some kids shooting baskets, took three steps toward them before he caught himself.

ST. BARTHOLOMEW’S
SAN FRANCISCO

Dane
and Nick were seated in the second row in St. Bartholomew’s, Nick staring at Father Michael Joseph’s coffin, Dane staring at the wooden cross that rose high behind the nave, both waiting silently for the church to fill up and the service to begin. They’d come back from LA the previous evening for Michael’s funeral.

It was an overcast early afternoon in San Francisco, not unusual for a winter day. It was cold enough for Dane to wear his long camel hair coat, belted at the waist. The heavens should be weeping, Father Binney had said, because Father Michael Joseph had been so cruelly, so madly, slain.

Dane had taken Nick to Macy’s again on Union Square. In two hours flat, he’d come close to maxing out his credit card. She kept saying, “I don’t need this. I don’t. You’re making me run up a huge debt to you. Please, Dane, let’s leave. I have more than enough.”

“Be quiet, you’ve got to have a coat. It’s cold today. You can’t go to the—”

He broke off, just couldn’t say it, so he said finally, “You can’t go to the church without a coat.”

She’d picked out the most inexpensive coat she could find. Dane simply put it back and handed her another one in soft wool. Then he bought her gloves and boots. Two more pair of jeans, one pair of black slacks, two nightgowns, and underwear, the only thing he didn’t help her pick out. He just stood by a mannequin that was dressed in a sinful red thong and a decorative bra, his arms crossed over his chest.

At noon, she’d finally just stopped in the middle of the cosmetics section on the main floor. Salespeople swarmed around them. A woman was closing fast on her to squirt her with perfume, when she said, “This is enough, Dane. No more. I want to go home. I want to change. I want to go to Saint Bartholomew’s and say good-bye to Father Michael Joseph.”

Dane, who’d never in his adult life shopped for more than eight minutes with a woman, said, “You’ve done well—so far. All that’s left is some makeup.”

“I don’t need any makeup.”

“You look as pale as that mannequin in lingerie, the one with the bloodred lips and that red thong that nearly gave me a heart attack. At least some lipstick.”

“I’ll just bet you noticed how pale she was,” Nick said, and turned to the Elizabeth Arden counter.

And so Dane found himself studying three different shades of lipstick before saying, “That one. Just a touch less red. That’s it.”

Dane finally turned in the pew to look over his shoulder. So many people, he thought. Not just priests today, like at the wake, but many parishioners and friends whose lives Michael had touched. Archbishop Lugano and Bishop Koshlap both stopped and spoke to him, each of them placing his hand on Dane’s shoulder, to give comfort, Dane supposed. He was grateful for their caring, but the truth was he felt no comfort.

He watched Bishop Koshlap stand over Michael’s coffin, and he knew his eyes were on Michael’s face. Then he leaned down and kissed his forehead, straightened, crossed himself, and slowly walked away, head bowed.

Dane stared down at his shoes, wondering how well they had hidden the bullet hole through Michael’s forehead.

Michael was gone forever, only his body lying in that casket at the front of the church. A huge sweep of white roses covered the now-closed coffin, ordered by Eloise because Michael had loved white roses. Dane hoped, prayed, that Michael knew the roses were there, that he was smiling if he could see them, that he knew how much his brother and sister, and so many people, loved him.

But Michael wasn’t there and Dane didn’t think he could bear it. He focused on his shoes, trying not to yell his fury, his soul-deep pain out loud.

DeBruler, DeLoach—he just couldn’t get the names out of his mind, even here, at his brother’s funeral mass. A sick joke? His anger shifted to the murderer who was somewhere down in LA, someone connected with that damned TV show. He turned when he heard his sister Eloise’s voice behind him. He rose again, kissed and hugged her, shook her husband’s hand, hugged his nephews. They sat silently in the row behind him.

