Eleventh Hour

the episode.
    Flynn said, “When I told him it was all over the news, the jerk smirks and tells me he never watches the networks, they’re a bunch of has-beens. I told him that even minor stations like his had it plastered all over their local news. The jerk just stood there and pretended to be surprised. It was really close, but I didn’t slug him.”
    “Why didn’t Belinda Gates call me last night?” Sherlock said. “Right after she saw the show?”
    “We’ll ask her,” Delion said.
    “She didn’t know what her husband had done?”
    Delion shrugged. “Don’t know yet. But Sherlock and Savich are off to see Pauley. I can’t wait to hear what he has to say. Depending on what he does say, I’m ready to haul his ass off to jail or stake him out in the middle of Pico Boulevard at rush hour.”
    “At least there haven’t been any reports yet of any murders similar to the ones committed in episode three,” Flynn said.
    “No news is good news, I guess,” Savich said. “When we spoke to Pauley by phone, he claimed he didn’t know anything about this, that he never gave a copy of any episode to anyone. We’re going to go see him again, and Belinda as well. Delion thought Sherlock would do best with her. Dane, you stay in bed and try to get yourself healed. Nick, you keep out of sight; the media is going to be crawling all over the studio.”
    “No,” Dane said. “I’m okay, really. I want to come see Pauley with you.” He paused a moment, then said, “I really need to do this, Savich.”
    After a pause, Savich said, “All right, Dane. We’ll pick you up in about fifteen minutes. But I think this is the last time you guys should be out and about here in LA. There’s just too much media interest, and I’d just as soon not take any more chances with Nick’s safety. Or yours,” Savich added, looking at Dane’s arm.
    Nick just looked at him and said, “I’ll get your clothes together for you while you take a shower.”
    “Thank you.”
    “Be careful of your arm.”

    Frank Pauley stood in the middle of his office, his arms at his sides, and said without preamble to the four people who’d just been ushered into his office, “It’s like I told you a couple of hours ago, I did not send that damned episode over to KRAM. I don’t even know the program manager over there. I’ve never even heard of Norman Lido. Obviously, somebody got ahold of the tape—maybe the murderer, maybe not—and sent it over in my name to confuse things, to make you think I did it. But I did not. There’s a little thing called liability, you know, and the studio will get its butt sued off if there are more murders. Jesus, I wouldn’t ever do that. It’s madness.”
    Sherlock said, “Why weren’t you watching TV with Belinda last night?”
    “What? Oh, I was playing poker with some guys in Malibu. It’s a weekly game. There were five of us. You can check it out.”
    Savich waved to the very long gray sofa. “Do sit down, Mr. Pauley.” He motioned Sherlock, Dane, and Nick to sit down as well. “Agent Carver was shot yesterday, so he needs to take it easy. It’s likely that the murderer was trying to kill Nick.”
    Pauley just stared at Dane, then over at Nick. He said slowly, looking utterly bewildered, “I just don’t understand any of this. It doesn’t make sense. All of this is just plain crazy.”
    “I’m starting to agree with you,” Dane said. He was feeling a bit green again. His arm was throbbing, a dull bite that just wouldn’t stop. He cupped his right hand under his elbow, sat back in the comfortable gray leather chair, and held himself perfectly still.
    Nick’s hand hovered, then lightly touched his.
    “Mr. Pauley,” Sherlock said, “help us get a handle on this, please. When you got home last night from your poker game, did Belinda tell you about the show?”
    Pauley looked at his fingernails, then down at the tassels on his Italian loafers. “I didn’t go home last night.”
    “Oh?” Savich said. “Just where did you go?”
    “We played poker until really late and I had too much to drink. I stayed over at Jimbo’s house.”
    Savich raised a dark eyebrow. “Jimbo?”
    “That’s James Elliott Croft.”
    “The actor?” Nick said.
    “Yes. He’s also a lousy poker player. I won three hundred bucks off him.”
    Savich said, eyebrow raised higher, “And he still let you stay?”
    Pauley said, “Hey, it’s a really big house. I’m a quiet drunk, never bother