Eleventh Hour

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,”