Dane said, “He killed two more people in the show than he did in San Francisco.”

“Yes. And maybe that means then that your brother didn’t stick to the script and that’s why the guy shot him after the two murders. Remember, your brother told Father Binney that he was going to make a decision that would change his life forever. There’s only one threat your brother could have made to shut this guy down.”

“Yes,” Dane said. “Michael told the killer that he was going to tell the police about what this man had done.”

Nick said, “And the guy had no choice but to shoot him. Father Michael Joseph wrecked the guy’s script. He stopped him.”

“Your brother must have told him what he was planning to do on Sunday night and the guy had no choice but to kill him. The other two people in the show were a guy who owned a bakery and a prominent businessman. If it hadn’t been for Father Michael Joseph, there might be two more dead people in San Francisco.”

“The guy kept saying that this Father Paul had lost another soul from his parish,” Dane said. “Do we know if the two victims in San Francisco attended Saint Bartholomew’s?”

“They’re not on the membership list,” Delion said. “But if the guy was following the script, the chances are good that they did attend mass occasionally. That would tie it all up with a pretty bow, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes,” Dane said, “it would. Not that it’s any help.”

Delion just shook his head. “I don’t believe this. A damned script. The guy’s copycatting a damned TV script.”

“Not copycatting,” Dane said. “Don’t forget, the murders took place before the show aired. Look, at least we know for sure the guy has to be here, has to be somehow involved with the show. No outsider would know the scripts that well.”

Savich typed on MAX’s screen: Episode One of The Consultant-set in Boston, three murders: a secretary, a bookie, and an insurance salesman, about two to three weeks ago. “Dane, I’ll check-Hey, wait a second. Ah, Sherlock, who was reading over my shoulder, just said these murders were not in Boston, but actually happened two and a half weeks ago, in Pasadena, California.”

“Bingo,” Dane said. “I’ll tell Delion and he can call the cops in Pasadena. Nice and close to Los Angeles.”

“Dane, the guy’s officially taken this show on the road. You’re now formally FBI, working this case. If you want to use the San Francisco field office, call Bert Cartwright, coordinate with him. You will remain in charge of the Federal part of the investigation, all right?”

“Yes, all right, but the thing is, Savich, the killer has to be here in Los Angeles, someone working for the studio, someone working on this specific show, or with access to it.”

“Yes, of course, you’re right. I’ll let Gil Rainy know-he’s the SAC down in LA-that you’ll be coordinating with him. But you’ll be calling the shots. I’ll make sure everyone’s clear on that.”

“Thanks, Savich.”

There was a brief silence, then a chuckle. “And that means you’ve got MAX at your disposal.”

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.”