Archbishop Lugano spoke, his deep voice reaching the farthest corners of the church. He spoke spiritual, moving words, words extolling Michael’s life, his love of God, the meaning of his priesthood, but then there were the inevitable words of forgiveness, of God’s justice, and Dane wanted to shout there would never be any forgiveness for the man who killed his brother. Suddenly, he looked down to see Nick’s hand covering his, her fingers pressing down on him, smoothing out his fist, squeezing his hand. She said nothing, continued to look straight ahead. He looked quickly at her profile, saw tears rolling down her face. He drew in a deep breath and held on to her hand for dear life.

Other priests spoke, and parishioners, including a
woman who told how Father Michael Joseph had saved not only her life, but her soul. Finally, Father Binney nodded to him.

He walked to the front of the church, past Michael’s coffin, hearing gasps of surprise throughout the church, for he was the very image of his brother. It was difficult for people to look at him and accept that he wasn’t Michael. He went up the steps to stand behind one of the pulpits. It was only then that he saw that the church was overflowing, people standing three and four deep all around the perimeter, filling the south and north transepts, even out beyond the sanctuary doors.

And Dane thought, Is the murderer out there somewhere, head bowed so people won’t see him gloat? Did he come to witness what his madness had brought about and delight in it? Dane had forgotten to say anything to Nick about keeping an eye out, just in case.

Then he saw his friends, Savich and Sherlock. Dane felt immensely grateful. He nodded to them.

Dane looked down at his brother’s coffin, the white roses blanketing it. He cleared his throat and fastened his gaze just over the top of Savich’s head because he just couldn’t bear to speak looking directly at anyone. He said, “My brother loved to play football. He was a wide receiver and he could catch any ball I could get in the air. I remember one of our last high-school games. We were behind, twenty to fourteen. There was only a little over a minute left in the game when we got the ball again.

“All the fans were on their feet and we were moving down the field, me throwing passes, Michael catching them. Finally, we were on the eighteen-yard line, with only ten seconds left to play. We had to have a touchdown.

“I threw the ball to Michael in the corner of the end zone. I don’t know how he kept a foot inbounds, but he actually caught that ball just as he was tackled hard, and he held on. He won the game, but the thing was, that hit tore up his knee.

“He lay there, grinning up at me like a fool, knowing he’d probably never play another football game, and he said, ‘Dane, it’s okay. Sometimes the bad things don’t touch you nearly as much as the good things do. We won, you can’t get gooder than that.’ ”

Dane’s voice broke. He vaguely heard scattered small laughs. He looked down again at the roses that covered Michael’s coffin. Then, suddenly, he felt warmth on his face, looked up, and saw that brilliant sunlight had burst through those incredible stained-glass windows. He felt the warmth of that light all the way to his bones. He said, voice firmer now, “Michael appreciated the good in everyone, rejoiced in it; he also understood that the bad was a part of the mix, and he accepted that, too. But there was one thing he wouldn’t accept, and that was evil; he knew it was here among us. He knew the stench of it, hated the immense tragedy it brought into the world. The night he was shot, he knew he was facing evil. He faced it, and the evil killed him.

“Michael and I shared many things: Two of them were Sunday football games and tenacity.”

Dane paused a moment, and this time he scanned all the faces around him. He said in a low voice, filled with despair and promise, “I will find the evil that destroyed my brother. I will never give up until I do.”

There was a moment of absolute silence.

The silence was broken by a soft popping sound. Even as slight a sound as it was, in the dead silence it echoed to every corner of the church. A man yelled, “This woman’s hurt!”

People jerked around, trying to see what was happening.

Nick yelled, “Oh God, it’s him, Dane! He tried to kill me! It’s him!”

Dane saw blood streaking down her face, felt fear paralyze him for an instant. Then he raced down the steps toward Nick, as she shoved her way through bewildered knots of mourners, yelling at them, “Stop him! There, he’s
wearing that black coat, that black hat.
Stop him!
”

People were turning and grabbing anyone in black, but since nearly every person was wearing black, including a good three dozen priests, there was pandemonium, people shoving, people yelling, people grabbing other people. It was madness.

Dane reached Nick, looked at the blood snaking down her face, and yelled, “Dammit, Nick. Are you all right?”

“I’m okay, don’t worry. Just a graze, I guess. We’ve got to get him. Dane, hurry, I saw him running that way.”

