There was incredulity in Dane’s voice. “You mean you’re going to send MAX out for me?”
“Get a grip here, Dane. Deep-six that fantasy. No, let me know what you need and I will-personally-set MAX to work.”
“Oh, so I didn’t catch you in a weak moment.”
“Never that weak.” A pause, then, “How are you holding up, Dane?”
“Michael’s funeral is on Friday afternoon.”
The words were spoken with finality, cold and frozen over.
Savich said, after a pause, “Just call when you need something.”
“Thanks, Savich.” Dane closed his cell phone and walked into the West LA Division on Butler Avenue. It was a big blocky concrete box with an in-your-eye bright orange tile entrance, evidently someone’s idea of cheering up the place. Truth be told, the building was old and ugly, but humongous, nearly a full city block, with a parking lot beside it for the black-and-whites. Across the street was another lot and a maintenance station. It was in an old part of town, with lots of weeds, old houses, and little greenery anywhere.
Dane flipped open his shield for the officers standing at the front desk, got a nod from one of them, and walked to the stairs. He heard a loud mix of voices before he even saw the signs. He met Patty, a nice older lady who was a volunteer receptionist, kept chocolate chip cookies on a big plate on her desk, and tracked all the detectives. She told him they had three homicide detectives and Detective Flynn was inside with the two cops from San Francisco. Dane assumed Delion had just rolled Nick into the mix.
He walked into the large room, much bigger than the homicide room in San Francisco. All the detectives here were stationed in this room filled with gnarly workstations and funky orange lockers against the rear wall.
Patty had told him Detective Flynn’s desk was down three rows. He walked past a man whose shirt was hanging out, past a woman who was shouting to another detective to shut the fuck up, and then there was Flynn-impossible to miss Flynn, he’d been told, and it was true. He saw Nick sitting quietly in the corner, reading a magazine. Well, no, she wasn’t reading, just using it as a prop. What was she thinking?
Dane walked up to Delion and told him, “The murders from the first episode of The Consultant, they were in Pasadena. Two, two and a half weeks ago.”
Detective Mark Flynn didn’t wait for an introduction, just lifted his phone and started dialing.
Ten minutes later, he hung up. He was about fifty, black, and looked like he’d been a pro basketball player until just last week. He said, “You must be Agent Carver.” The men shook hands.
Flynn said, nodding toward Nick, who’d come up to his desk when Dane arrived, “The murders in Pasadena took place before, during, and just after the first show. They sound pretty much identical to the murders on the first episode.”
“That would mean, then,” Delion said, “that our guy went back and forth to San Francisco, maybe he even flew back and forth a couple of times. Or drove, what with the waits at the airports. We’ll have to match the exact times of the murders in both cities.”
“And then we check the airlines,” Flynn said. “Looks to me, boys, like we’re stuck with a real ugly case. What do you say we go back to the studio and round up everyone who had anything to do with those scripts? I’ll just bet the studio honchos are shitting in their pants, what with the possibility of lawsuits they’ll face from the families of the victims.”
“They have assured us of their complete cooperation,” Delion said.
Flynn said, “Well, that’s something. Hey, it’s kinda neat having a Fed around. You bite?”
“Nah, never.”
“That’s good, because I bite back,” Flynn said.
Dane said, “I’ll be heading up our involvement with the local agents. Ms. Jones is a possible witness and that’s why she’s here with us. We want her to look at everyone who had anything to do with this show. Just maybe we’ll get lucky.”
“I say it’s the writer,” Delion said. “He dreamed it all up. Who else could it be?”
Detective Flynn just gave Delion a mournful look. “Sorry, son, but the writer-poor schmuck-yeah, he could be the one to start the ball rolling, maybe come up with the concept, a couple of show ideas, maybe even a rough draft for the first show, but is he our perp? You see, depending on the show, there can be up to a dozen writers with their fingers in the plot. Then there’s all the rest of those yahoos-the director, the assistant directors, the script folk, the producers, the actors, hell, even the grip. I know all this because I live here and my kid is an actor. He’s been on a few shows so far.” Detective Flynn drew himself up even taller, if that was possible. “He’s a comedian.”
“Which shows?” Nick asked.
“He was on Friends and Just Shoot Me.”
Nick nodded. “That’s fantastic.”
Flynn smiled down at her from his six-foot-six height and said, “I wonder how many more episodes of The Consultant it would have taken before someone somewhere noticed.”
“Needless to say,” Dane said, “they’ve stopped the shows.”
“The studio heads might be morons,” Flynn said, “but not the lawyers. I’ll bet they had conniption fits, ordered the plug pulled the instant you guys called.”
Nick said, “How do they select which episode is played each week? Or are they aired in a specific sequence?”
“Since this show isn’t about the ongoing lives of its main characters,” Flynn said, “I can’t imagine that the order would be all that important. Normally, though, I understand that they’re shown in the order they’re filmed. We’ll ask.”
Delion said, “Then that means our guy knows which episode is going to play next. And that means he’s here in LA for sure.”
“Yeah, over at Premier Studios,” Flynn said.
TWELVE
Premier Studios was on West Pico Boulevard, just perpendicular to Avenue of the Stars. Across from the studio was the Rancho Park Golf Course. Dane was surprised at the level of security. There was a kiosk at the entrance gate, armed security guards, and dogs sniffing car interiors. Past the initial kiosk, the driveway was set up with white concrete blocks forming S-curves to force cars to drive slowly.
Detective Flynn flashed his badge and told them that the Big Cheese was expecting them, at which point the woman smiled, checked her board, and said, “Have at it, Detective.”
There were giant murals painted on the studio walls: Marilyn Monroe in Seven Year Itch, Luke fighting Darth Vader in Star Wars, Julie Andrews singing in The Sound of Music, and cartoon characters from The Simpsons. There was also advertising for new shows. Nick stopped a moment to stare at the building-size paintings of Marilyn Monroe and Cary Grant.
“They’ve been up forever,” Flynn said. “Neat, isn’t it?”
The head of Premier Studios, who was second only to the owner, mogul Miles Burdock, was on the fifth floor, the executive level of a modern building that didn’t look at all fancy and was close to the entrance of the studio lot.
The Big Cheese’s name was Linus Wolfinger and he wasn’t a man, Pauley told them when he met them in his office on the fourth floor, he was a boy who was only twenty-four years old. He believed himself a genius, and the arrogant Little Shit was right.
“Does this mean you don’t like him?” Delion said.
“You think it’s that noticeable?”
“Nah, I’m just real sensitive to nuances,” Delion said.
“The problem,” Frank Pauley said, waving that hand with the four diamond rings on it, “is that the Little Shit is really good when it comes to picking story concepts, and God knows there are zillions pitched each season. He’s good at picking actors, at picking the right time slots for the shows to air. Sometimes he’s wrong, but not that often. It’s all very depressing, particularly since he has the habit of telling everyone how great he is. Everyone hates his guts.”