Jon Franken looked at Linus. “You don’t know where Bryce Canyon is? Jesus, Linus, you’re supposed to know everything.”

Savich wished that Jon Franken would take himself off.

Linus just smiled and continued to tap his pen. “The agent over there told me how much she loved it and that it was in Wyoming. I wasn’t about to make her look like an ignoramus. It wouldn’t be very polite, now would it?”

Well, shit, Dane thought. The politicians in Washington could learn spin from these characters.

Dane’s cell phone rang just as Nick was seat-belting him into the backseat of Savich’s rental car, a big dark blue Ford Taurus. They were parked on the studio lot because the media couldn’t get into the studio itself, thank God. He listened, didn’t say a word for a good three minutes. Sherlock, Savich, and Nick were all staring at him, waiting.

“All right,” Dane said. “I’ll get back to you within the hour.” He pressed the end button, stared at Savich, and shook his head. “That was Mr. Latterley, the manager of the Lakeview Home for Retired Police Officers-you know, the nursing home where Weldon DeLoach’s father has lived for the past ten years.

“Mr. Latterley says that Weldon DeLoach called this morning. Said he wants to come see his father late this afternoon, and was that all right. He also said that when he’d called before they told him that his father fell out of his wheelchair and hurt himself.”

“But no one told us that Weldon had called before,” Sherlock said.

“That’s right,” Dane said. He sat back, leaned his head against the seat, and closed his eyes. “No one called at all to tell us. You know, of course, that I left my card with every sentient employee at the nursing home.”

Savich didn’t say anything else. He pulled out of the studio and onto Pico Boulevard, crammed with traffic and blaring horns. “First things first,” he said.

Because of heavy traffic, it was forty-five minutes before they exited 405 and wound up Mulholland Drive to Frank Pauley’s glass house. The surrounding hills were dry, too dry.

FiFi Ann, in her French maid’s outfit, the little white cap on her hair, answered the door and stared at Dane’s arm in its blue sling.

“Somebody bring you down, Agent?”

“Yeah, a Harley.”

“Dangerous fuckers,” FiFi Ann said, leaned down, and smoothed her black-latticed pantyhose.

“We’d like to see Mrs. Pauley,” Sherlock said.

“Come with me,” FiFi Ann said, straightening, and turned on her stiletto heels.

Belinda was drinking a cup of coffee by the blue swimming pool, wearing a very brief bikini, pale pink.

Both men froze in place for a good six seconds, eyes fixed on her.

Sherlock went right up to her and said, “Nice-colored Band-Aids you’re wearing, Belinda.”

“Yes, aren’t they?” Belinda set down her coffee cup and rose, stretched a bit, knowing very well the impact she was having on the men. She grinned at Sherlock. “I like pink. It does wonderful things for my skin.”

“All shades of pink look great with my red hair. Aren’t we lucky?”

Belinda laughed, grabbed a cover-up, and slipped it on.

“That’s better,” Nick said. “Now the guys can breathe and get their pulses back down below two hundred.”

“Okay, Belinda,” Sherlock said, pulling her chair close, “tell me why you didn’t call me last night the minute you realized episode three was on?”

She didn’t say anything for almost a full minute. Then she got up and walked to the edge of the kidney-shaped swimming pool and stuck her foot in the water. She turned slowly, looked at each of them in turn, and said simply, with no attempt to excuse herself, “I wanted to see what would happen.”

Nick nearly fell into a wildly blooming purple bougainvillea. “You what?”

Belinda shrugged. “You see, I never really believed that the first two episodes were blueprints for those murders. I thought it was at best a stretch, that the police and FBI had just latched onto them because they were close to actual crimes that they couldn’t solve. Listen, my role in this show is a good one. It’s a solid stepping-stone for me. With the show canceled nobody’s going to see me, which means I’m going to have trouble getting another good part. Of course, you, Sherlock, knew I lied to Detective Flynn and Inspector Delion this morning when I told them that I’d taken sleeping pills before the show started and simply fell asleep even before the show was over.”

“Yeah,” Sherlock said. “They were very angry at you. I think Detective Flynn came this close”-she pinched her fingers nearly together-“to arresting you for malicious mischief. So what you’re saying now is that you-just like that fool Norman Lido at channel eight-wanted to see what would happen.”

“I wanted people to see me, to see what a good actress I am, to realize that they want to see more of me, not that meathead Joe Kleypas, who’s always rubbing his fingers over his stomach so women will notice his abs. You know, the more I think of it, the more I think it was Joe who sent episode three to channel eight. He’s hungry. He knew, just like I did, that The Consultant is a winner. He even laid off the booze he was so hyped about the role. Then all this happened. It isn’t fair.”

She toed the water, shrugged, but didn’t look at them. “I’m really sorry if more people die, but who knows, maybe they would anyway.”

“Don’t even try to excuse what you did,” Sherlock said. “It was a really low thing to do.” She got up from her lounge chair, walked to Belinda at the side of the pool, looked her in the eye, and said, “I am personally very disappointed in you, Belinda.” Sherlock shoved her into the water, and walked to the others, not looking back.

She heard a sputtering cough behind her, then, oddly, laughter. “Good shot, Sherlock,” Belinda yelled out.

Sherlock still didn’t turn around to look at her. She said, “I think it’s time we went to Bear Lake. Weldon told them he wouldn’t be at the nursing home until late afternoon.”

Dane said, “Detective Flynn’s got the place covered and Gil Rainy is there with a half dozen agents. If he shows early, they’ll get him.”

“I still want to go,” Nick said. “I want to finally see Weldon DeLoach.” She turned to Savich. “He really is over forty. Isn’t that interesting? Why would he lie about his age?”

“Who knows?” Savich said. “Maybe ten years ago he thought it was necessary. Hollywood is a town for young people, after all.”

“Maybe,” Dane said. “But he may have had another reason to lie. I really want to look him right in the face and ask him.”

Sherlock looked over her shoulder one last time at Belinda Gates, treading water in the deep end of the pool, her white cover-up ballooning around her. Sherlock called out, “I was going to show you another photo of Sean at his grandmother’s swimming pool. Dillon is holding him and he’s in a swimsuit, too, and you just don’t know who’s cuter. But I’m not going to show it to you now, Belinda.”

Belinda just kept treading water. She laughed again.