Dane thought he saw the man then, moving fast, darting around people or pushing through them, his head down, heading to the narrow side door of the church.

Dane shoved two priests out of his way, saw the man disappear out the side door and the door swing closed again. He nearly burst with fury. The bastard had come here, to his brother’s service, probably laughing behind his hand, in madness, and triumph. And he’d tried to murder Nick.

Dane made it to the door, shoved a good half dozen people out of his way, and threw it outward. He saw Savich, a blur, he was running so fast, saw him leap, left leg extended, smooth and easy, saw his foot strike the man’s kidney, solid and hard. The man fell forward, flailing his arms to keep his balance. He managed to fling himself about, to face his attacker, and that was a mistake. Savich hit him three times, in the neck and head. The man gasped with pain, shock on his shadowed face, went limp and dropped. Savich went down beside him, checked his pulse and yelled, “I’ve got him!”

Dane couldn’t believe it. Neither could Delion or Nick, who now stood over the man.

Dane said, “He’s the one, Nick?”

“I think so,” she said. “Can you turn him over, please?”

Savich pulled the man onto his back, got the hat off his head.

Dane said, “This is Dillon Savich, he’s my boss at the FBI. Savich, this is Nick Jones, our only eyewitness.”

Savich nodded. “You’d better see to that head wound she’s got. This guy’s down for the count. Go ahead, take care of her, Dane. Nice to meet you, Nick.” Savich looked up at his wife, gave her a good-sized grin. Sherlock put her hand on his shoulder. “That was rather dashing,” she said, smiling down at him. “It’s lucky you guys don’t have to wear high heels.” She punched him in the arm, looked over at Dane. “This is the maniac who killed your brother? This is the man who just shot Nick? Oh goodness, look at your face.” Sherlock pulled a handkerchief out of her jacket pocket, gave it to Dane, and watched him very gently pat Nick’s forehead. “It looks like the bullet just grazed you, but scalp wounds really bleed. What do you think, Dane? I think it’s okay, just looks really bad. I’m Sherlock.”

Delion glanced at Nick’s face, nodded, then stared again at Savich, who was still on his haunches beside the man. He shook his head back and forth. “I don’t believe this, I just don’t believe this.” He grabbed Savich’s hand, pumped it up and down. “I always thought the Feds were pantywaists. Hey, good job.”

Savich checked the guy’s pulse again, rose, and dusted off his suit pants. “You must be Inspector Delion. Have you called this in?”

“Yeah, it’s done,” Delion said.

A group of black-garbed priests were pressing in, Archbishop Lugano at their head. He said in a voice that carried nearly to California Street, “I have a cousin who’s in the DEA. She’s not a pantywaist either. Well done, sir, thank you.”

Savich merely nodded. “Dane, get the blood out of Nick’s eyes and see if she can identify this bozo.”

Dane stared at the narrow furrow the bullet had made at her hairline just above her temple. It was still bleeding sluggishly. He pulled away Sherlock’s handkerchief and took out his own, folded it up, and said, “Nick, press this hard against the wound. We’ll get you to a doctor in a minute.”

“Let me take another look at the guy, Dane.” She was still breathing hard, and there was rage in her eyes as she looked down at the unconscious man who was Father Michael Joseph’s murderer. She said, “I was sitting there, listening to you, and then the light came through that stained-glass window and I knew I was going to cry. I bowed my head; then in the very next instant I felt this shock of heat on my face. I looked up and saw the light from that window was shining directly down on that man. I saw him looking at me, and then I knew, just knew.”

Delion was searching his pockets. “No gun. Well, it’s got to be around here somewhere.” He called over two uniformed officers who had just arrived and told them to start the search.

The man groaned, tried to pull himself up onto his knees. One of the officers grabbed his left arm, another grabbed his right. They cuffed him and hauled him toward a police car at the curb.

Dane said, “Look at this crowd. How are we ever going to find that gun?”

“I think perhaps I can help,” Bishop Koshlap said. He flung back his head and yelled, “Everyone please listen to me. There is a gun somewhere to be found. Please help our priests form search groups. If any of you saw this man shoot this woman, please step forward.”