Eleventh Hour
Page 79
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.”
“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?”
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.”
“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?”
