Eleventh Hour

in,” Sherlock said, coming to stand by Nick.
    Savich said, “What’s this about the gun that killed Dane’s brother being like the two possible guns in the Zodiac killer case? What was that—some thirty years ago?”
    “Ain’t that a kick?” Delion said. “It’s got our ballistics guy, Zopp, nearly drooling he’s so excited, telling one blonde joke after another.” At Sherlock’s raised eyebrow, he grinned. “Yeah, Zopp says blonde jokes help his synapses fire. But you know, it has to be a coincidence, has to be.”
    “Hmmm,” Sherlock said. “Yeah, it’s a coincidence, but it’s a strange one.”
    Delion said, “Hey, Sherlock, you as tough as your daddy?”
    “He likes to think so,” Sherlock said, and smiled real big. There were three other inspectors standing close by, grinning like loons at her.
    “Local cops really like her,” Savich said, and just shook his head, and Delion thought, Boy, that guy’s proud of her.
    Savich said, “So you don’t mind if we tag along to LA with you, Delion?”
    “More the merrier,” Delion said. “Hey, Lieutenant, any word on Stuckey yet?”
    “Not yet, but we’ll get him.” Lieutenant Linda Purcell looked around at all the assembled homicide inspectors and said, “Everyone saw how Savich worked the guy around? How he got Stuckey’s name out of him?”
    There were boos and hisses from the cops. A couple of inspectors threw some peanuts.
    Before Dane left, Delion motioned him aside to tell him that Nick’s fingerprints weren’t on file.
    “Hey, at least we know she’s not a criminal.”
    “I already came to that conclusion for myself,” Dane said.

SEVENTEEN
    LOS ANGELES
    Jon Franken, assistant director of The Consultant, said, “We couldn’t find any photos, but as I told you on the phone, Inspector Delion, we did find something every bit as good.” He flipped a switch on the video feed and pointed. “That’s Weldon—second guy on the left, the one just standing off to the side, arms crossed over his chest, watching everyone be idiots. He watches a whole lot, just stands back in the shadows, claims it gives him ideas. Whatever, he does have brilliant ideas.”
    “Freeze it,” Dane said and looked at Nick as the screen held the image. The fact was she already looked frozen. She had to be afraid, looking at the man who very possibly hired Milton McGuffey to murder her, the man who might have killed his brother. Dane lightly touched his fingers to her forearm. “Nick?”
    “I don’t know, I just don’t know.” She turned to look up at Dane. “Maybe the bone structure is similar.” She shrugged. “It’s pretty scary.”
    “I know. Now, Nick, I want you to forget the hair, the tan, the eyes—it could all be cosmetic alterations. Study his face, the way he moves, how he talks using his hands.”
    She said finally, “Maybe, I just don’t know. I just can’t be sure. He looks so different.”
    Delion said, “Milton McGuffey—would you have spotted him if he hadn’t shot you?”
    “You want brutal honesty here? The answer is I’m just not sure. Probably. Yes, I probably would have said something.”
    Flynn said, “From everything you’ve told me, the reason our perp selected McGuffey is because of the way he looks—that is, he looks a lot like him. Now, Mr. Franken, you still don’t have a clue where Weldon DeLoach is.”
    Franken shook his head. “Sorry, like I already told you, he’ll be here when he wants to be here. If he’s in LA, he’ll be coming around. Weldon is a man of very set habits.”
    “Mr. Franken,” Nick said, “has Mr. DeLoach always looked like this? Darkly tanned, really light hair?”
    “Why, yes,” Franken said. “As long as I’ve known him. And that’s about eight years now. Why do you ask?”
    Dane said to Nick, “If our guy is DeLoach, then when you saw him, he was most certainly wearing a wig, contacts. As for losing the tan, I’m not sure how that would be done except with makeup.”
    “But why would he bother?” Nick said. “He sure didn’t expect me to be sitting in the church.”
    “Yeah, but he would have seen a lot of people while he was in San Francisco. Maybe the disguise was for any- and everyone.”
    Franken said, rubbing his elegant long fingers over his chin, “I don’t think Weldon DeLoach is the murderer. He—he’s just not the type to kill anyone. As I told you before, it’s just not in him.”
    Dane remembered Wolfinger had called DeLoach a weenie.