Catherine Coulter - Eleventh Hour

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.”