Everyone at the table leaned forward again.

“Kurt got his license number.”

“Jesus,” Flynn said, “Kurt Grinder can come work for the LAPD.”

Delion said, “Okay, so who owns the damned car?”

Savich said, “Belinda Gates. Frank Pauley’s wife, the costar of The Consultant.”

No one said a word for a good three seconds.

“But it was a man who met Weldon at the bowling alley,” Flynn said slowly. “The car belongs to the actress?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “Savich was thinking that just maybe we could pay a little visit to Belinda and Frank this evening.”

Nick, who’d been silent, said now, “Do you think Belinda Gates disguised herself as a man?”

“Ah, Jesus,” Delion said. “My brain’s getting constipated. Hey, at this point I’m ready to believe in aliens landing in the Hollywood Bowl.”

“The question is, where is Weldon DeLoach?” Savich said. He looked over at Nick and Dane. “Okay, let’s look at this again. Dane, tell us what you make of all those events at the nursing home.”

“Captain DeLoach is demented,” Dane said. “No question about that. But I swear to you, when I first spoke to him, he was lucid. Do you know that when I told him I was FBI, he saluted me? Maybe he really did fall out of his chair, maybe he really did make all that up. I just don’t know.”

Dane turned to Nick, who was sitting with her hands in her lap, just staring down at the remains of her chicken salad, and said, “Nick? What do you think?”

Nick said, “Everyone at the nursing home believed Captain DeLoach had fallen, and no one had been around. I don’t want to agree, but what else can we believe? That’s a lot easier to swallow than a son trying to kill his own father.”

“If,” Sherlock said, raising another carrot stick, “if Weldon really did bang him on the head and toss him out of his chair, the question remains, what wasn’t the old man going to keep quiet about?”

“About the fact that Weldon was murdering people according to his own scripts,” Flynn said. “That’s pretty obvious.”

“Maybe,” Sherlock said, but she was frowning. “Maybe. But you know, that’s just too easy.”

“He wasn’t going to keep quiet any longer about what his son was doing,” Dane said slowly, spacing out each word. “It sounds possible that Weldon was telling his father he was a murderer, and the old man finally freaked.”

Nick said, “But the thing is, who would believe Captain DeLoach if he told everyone that his son was murdering people? His only audience is the nursing home staff, and they all think he’s demented. They’d just shake their heads and say how sad it was. They’d just give him more medication. Weldon would have to know that. Why would he hurt, maybe even try to kill, his own father when there was no downside for him?”

Over coffee and tea, Flynn told them his snitches were plugged in and would send juice his way if they found out anything. As for the writers and crew on The Consultant, as well as two supervising producers, there was nothing on any of them to raise red flags.

“Typical stuff,” Flynn said. “An arrest for prostitution, some drugs, rehab, parking and speeding tickets, a couple of spousal abuse calls, but no charges pressed, nothing to start my gut dancing.”

“Yeah?” Delion said. “What? The rumba?”

“Nope,” Flynn said, “straight salsa. My wife tells me she likes to see me play basketball, but she loves to see me salsa.”

Nick looked at Flynn and said, “I’m pretty good myself, Detective Flynn.”

Flynn’s eyes gleamed. “We’ll have to try it sometime.”

Savich said, “Yeah, yeah, now, what about Pauley and Wolfinger?”

“Mr. Frank Pauley has been knocking around Hollywood for going on twenty-five years. He’s been married four times, and the current Mrs. Pauley, Belinda Gates, according to insiders, is in for the duration. There’s nothing unusual about him, nothing we can find hiding in his closet.”

Sherlock said, “Surely if Belinda is involved, her husband has to at least suspect something.”

“Agreed,” Flynn said. “Now, Belinda Gates. She came to LA five years ago, got some minor roles, did some commercials, a couple of soft porn flicks, even did makeup for several sitcoms. Landing Pauley really made her career.

“From what we can tell, Linus Wolfinger is indeed a boy wonder. An arrogant little prick, evidently likes boys, but that’s gossip, not fact. He came from nothing; an orphan in and out of foster homes. Put himself through college-UC Santa Barbara-went to work in various production jobs at Premier Studios a year after he graduated, and somehow managed to impress Burdock at the tender age of barely twenty-three, and the rest, as they say, is history. There’s nothing on him, just one damned speeding ticket-and that was on the first day he was driving his new Porsche.”

“What was he doing that year after he graduated?” Savich asked.

Flynn’s eyes lit up. “Don’t know yet. We’re checking it.” He pulled a small black book from his inside jacket pocket and wrote in it. “One thing’s for sure, no one involved in The Consultant will be making a move without our being aware of it.” Then he smiled at everybody. “How about some dessert?”

Flynn and Delion ordered slices of apple pie, with French vanilla ice cream. When the two servings of dessert arrived, Flynn looked around the table. “All you pantywaist Feds, you nibble around like birds. No wonder you need the locals-we provide not only the brains, but the bulk.”

Sherlock, head cocked to the side, her red hair corkscrewing out, said, “You mean that’s our problem? A simple lack of sugar? I never thought of it like that.” She grabbed up her fork and cut a big piece of apple pie from Flynn’s slice.

Nick laughed. Dane joined in. It felt good.

Frank Pauley and Belinda Gates actually did live in a glass house, Dane thought, staring up at the monstrosity atop a cliff off Mulholland Drive. It was filled with lights, and if someone was wandering around inside naked, people five miles away could enjoy the view.

Five cops and one civilian trooped up to the gigantic double wooden doors. Flynn knocked.

A woman answered the door wearing a French maid’s outfit, replete with stiletto heels and stockings with seams up the back. She had a sexy little white cap on her head. The only thing was, she had to be at least fifty and a good twenty pounds overweight, her dark hair sprinkled with gray and cut butch.

Everyone managed to keep it together, even when she asked them to follow her into the living room.

“Sir, you have visitors. I believe they’re all police officers.” Then she nodded, perfectly serious, to each of them in turn and glided out on those three-inch black heels.

Once the door closed behind her, Delion said to Frank Pauley, “Nice house.”

“Thanks. My second wife was an architect. She designed it and it was built to her specifications. Since my third wife and Belinda both really liked it, I haven’t made any changes.” He cleared his throat. “The only thing is, Belinda picks the staff and doesn’t like anyone to be younger than fifty, and so we have FiFi Ann, who really is a very nice person, frighteningly efficient, and something of an exhibitionist.”

“FiFi Ann?” Sherlock said, an eyebrow up a good inch.

“She decided that was the name she wanted. She’s a former actress. She, ah, picked out her French maid’s outfit herself, said she wanted to adjust her image. Now, why are you all here at nine o’clock at night?”

“We would like to speak to Belinda,” Sherlock said. “Is she here?”

“Certainly. Her partying days are over unless she’s on my arm.” Pauley walked to the phone, punched a couple of buttons, and called, “Cops in the living room. Come save me.”

“Cute,” Flynn said.

Belinda came in not five minutes later, wearing black leggings and a sweatshirt, no sneakers. Her face was shiny with sweat, her hair plastered to her head. She was wiping her face with a towel.